Author’s Notes: I probably should not confess to this, but this is my first fanfic. The first part of the story will be told from Draco’s point of view. Most italicized passages will indicate his thoughts, so hopefully, those will be clear. (Draco is not the narrator per se, but I think you’ll be able to see when the story changes viewpoints.) Constructive criticism would be appreciated, as are kindly worded reviews. Thank you for reading -- I hope you enjoy it!

Spoilers: Will eventually include all five books.

Disclaimer: I am the Queen of England, I own everything . . woah, wait . . . . that’s not right. I don’t own anything but a ‘94 Mazda with bad tires.

In This Chapter - That’s what Gryffindors are made of; King Weasel thinks he’s a Diviner; When did Ginny Weasley get so darned attractive?

CHAPTER 1 – I Scheme, Therefore I Am

Shortly after 11 a.m. on September 1st, the shiny red express chugged along at full steam, wending its way through the English countryside. The wind was bitterly cold and blustery, and the trees that lined the tracks swayed vigorously as the train whooshed past them, threatening to snap them from their roots.

The train’s cargo consisted of a few hundred children and, for most of them, all their worldly possessions. A full day’s journey ahead of them, they would not reach their destination until after nightfall. From there, the children would take a short ride, either by carriage or boat, to their school.

But these weren’t just any students going to an ordinary English public school. They were young witches and wizards, all of whom attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, a place found on no muggle map. The muggles, bless their hearts, didn’t even know it existed. Even so, it did exist, and these children called it home for the better of part of the year. Closer to their housemates than their own siblings, friends had missed one another dreadfully during the past eight weeks; for some, it had seemed like an unbearable eternity. Several joyful reunions were underway as they animatedly exchanged news about their summer hols.

A few of the travelers were feeling a tad nervous, this being their first ride on the barreling express. They were curious about what lie in wait at the end of their journey. Which house would they be sorted into? Which classes would they do well in, struggle in, or just plain muddle through? What were the professors really like? Was detention as awful as their older siblings had said it was? How would they ever make it till Christmas?

However, one passenger in particular, Draco Malfoy, felt none of these things. This being his sixth time to make the long, boring cross-country trip, he was in no mood to be joyful, apprehensive, or curious -- or to watch those who were. As of late, joy had been conspicuously absent from his life. He rarely felt apprehension, and frankly, any fascination he might have had with the school had long since waned.

In fact, to Draco’s mind, the only unresolved mystery about Hogwarts was why the hell Harry Potter was still allowed to attend, given all the trouble he had caused. He sat and pondered why that green-eyed, bespectacled freak of nature continued to live. Did he do it just to annoy him? Thinking back to the events of the previous spring, he thought to himself, Damn scarheaded orphan . . . I warned him, he'll get what's coming to him someday very, very soon. And I'll be more than happy to deliver it to him, personally.

He had a number of good reasons for taking this harsh attitude. Most of them had to do with his father, Lucius Malfoy. A pillar of society, Lucius was wrongfully imprisoned at Azkaban at the end of last term; as his son had always had the highest regard for him, it had been quite a shock to the poor lad’s system. When he had first heard the news, he simply couldn’t comprehend it. My father, in prison? A man who had championed so many noble causes and donated thousands of Galleons to countless charities, now lay rotting in jail, next to murderers and thieves? How could that be?

Once the initial shock had subsided, revenge had consumed Draco that summer. And since the goody-two-shoes Gryffindor had so thoroughly ruined his life . . for Lucius’s arrest was surely all his fault . . . he was more determined than ever to destroy Potter’s.

I hate him. That smarmy, arrogant bastard.

The perfect plot was formulating in Draco’s mind as the train rocked back and forth. He was rudely awakened from his scheming by several loud voices outside of his private compartment. He peeked out from behind the curtained window to see who could possibly be making such a racket.

Ah, he thought. Make that “what.”

It was none other than Mr. Perfect Potter himself and his two -- Wait, make that three -- revolting sidekicks. The youngest Weasel had evidently joined the golden trio, making it a foursome.

Draco mused, Hmm, now that sounds kinky, even without the incest factor. It definitely has possibilities. If only people would believe that anyone would actually stoop to sleeping with that straw-haired, know-it-all mudblood, it would make an excellent rumor. Probably even make her cry in Potions class. Now that would be rich, he decided, nodding to himself approvingly.

After thinking about it realistically, he clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes. Hmph, not bloody likely. No one would buy that for a second, especially about Ron Weasley. Now his sister, on the other hand, she’s certainly matured nicely . . . mmm, don’t mind if I do . . . her . .

He shook his head in disgust and squinted his eyes. He obviously had a momentary lapse of reason and needed to clear his mind. He asked himself: Where the hell did that come from? She’s absolute rubbish!

He banished such ridiculous thoughts as he silently cursed his enemies. He was itching to taunt or confront them, just for fun. Instead, he remained safely in his sanctuary. Not that he was afraid of them; if he couldn’t take on a few bleeding-heart Gryffindors, then what had he become? A Hufflepuff? However, four to one did tilt the odds slightly in their favor. Besides, he hadn’t forgotten what had happened in Professor Umbridge’s office last spring. So he sat there, fidgeting and wishing that his muscle-bound, half-witted friends would return. Damnit all, where are Crabbe and Goyle when you need them?

Suddenly, the ill-mannered group became markedly quieter, but they still wouldn’t go away. Draco peered out once more and thought angrily, Get your arses out of my hallway, you stupid wankers! Why were the insufferable prats still blighting his part of the train?

He realized then, Oh, they must be waiting for the girls to finish in the loo. How very chivalrous of them. He returned to his schemes. Thinking this might be the perfect opportunity to advance his plans, he tried desperately to focus on their conversation. He concentrated intently, trying to figure out what the devil they were talking about.

Unfortunately, all he could really hear was Potter’s constant companion yapping very loudly. It sounded as though the peasant was actually . . bragging about something. What could that poor-as-a-church-mouse Weasel possibly have to be proud of? Like any Slytherin worth his salt, Draco made it his duty to find out, just so he could insult him about it later. Smirking, he quietly turned the handle of his compartment door, opening it just enough to allow him to eavesdrop on the gullible Gryffs without being found out. So easy.

But their trite conversation soon became so boring that Draco thought he would literally fall asleep. He reflected on that now-distant, long-ago trip to Diagon Alley when he had first seen the speccy git. Thank all the gods Saint Potter didn't accept my friendship the first time we met. What a blessing that was. When Ron spoke up again, Draco refocused on the task at hand. Their voices grew a bit louder; with the door slightly ajar, his quest for information to use against them became even easier.

“I know, Harry. All I’m saying is it’s just bloody strange,” Weasley insisted.

Tsk, tsk, Weasel, cursing in public. What would the family cow that you call Mum say?

“It’s coincidence, mate. Things just happen sometimes.” Even though they were both truly pathetic, Draco found himself wondering vaguely what they were talking about. Were those two losers actually arguing?

What’s wrong, lovebirds? Trouble in paradise? Draco chuckled softly to himself.

“So you don’t think I have any ability as a diviner?” Ron asked his best friend.

“No, I don’t. In fact, I don’t believe that anyone does. It’s all bollocks.” Harry snickered, “Professor Trelawney is living proof of that.”

“But Harry, what about the prophecy? Are you saying you don’t believe in it?”

Harry countered, “Pure luck. She made a good guess, if that much.”

Trelawney? That worthless hag who got sacked last year? And what prophecy are they talking about? Draco was more than mildly intrigued. He nudged the door a bit further to see if he could pick up any truly useful tidbits.

“Well, you just don’t want to accept it. Anyway, what about Peter Pettigrew?” Ron pointed out emphatically. “You were there, you heard her yourself. The old bat was right about him.” Harry shrugged, unimpressed by Ron’s new approach.

“I suppose. I don’t know. Doesn’t mean you can predict anything, does it?”

“But how do you know I can’t?” Ron challenged him.

Harry laughed mockingly, “Are you serious? Watching you for three years in Divination classes, that’s how.”

Potter was losing his patience with this pointless argument. Shuffling his feet restlessly, he grumbled irritably, “Why does it take girls so ruddy long to go to the bathroom?” He looked up and down the hallway impatiently. When he narrowed his eyes and stared in the direction of the unlatched door, Draco felt certain he was caught.

However, the two continued their discussion, completely oblivious that they had an audience. Ron shrugged, “Dunno. Bill says the rest of us boys had better get used to it. It takes Fleur hours to get ready for anything, and when she’s done, she doesn’t look any different than before.” He then returned to the previous topic as if they had never left it. “Anyway, why do you think I always win at chess?”

“Maybe because, umm, you’re good at it?” his friend replied sarcastically.

Then in an almost whisper, King Weasley elaborated. “All I’m saying is that things are starting to happen. I’ve been named Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch Team, plus I am a prefect, so I could . . feasibly . . . maybe be Head Boy next year, and . . . just, you know, some other stuff.”

“Yeah, I know, I know. Just like you saw in the mirror. I’m telling you, it’s pure coincidence.”

“That’s not all,” Ron said, almost as if to himself. “I saw some other things, and it looks like they’re going to happen, too.”

“Like what?” he asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

Draco felt a surge of energy rush through him, his mind racing with excitement. Yes, Weasel. Do tell us, please.

“Well,” the freckled wonder began nervously, clearing his throat and glancing down at his well-worn trainers, which looked to be two sizes too small. “You know that I wrote to Hermione over the summer? And that she wrote me back?”

“Yeah, so? You guys always do,” Harry replied flippantly. Sighing exasperatedly, he said, “Where is that trolley witch? I’m dying for some sweets.”

Ignoring Harry’s last comment, Ron said in an almost dreamy voice, “But it’s never been like this time.” Remembering himself, he coughed a little then said stolidly, “I mean, she’s a very special girl, Hermione. We’re lucky to have her as our friend. After what happened down in the Department of Mysteries, she was a really big help to me.”

That got Draco’s attention. They were in the basement of the Ministry of Magic? But no one can get in there! And what mirror? Is that where it is?

Harry turned to Ron and gaped, his mouth hanging open, his eyes as round as Professor Trelawney’s. If he had been holding a teacup, he would surely have dropped it like Neville had done many times in her classroom.

“Are you saying . . or rather, not saying . . . do you mean to tell me, that you, Ronald Weasley, have a girlfriend? In one Hermione Granger?”

The look on Potter’s face was priceless. Not all the Galleons in Gringott’s could have bought it, and Draco suddenly found himself wishing that that dolt Creevey was here with his muggle camera. Was Potter simply stunned by the thought that one of them was dating their other best friend, or amazed that Weasley was capable of finding a girl who want to would date him, or was he -- dare he think it? – actually jealous (although Draco couldn’t fathom why) of his best mate? That would be a first, considering how things normally went in Potty-Weasel relationship.

Ron looked down shyly. “Well . . . maybe,” he mumbled noncommittally.

“Well? You either do or you don’t! Which is it?” Harry insisted eagerly.

“I’m working on it. But that’s just my point, Harry. I didn’t tell you what else I saw in the mirror that day.” In a hushed tone, he practically whispered, “She was kissing me, in a very . . err, grown-up way . . . if you know what I mean.”

Draco scoffed to himself, Now that’s just sick. There’s actually someone who wants to shag Miss I’ve-got-a-broomstick-end for hair? He couldn’t quite wrap his mind around that disturbing thought.

“But . . .” Harry stuttered, “we were only eleven, for God’s sake! Are you sure?”

“Positive,” Ron said resolutely. “I’ve known it all along. Suppose I just didn’t want to admit it, even to myself. But I saw it in the mirror.”

What fucking mirror? Draco decided he had to find out.

Just then, the two girls emerged from the loo. Oh, looky, it’s the mudblood herself and her muggle-loving friend, the Weaslette. Draco noticed that Granger gave a foolish grin to the red-haired oaf, whose lop-sided smile made him look even more pathetic than he normally did.

Amazing.

When the prat took her hand, Draco decided he’d had all he could stand. Urgh. I’ve heard enough now. Nothing I can use against them, anyway, he concluded, grimacing. Anyhow, I’m getting a splitting headache from this sickening display. And now I may well lose my lunch -- definitely not worth it.

He attempted to shut his door as gently as possible. However, at that moment, Crabbe and Goyle unexpectedly made their return to his end of the train. Acting like rowdy first-years, they were chasing a young boy, apparently intent on hexing him. In the ensuing commotion, the ignorant youngster made the mistake of falling into the door of Draco’s compartment and landing clumsily on the floor.

Surprised at the intrusion and hoping no one would figure out what he’d been up to, Draco jumped up quickly and snarled angrily, “What’s wrong, little boy? Afraid the big, nasty men will catch you?” The boy’s eyes were wide with fear; he didn’t move, except for the fact that he was shaking and his lip was trembling. Then Draco got down in his face and sneered menacingly, “I’m the one you should be afraid of.”

The boy gulped when Draco got even closer to him and said, “Now get out of here, you little worm, before I kick your scrawny arse!” He scrambled to get up as quickly as he could, and once he did, he wasted no time in removing himself from the compartment. The child darted out of the door, sprinted up the hallway past the older students, and ran toward safety. If he couldn’t fight the bullies, maybe he could try and outrun them this time.

Typically, the four Gryffindors put on the nobility act and began spouting vague threats. Everyone reached for their wands and stood as if ready to duel, but Draco seriously doubted whether any of them had the nerve or the know-how to win a duel. The only possible threat was Granger -- she knew exactly what she was doing in that department.

Damn bitch.

Then he spotted Ginny Weasley. He was reminded of a particularly disgusting hex that he did not wish to fall victim to again: her vicious, deadly accurate Bat Bogey Hex. He shuddered slightly at the thought of having to relive that. Besides, the Slytherins were still outnumbered -- and considering his numbskull crew, they were certainly outwitted and quite possibly outskilled.

At that moment, the trolley witch came into view, followed by some of the older prefects. The revolting Gryffs tossed out a few more stupid insults and then stepped away. They made Draco sick. They weren’t better than anybody else -- they just wanted to stay out of trouble. Obviously, they were only interested in self-preservation. The lying hypocrites only did the right thing when it suited their needs. Hmph -- and they call themselves honorable, he snorted.

“That’s right. Leave,” Draco growled. “And don’t forget, watch your backs.”

The male Weasley led the way, taking Granger’s hand again and casting a look of extreme loathing at his enemies. His girlfriend, or whatever she was, echoed his sentiments, shooting daggers at Draco with her eyes. He merely raised one eyebrow and gave both of them an evil, superior smirk.

Harry stepped forward next, staring coldly at his nemesis. Draco looked back at him with equal anger, neither of them flinching. Ginny later told Harry that the looks on their faces could have burned off Seamus Finnegan’s eyebrows again.

Draco could see the pure hatred burning in Harry’s eyes. It was more intense than ever. He mused to himself, Hmm, the rumors must have been true. Mum’s sister really did kill Sirius Black. Yay, Bellatrix! You always were my favorite aunt. He smiled serenely at the thought. He’d planned to ridicule Black and throw it directly in Potter’s face, just to gauge his reaction. However, as he watched him with Ginny, he thought of something even better.

Harry was gazing at Ginny with a concerned look on his face. He politely stepped aside to allow her to walk ahead of him as he placed his hand lightly in the small of her back. Draco couldn’t resist and jeered haughtily, “So, Potter, finally got that girlfriend, did you? Took you long enough -- what four, five years?! It seems there’s hope for all of us.” Draco laughed at his own wit, and Crabbe and Goyle chuckled too, as if they were cassette tapes on automatic playback.

Surprisingly, Ginny was not the least bit unnerved by his comment or by Harry’s touch, as Draco had predicted she would be. After all, her infamous yet unfathomable crush on the great Saint Potter was nearly as recognizable as her trademark Weasley features. She merely glowered at him and said nothing, yet her eyes practically screamed, ‘You are scum. I hope you die a painful death.’

Looking unfazed, Draco returned a dismissive look that said, Yeah, as if I care what you think, you silly bint. His eyes followed them down the hallway. Grateful that the rabble was finally leaving, he motioned to Crabbe and Goyle to join him in his compartment. Smiling broadly, he sighed with satisfaction and said smugly, “That was fun. Now, gentlemen, let’s enjoy the rest of the trip, shall we?”

~ End of Chapter ~

Thank you for reading! Please, please review and let me know what you think -- if you feel you must flame, just let me change into my fireproof underwear first! ;-)

P.S. Fyrechild, thank you for beta-reading it for me!

AUTHOR'S NOTES: There seems to be great disagreement as to whether Blaise Zabini is a boy or a girl. I believe that Blaise is a boy, and that’s why in this fic, he has a girlfriend (don’t worry -- this won’t get slashy, in case that’s not your thing). Also, I wasn’t sure if Mrs. Avery or Mrs. Nott were ever mentioned by first name, so I just made them up. If anyone knows their real names from the HP cannon, drop me a line; I’d be most grateful, and I promise to give you credit at the very top of my next chapter.

Moving on, this chapter’s title is a reference to one of my favorite songs by Eve 6. Thanks again for joining me on this wild ride. Now on with the show!

CHAPTER 2 – Blaise’s Superhero Girl

The train arrived at Hogsmeade Station without further incident. The winds had diminished somewhat, but the night air was still very cold. As he was every year, Rubeus Hagrid was on hand to round up the first-years to take them across the lake in boats.

Shivering, Draco was only too glad that he didn’t have to travel by boat; it might tip over tonight, or worse, Hagrid might just try to push him overboard. Either way would spell certain disaster, as he would end up missing the feast and spending the night in hospital, drinking Pepper-Up Potion or some other equally disgusting healing draughts that the resident quack, Madame Pomfrey, was known to peddle.

Once they were off the train, Draco saw Blaise Zabini motioning for himself, Crabbe, and Goyle to ride with him in his carriage. The Zabinis were on their way back from a trip to the United States, where Draco thought they had relatives. They had dropped their son Blaise off in Hogsmeade to ride in the carriages with his friends. He was most anxious to visit with them, Draco in particular. Over the years, each had become the brother that neither one had.

Blaise and Draco had corresponded throughout the summer. In one of his letters, Blaise had mentioned this amazing girl he knew. It seemed that he had grown very fond of her, and Draco was rather curious how it had all panned out for his friend.

They walked toward the carriage that Blaise had chosen, engaged in a casual conversation about the day’s journey. Then completely out of the blue, Draco asked him, “So, how did things work out for you with that girl?”

“Oh.” Blaise stammered, “Well, . . . uh, she’s . . uh, it went fine. Just fine.”

“What does that mean?” Draco demanded. “Did you get laid or not?”

Blaise was slightly embarrassed at his friend’s blunt manner. He sighed exasperatedly and stopped in his tracks. “Look, she’s fantastic, okay? But I’ll tell you all about her later, all right?” His tone made it clear that this conversation needed to be reserved for a more private setting. Draco shrugged and dropped the subject.

The four boys stepped into the carriage. Blaise had cast a Warming Charm before the others had arrived, and their carriage felt nice and toasty inside. However, despite of his efforts, the ride seemed colder, longer, and more jarring than ever. The unseasonably frigid night that had fallen seemed to seep through the joints of the carriage, chilling its passengers to the bone. Draco decided that the loathsome beasts that controlled the carriages had to be one of Dumbledore’s sick jokes; the rickety contraptions didn’t retain any heat, and they seemed to find every single bump in the road. He was certain they hit them deliberately, just to spite him.

The students finally reached the school and exited their carriages. The huge front doors of the castle were a welcome sight, even to Draco. His arse was as sore as if he had practiced Quidditch for four straight hours without casting a Cushioning Charm on his broom.

But in all honesty, it wasn’t really all that good to be back. He was so sick of Hogwarts. It was just a step above that other school, the one that rich muggles spoke so highly of. It seemed like his father had called it Etton or Easton. Oh, Draco bemoaned, why couldn’t our fathers just send us all to Durmstrang, where they focus on something truly useful? Like actually learning to perform the Dark Arts instead of just learning to fight them? As if one could possibly go up against the Dark Lord and his followers!

The Sorting Ceremony was dull and routine, except that Slytherin got the most new members. They added nine new housemates, including two who were transfer students from other countries. Sophia Bellucci was a cute 12-year-old Italian girl who, unfortunately, had yet to completely master the English language. Rumors were being whispered around the table that her Latin was impeccable and that she was very adept at charms. They also welcomed Michael Grant, a sandy-haired boy of 15 from far-away New Zealand. When the Sorting Hat finally placed him by roaring, “SLYTHERIN!”, Michael smiled, relieved that it was over; he had been under its scrutiny for several minutes.

Dumbledore rose to greet the students and make a few announcements. For those who were either new or completely clueless, he stated the obvious: “The Forbidden Forest is forbidden.” Draco deemed that this was for the benefit of a handful of Gryffindors who tended to forget it on an annual basis. The Headmaster also reminded everyone that the caretaker, Mr. Filch, requested everyone’s help in maintaining some semblance of order in the castle.

Well, Draco reflected, with Thing 1 and Thing 2 no longer here, the poor old squib might actually get his wish for the first time in seven years. I mean, really, a swamp in the school? How debase, how utterly Weasley. Once their lovely “farewell gift” was finally removed, I’m sure Filch was so happy that he got totally, shit-faced, falling-down drunk. I know I certainly would have.

There were a few announcements about staffing changes, but Draco paid little heed. The only one that really caught his ear was that they were getting yet another Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. Dumbledore announced that due to some rather unfortunate events, Professor Umbridge would not be returning. He also commented that she was recovering splendidly at St. Mungo’s and, in all actuality, she would most likely go back to work for the Ministry when she had returned to health.

Damn shame, I liked her. Smart woman. She knew how to work the system to get things done, Draco surmised admiringly. I must write to Father and find out what happened to her. I wonder who will take her place?

Then to Draco’s horror and utter disgust, Dumbledore announced that Professor Lupin was to once again be their Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. It was as if he had been kicked in the stomach as he literally felt the air leave his lungs. Oh, shit, not the werewolf! He was simply awful last time -- he treated our entire house so unfairly!

Grinding his teeth, he glared coldly over at the table of the worst house in the school, the Gryffindors. Of course, they were simply overjoyed about Lupin’s return. Big shock there. The whole table was in an uproar, cheering and laughing like idiots.

Loathing them all, he watched them with a sneer on his face. Then the Slytherin witnessed a strange turn of events taking place at the distant table. Potter was sitting next to Ginny Weasley. He leaned toward her and whispered something, nearly touching her cheek with his lips. She laughed out loud as if she were greatly amused (Yeah, right, Draco snorted), her eyes smiling. When she tossed her head back, her long, ginger hair flowed over her shoulders and rippled down her back. The specky git seemed pleased that he had made her laugh. Apparently encouraged by this, he boldly covered her hand with his and gently squeezed it.

However, she soon surprised both Draco and Harry by showing exactly how she felt about this physical contact. She removed her hand and lightly grasped just his fingers with hers, holding onto them gently. As she did, she gave Potter a look that Draco could not quite define. He almost felt sorry for the poor, lovesick moron whose heart she had just trampled.

Almost.

Then Ginny bent over slightly and said something to Potter; she was close to him, but not as close as he had been to her. She gave him a sad sort of smile, then let go of his fingers completely. A mild wave of disappointment swept Potter’s face, which colored slightly.

My, how the tables have turned. Draco smirked with supreme satisfaction.

He could barely contain his glee at seeing Saint Potter shot down by a girl, especially one who used to idolize everything about him. He didn’t find her all that attractive himself; it just felt so good to see the great Harry Potter finally get his comeuppance. Face it, Potter -- you’re not good enough for even the likes of her. And thank the gods for that, as it means that you’ll probably never reproduce. Composing himself, Draco sighed aloud, observing, There, I feel better already, as his mood finally showed signs of improving.

Ginny was glancing around the room when she noticed Draco out of the corner of her eye. He was two tables away, but she thought she saw him actually smiling. Then as quickly as if it were turned off by an eclectrick switch, she saw his smile fade as a furious stare took its place, its intensity palpable. She locked eyes with him, matching his look unswervingly.

That’s right, look at me, you stupid girl, he chanted internally. You are going to pay dearly for hexing me. I will make you beg for mercy before I’m through with you. He watched her closely, as if daring her to look away; the brave girl did not turn her head until Dumbledore began speaking again. Tuning in to his speech again, Draco saw that he was only droning on yet again about interhouse harmony or some such load of dung.

He thought back to the announcement about the recently reinstated Professor Lupin and pondered how best to get rid of him. Suppose he must still be a serious danger to the students and staff. Suddenly, a stroke of genius hit him. I’ll just write to Father and have him sacked, like last time. It was bloody brilliant!

However, a few seconds later, the harsh reality smacked him like ice-cold water, cruel and hard. Grimacing, his sullen mood returned, as the real reason for his depression weighed down on him. With Lucius Malfoy on an extended holiday at Camp Azkaban, it was becoming increasingly difficult for Draco to get things done. He fidgeted in his seat and lamented how he would ever get through the school year.

Even Draco’s mother had begun to feel the strain. He seemed to recall her saying to her friends Lucrecia Nott and Dolly Avery that things were becoming very difficult indeed. Draco himself knew that the Ministry had gone so far as to freeze some of the Malfoy funds, pending some ludicrous settlement between Lucius and his alleged victims. Although the ladies that Mrs. Malfoy socialized with were blissfully unaware of this, his mother was deathly afraid they would find out and deny her of their company. Then where would she be? Life as she knew it would simply be over.

Not surprisingly, Mrs. Malfoy had screamed loudest of all when her husband was taken into custody. She maintained that Lucius’s conviction was an atrocity, a great injustice, as he had obviously been under a very strong Imperius Curse. Pointing to all of the noble causes the Malfoys had contributed to over the years, she vehemently protested his innocence in an effort to reduce his sentence. When she’d said this at his trial, Lucius, who had shown no emotion whatsoever, gave her a warm, loving smile.

However, her impassioned testimony hadn’t helped much, except perhaps to shave a couple of months off of his sentence. With her social standing, as well as her cash flow, in the balance, his appeal had become her new pastime. If Narcissa had given her son any of her time before, now she gave him none at all. Although she had her own selfish reasons to justify her convictions, she truly believed in her heart of hearts that Lucius was not guilty. Draco reasoned that she had either lost her mind entirely under the stress, or she was dying to go to Gladrags in Paris to shop for her new winter wardrobe. He looked down and sighed. His head throbbing, he closed his eyes and dropped his head into his hands. It was such a drag being a convict’s son.

Meanwhile, Dumbledore’s speech seemed to drag on forever. It was at least as boring and frivolous as Fudge speaking at some deadly dull Ministry function. He was spouting some insignificant drivel about cooperating with the muggle community and improving interhouse relations.

That caught Draco’s imagination. He smirked, thinking, I quite agree, Headmaster. In fact, to further house unity, I think I will expand into some ‘interhouse relations’ of my own this year. Maybe I’ll start with that hot Asian babe, the delicious Cho Chang. Then I’ll get a two-for-one with those luscious Patil twins, and maybe end the year with the creamy, dreamy Ginny Weasley.

He caught himself just in time. I’ve got to stop doing that, he chided himself. I’m just delirious because I’m sitting here about to starve to death and suffering from a monstrous headache.

As if to drive out his betraying thoughts, he made up his mind. That Ginny Weasley is just like her mother. She is a harpy, and no arse -- no matter how fine it is -- is worth that. I’m sure she would eventually drive me to perform Avada Kedavra on myself someday.

At last, Dumbledore stopped speaking, raised his hands, and looked around. Oh, good, he’s finally done -- come on you old codger, clap your hands twice and start the feast! Draco’s mind shouted. His hands were just inches apart, then he paused. Instead of signaling that it was time to eat, the aged wizard noticed that the rotund Professor Sprout was rising to her feet, requesting that she be allowed to add “one tiny announcement.” He nodded, inviting her to speak, which she did . . at great length. Draco groaned aloud, and none too quietly -- he was getting extremely hungry, as he hadn’t eaten well all day.

Professor Sprout was about as interesting as the previous speaker had been. She was spewing some nonsense about an optional Advanced Herbology class (yawn) and that it was for sixth and seventh years only. Now, who would want to take more of that shite than was absolutely necessary? But the old bird just wouldn’t shut up! She went on and on. Really, who cared that they were making great strides in hybrid plants and new potion mixtures? So what if some mediwizards felt that one of them could possibly hold the key to any number of magical injuries -- wasn’t that what Death Eaters were all about, causing pain and suffering? Unimpressed, Draco sneered, concluding, That would kind put my father’s friends out of business, wouldn’t it? But they’ll never be able to undo Avada Kedavra. Once dead, always dead.

He thought he would expire from boredom if the old biddy didn’t shut her gob soon. Honestly, hunger was the only thing keeping him from falling off the bench. He decided that was probably a good thing, him being a school prefect and all that rot. She finally ceased her yapping and sat down. Dumbledore signaled for the feast to begin, and thankfully, it did so without any further delay.

As was the case for the past five years, the Welcoming Feast itself was the highlight of the evening, maybe even the entire day. The Hogwarts house elves offered an outstanding variety of sumptuous, delectable dishes. Even if that worthless traitor Dobby was among the hundreds of elves in service here, Draco felt he still had to give credit where it was due. Thinking of Dobby, he briefly contemplated the little twerp. I'm sure Father never would have given Dobby clothes. I wonder how he managed to lose him? Then he continued devouring his Beef Wellington.

He remained in a somber mood for the duration of the feast. Blaise chatted animatedly with Pansy and Milicent, completely ignoring his best friend. When the girls turned to gossiping, Blaise attempted to pick up his earlier conversation with Draco, hoping to tell him more about his summer. Well, aren’t we in a good mood, Zabini?

It actually sounded rather exciting. There were many fascinating things about America that struck Draco’s curiosity. He mostly wondered what the girls were like, as British girls could be such snobs.

However, most of the first-years soon finished their meals and were starting to get restless. The other prefects saw this and stood up, indicating that it was time for them to begin their duties for the year. They ushered the new students to the Slytherin common room and provided them with the password. Once everyone had settled in, the sixth-year boys decided to call it an early night, exhausted from the day. Draco and his roommates descended further into the dungeons to go to their room. They talked for a little bit longer, until one by one, sleep overtook them.

When Draco awoke the next morning, his foul mood had not dissipated yet. His class schedule had been delivered to his nightstand, and it looked as though this year would be almost as busy as the last year. The only saving grace was that they had completed their O.W.L.s and their N.E.W.T.s weren’t for another year. Still, there would be prefect meetings, Quidditch practices, books to digest and essays to regurgitate, and sexy witches to bed. So much to do, so little time, thought Draco. He took one last look in his mirror, a slight curl on his lip. The mirror said that he looked stunning, which he did; he knew that mirrors never lied.

Exiting the Common Room, he happened by two ladies who seemed very friendly indeed. “Hi, Draco,” the prettier one said, giving him a sexy grin. “Did you have a nice summer?” Wondering why he couldn’t recall her name, even though he was fairly certain that he had slept with her on at least one occasion, he replied gruffly that he did and went back to ignoring them.

That’s right, mirrors never lie, he repeated to himself. I must find out more about the Weasel’s mirror. It could prove very useful to Lord Voldemort. May even push up my initiation sooner and help me move up the ranks as a Death Eater.

Deep in his thoughts, he quickly ascended two flights of stairs and moved swiftly down the corridor toward the Great Hall. He soon heard someone coming up behind him, shouting, “Hey!” It sounded like Blaise; he turned around and saw that it was. Zabini ran to catch up with him, saying, “Oy, there you are, Malfoy! Wait up!”

“Hullo, Zabini. So you had a nice summer, eh? Spent most of it across the pond?” he said in an offhand manner.

His friend, still out of breath from jogging after him, replied, “Oh, yes. It was very nice indeed.” He pointed his wand to his chest, uttered a simple Recovery Charm, then continued smoothly, “And most of that was due to a lovely witch in Massachusetts. We were there for nearly a month; it was bloody fantastic! I’m telling you -- honestly, I think I’m in love.”

“What?!” Draco snorted. “With an American? How utterly repulsive.” He sneered as he said this, but Blaise defended his choice of sweethearts.

“Are you kidding? She is, as they say in the U.S., definitely Da Bomb!”

“Whatever that means, I’m sure she’s not worthy of you. Does she know you come from one of Britain’s oldest, best-established, and well-connected wizarding families?”

“Of course she does! Didn’t you get my last owl?” he asked, sounding offended. “She’s a distant cousin of my mum’s, so she’s a pureblood. And she’s very pretty,” Blaise bragged.

Draco said nothing to this. As they arrived in the Great Hall, Blaise challenged, “Do you really think I’d choose someone who was poor or otherwise repugnant? Honestly, what do you take me for?”

They sat down to breakfast and continued their discussion. Blaise talked some more about his girlfriend, whom Draco learned was named Marianne Elliot. He had a few wizard photos of her, and Draco had to agree that she was very good looking. She had thick, chestnut hair that went down to just above her chin. It was cut in a very modern style, framing her face nicely. Her expressive doe eyes were brown and deep, and the skimpy, lacy tank top she wore in one of the photos left little to his imagination. She was winking, smiling shyly, and waving her fingers innocently. Draco’s mouth got very dry and his pulse quickened. Damn, Blaise was right; this girl’s hot, he thought. He involuntarily licked his lips. Her eyes remind me of someone else, but who?

Feeling a bit of heat rising inside him, Draco handed the photos back and tried desperately to put aside the images he had just seen. He cleared his throat and commented nonchalantly, “Well, she certainly looks nice. What about her family? Are they well-connected?”

Blaise reported proudly, “Yes, very. They are one of the oldest wizarding families in all of New England. In fact, her ancestors narrowly escaped the Salem Witch Trials back in the 17th century. Her family is wealthy, and they are held in high regard in the American wizarding community. As you can imagine, even my parents are pleased with the match,” he confirmed, biting into an apple.

The two were so engrossed in their talk that they barely noticed the morning owls. One had sat down directly in front of Draco. Pansy cautiously interrupted him by tapping on his arm. She pointed to the elegant eagle owl that she recognized as belonging to his mother.

Narcissa had named her pet Dionysus because he liked to sip out of her wine glass. Weird bird, Draco thought. He patted Dionysus on the head, who took off promptly. Owls of the rich never expected or waited for payment; their rewards were great in the houses that they served.

He opened the care package his mother had sent. As usual, it contained a few sacks of Galleons, sweets in a flavor he didn’t like, and a letter that she hadn’t written herself.

Blaise also received an owl. The bird was a foreign breed, most likely native to America or Canada. Draco knew by the look on his friend’s face that it was a letter from the lovely Marianne Elliot. Blaise inhaled the perfumed ivory parchment then closed his eyes. He smiled and sighed, looking blissfully happy.

Draco exhaled heavily. This was going to be the longest year of his life.

~End of Chapter~

So whadya think? The plot is forming in the background; sorry if it is not apparent yet where we are heading, but I hope you will stick around for the ride. And I promise, there will be D/G, but with his attitude, she wouldn’t give him the time of day, would she -- (yet)? Thanks again for reading and reviewing!!

Author's Notes: For those who have been waiting patiently, this chapter has some D/G action . . . so read on, but don’t skip ahead -- no peeking! ;-) If you like what you read, please don’t forget to REVIEW. (Feed me, Seymour!)

The title of this chapter is from a wonderful movie starring Brenda Blethyn and Timothy Spall, who played Peter Pettigrew in Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. I recommend you watch him at work in this gem of a film, or if you’re into movies that are bleak-yet-still-powerfully-moving, see another of his films, “All or Nothing.”

CHAPTER 3 - Secrets and Lies

The first several weeks of school actually breezed by rather quickly for Draco. He had prefect duties to attend to, which meant weekly meetings, the occasional curfew check, and watching for rule violations. He actually looked forward to the latter two activities, which were rather enjoyable. He got a charge out of doling out punishments and speaking crossly to younger students. It was fun. He reflected, Ah, the simple pleasures in life are the best.

But unfortunately, it wasn’t all fun and games. He also had grueling, 2-hour Quidditch practices three times a week with an unforgiving coach. To top it all off, he was up to his arse in homework. The combination was wreaking havoc on his social life, which was rapidly becoming nonexistent. Things had changed drastically for the former sex god of Slytherin House.

Draco had never had to try and chat girls up or even seek them out. They had always approached him, as if he were some sort of mysterious puzzle to solve. With his sleek good looks, abundant wealth, and bad boy attitude, most girls had just laid back and spread their legs for him. Yet even the girl who had greeted him on the first morning of classes (Lydia, that’s her name, he recalled) had snubbed him once the rumor mill started churning.

Draco sighed audibly. His father’s recent change in residence had changed a lot of things. He grumbled at how unfair it all was. But he simply didn’t have the time or the inclination to go around being sweet to girls or to work on faking sincerity. Nor did he felt that he should have to do all that. That might be fine for other guys, but they weren’t Lucius Malfoy’s only son. That meant something. Well, it had meant something; now it meant something entirely different.

Lucius had always been a babe magnet. Women everywhere, and a handful of men, had found him quite attractive. As Draco looked and acted like Lucius, he had come to think that this perk was due him as well. But just the women, please -- don’t want any sodding wanker like Potter gazing into my eyes with wanton desire from across the Great Hall, he thought. Talk about losing your appetite. He shuddered, repulsed by the image.

The truth was that the men in his family simply weren’t inclined to asking. They just took what they wanted, consequences be damned, and women found that kind of confidence very sexy. And Malfoys certainly didn’t do without, regardless of what they wanted. Draco was no exception, and he was getting very frustrated. Thanks a lot, Dad, he thought irritably. Nice parting gift.

While girls were becoming somewhat of an enigma to him, he didn’t feel like making the effort that other guys had to in order to bed them. He shrugged to himself, thinking, I’ve never had to before. Why should I start now? His daily commitments were already threatening to overwhelm him anyway.

Although he had little time or energy to devote to anything else, he was determined to learn all he could about enchanted mirrors. This became his new project, and he excitedly dove into it head first.

Unfortunately, it felt more like he’d landed in sludge instead of water. The research wasn’t easy, and it was tedious and largely unrewarding. With all he had to do, Draco only managed to make it to the library once or twice a week. He made good of this time by enlisting the help of his friend, Blaise Zabini. Blaise was not a prefect or a Quidditch player, and he had an overseas girlfriend that he was utterly smitten with. As a result, he had a lot of time on his hands, as well as far too much pent-up energy that he needed to work off. The two boys also enjoyed one another’s company. Although they sometimes saw things differently, this only made them better study partners.

Draco knew that what he was seeking would probably not be right out in the open. It would most likely be well hidden, if it were published at all. So to further his research, he’d gotten a note from Professor Snape allowing him access to the Restricted Section. He’d simply lied to his Head of House, saying that he was working on some advanced potions. At least he had no problem getting to any of the books on Madame Pince’s shelves. If only he could find something truly useful, he could give all this up and focus on more important things, like getting himself a proper shag.

One Tuesday evening in early October, he and Blaise were in the library once again. It had not been going well, as they had little to show for their efforts. They had perused thousands of pages of text for hours on end. Yet they found that most of what was written about enchanted mirrors was either common knowledge or just plain common sense. The rest of it, the part they were looking for, remained a vague mystery and was not well documented.

One very old, heavy book had devoted many detailed chapters to the subject of mirrors. It had prattled on and on, saying that they came in a variety of categories, strengths, and abilities. The everyday variety would comment on a person’s appearance, such as the ones that were scattered throughout Hogwarts. They were literally everywhere and could be found in hotels, the homes of well-to-do wizarding families, and the occasional public loo.

Less common were full-length mirrors called Vanity Mirrors, which were designed for use by merchants. They were especially popular with wizards and witches in the jewelry and garment industries, and they were mostly found in upscale robe shops. These mirrors were often charmed to compliment the shopper, convincing them to buy the most expensive garments, items with the highest profit margin, or those that had been on the rack too long and were in danger of going out of style. Some of them were not above telling blatant lies, so the Ministry of Magic had tried to gain some sort of control over the magic that went into them. So far, they had had little success, as the shoppers themselves were often highly embarrassed that they had been scammed into buying simply awful robes. Since the victim wouldn’t dare to wear the dreadful garment out in public or even admit that he or she owned it, the dodgy practice continued unabated.

As for the rarest of all magical mirrors, there was very little written about them. These mirrors often showed the viewer something other than his or her own reflection. They seldom spoke, and when they did, it was often in cryptic messages. Some showed visions of the future or an important event in the person’s past, while others showed the viewer a glimpse of his or her own soul. The images were not always pleasant, and depending on the function of the mirror, it could be disarming or frightening.

As they both read, Blaise tapped Draco on the arm and asked, “Hey, you ever hear of Fidelity Mirrors?”

“No,” he replied flatly.

“Well, it says here that when the person says his or her lover’s name, the mirror will reflect the face of the person that their partner most recently had sex with.”

Hardly looking up from his own text, he remarked, “That sounds nasty.” Then he snorted, “My mum would see a different face every time, then, wouldn’t she?”

Blaise smirked then said, “They're hard to find, as they’re often shattered in anger or jealousy. Says here that Reparo has no effect at all. They’ve caused hundreds of suicides and countless murders.” He paused for a moment, then continued, “Listen to this. About 75 years ago, one man in Brighton jumped out of a 10-story window and fell to his death. He had said his wife’s name, and he saw his brother’s eyes looking back at him.” Stunned, Blaise remarked, “Bloody hell, Malfoy! Wouldn't want to find one of those.”

Draco then paraphrased from the book he was reading. “Hmm, this one says there's a legendary Mirror of Morgan le Fey. Sounds familiar -- do you know of it?” Blaise shook his head dumbly, then Draco continued. “It's centuries old, so of course, no one knows for certain if it exists anymore, or if it ever did. It displays the aura of Hell and sometimes shows the viewer’s own face fading in and out of the agony.”

Blaise cringed, saying “That sounds creepy, mate.”

Draco remarked, “Yes, that would be bizarre, seeing yourself in Hell. Sounds like my parents’ marriage.”

Blaise stifled a laugh, and they both returned to their reading. Draco's book went on to say that looking into any one of these mirrors could be a confusing experience, as the person may not understand the meaning of what he or she had seen. The trick with most of these, the author expounded, was to determine what the mirror’s purpose actually was. Were they actual visions, or were they merely hallucinations of one’s own mind, induced by the mirror itself? Also, very few were catalogued by the Ministry of Magic. Most were believed to be stored in private homes, hidden away from prying eyes.

After literally hours of research, it seemed that they were no closer to learning the mirror’s name, location, or even its true nature than they had been weeks before. It was all very tiring, and Draco was beginning to lose what little hope he had left. Tonight, the boys had been in the library for almost two and a half hours when Blaise stretched and groaned, “Ahhhh, my backside is killing me.”

“Did you forget to cast a cushioning charm?” Draco asked.

“Yeah, shit, I guess I did.” Blaise stood up, twisting and stretching his back. He shrugged his shoulders and rolled his head, trying to relieve the tension in his neck. “Listen, I really need to get back to the dorm. Marianne doesn’t like to be kept waiting for long.” As he said this, he grinned and wiggled his eyebrows.

“That’s right, she wrote you again yesterday. Do you think maybe she’s a little -- possessive?” Draco ventured.

“Nah, she’s just wild for me, that’s all,” Blaise said. “She wants me, the poor lass. And I’m not there, am I?”

“Gee, I wonder how she’ll ever make it without you,” Draco sneered. “Does she have some neighbors who are teenage boys? No? Well, I suppose she could always get one of those muggle devices -- what are they called? Verberators?”

“Ha, ha, you’re hilarious,” his friend replied sarcastically. “Hey, that’s not such a bad idea, really; might keep her from needing other guys, eh? Maybe I’ll send her one for her birthday next month. But where would I find one big enough, eh?” he asked, grinning and winking.

Draco suggested, “How about Giants R Us?”They both snickered then Blaise turned to leave, saying, “See ya, Malfoy.”

“Yeah. Thanks, Blaise.” His friend nodded and left the library. Draco’s mind turned to the massive task that lay ahead of him. The mountains of books merely stared back at him blankly, withholding any secrets they might have. Sure, he could have charmed them to read themselves aloud to him, but he’d be at least 100 years old before they had finished. He sighed and wondered if it was really worth it. My back’s starting to ache, too. Maybe I should just get a girlfriend.

After several more minutes, Draco looked up from his work when he heard soft, feminine giggles coming from the next shelf over. A honey-sweet voice in the next row was talking to her friend about Polyjuice Potion. She said that one of her brothers had used it years ago to gain entrance to the Slytherin Common Room. Draco furrowed his brows. Someone who was not a Slytherin had been inside their house without their knowledge or consent? How could they have? That’s the ultimate low. His blood boiled with anger. Just then, another question popped into his head: One of her brothers? How many brothers does this trollop have?

Her friend gasped. “Isn’t that illegal?”

“Well, yes, technically it is,” the girl answered cautiously. She must have realized the trouble her brother could be in if this were widely known, as she quickly tried to cover her tracks. “But it was for the safety of everyone in the school. There were attacks on muggle-borns, and he only wanted to help stop them!”

Draco’s brain went into overdrive. He stood up slightly to see if he could catch a glimpse of the girl. He peered between the books, trying to discover her identity. When he spotted ginger locks, he smirked and remarked to himself, She has red hair. Weasley . red . . . hair.

In a matter of seconds, it all clicked. Crabbe and Goyle did seem very odd that night. But which one was it? It couldn’t have been those disgusting twins -- she said one of her brothers, and they would have done something like that as a team. In fact, they probably would have been a lot more convincing. Percy was a prig, he would never break so many rules, so it had to have been . . .

No. Fucking. Way.

His anger forgotten, Draco’s face broke into an evil grin. He had to fight the urge to laugh out loud. At long last, the answer he’d been seeking, and it practically fell right in his lap. He finally had something on King Weasley that he could use to get what he wanted. After all, we don’t call him our king for nothing. He chuckled to himself as he moved stealthily to get closer to where the girls were. Hiding behind the thick volumes, he planned to gather all the ammunition he could get his hands on.

Her friend asked in a dreamlike voice, “So did it work?”

“Well, yes and no. He was disguised for one hour, but he really didn’t get any useful information. Just that Draco Malfoy is a thief and treats those thugs he calls ‘friends’ like shit.”

What?! Draco was aghast, but he forced himself to remain quiet.

“Are you surprised?” the other girl asked in an amused tone.

“No, not really,” Ginny responded with a laugh. They both giggled. When her friend turned away as if to go, Ginny asked, “You going back now?”

“I really need to,” she replied. “Dad asked me to review his latest article on Yeti sightings in the Himalayas, and I promised to owl my comments to be on his desk first thing Wednesday morning.”

“All right. See you tomorrow, Luna.” Ginny waved as her friend left. She continued browsing the shelves when a large, slightly calloused hand came up from behind her and covered her mouth. Another reached around her waist, pointing a wand toward her chest.

“Gotcha. Now let’s play a little Truth or Dare,” he said smoothly.

She wiggled fruitlessly to get out of his grasp. He could hear muffled shrieks trying to escape her lips. He cast a silencing charm so that only he could hear her, as well as a restraining charm so that she couldn’t walk more than a foot away from him. When he let go of her, he immediately regretted it, as her screams were piercing his ears. To say she was put out was a gross understatement. The fire in her brown eyes could have melted the polar ice caps.

She eventually calmed down enough to be somewhat civil. “Feel better now?” he asked smugly. She narrowed her eyes, but at least she had stopped her infernal screeching. At last, we’re getting somewhere, Draco’s mind said approvingly. “Now that you’re through imitating a banshee,” he said calmly, “tell me what I want to know, and I’ll let you go.”

She turned and looked at him warily. She started to dart out of the row to get away from him, only to be yanked back abruptly by invisible hands. Just to be safe, he grabbed her by the shoulders and pinned her to the wall. He felt the strong urge to kiss her just then, but he couldn’t comprehend why. Because she’s really sexy like this, pressed up against the wall, so close I can feel her breath on my neck. Woah, down, little dragon -- we’re not that desperate!

Clearing his mind, he focused on the task at hand. He would have to do this quickly before anyone saw them. If that lovesick Pot-Head were to come waltzing in now, this would be all for naught. Besides, with his entourage in tow and Draco alone, he wagered that he might even end up in hospital tonight. That would be terribly inconvenient; he still had a three-foot essay to finish for Professor McGonagall.

“I heard what you said to Loony Lovegood about King Weasley. Used Polyjuice Potion back in our second year, eh? Most impressive. Suppose Granger must have helped? Of course she did. Your brother is too big of an oaf in Potions to brew that today, much less four years ago. Tell me, where did they brew it? And where did they get the contraband to make it?”

“I . . . I . . I d-don’t know,” she stuttered.

“Was Professor Snape missing something from his stores the next day? Hmm?” His voice was filled with sarcasm; he was really enjoying this. Draco had her over a barrel, and he knew it. Meanwhile, she was squirming, wondering how she would ever get out of this.

“Pl-please don’t get Ron in trouble. He’s a prefect-“

“I know that,” Draco spat.

“He was only 12. He was trying to help. Please, don’t say anything -- he could lose his prefect’s badge, and it means so much to him-"

Draco raised one eyebrow as his lip curled. Perfect. “And exactly what would you do to prevent that from happening?” Somewhere in his mind, he was chanting, Say you’ll sleep with me, say you’ll sleep with me, please, please, oh please, say you’ll give me mind-blowing, spine-tingling, knock your socks off sex . . . . The logical half of his brain soon took over and practically shouted: Will you shut up! She’s just a Weasley!

She thought for a minute. She glanced over at the table he had been sitting at with Blaise earlier that evening. Spying all the books, she responded quickly, “I’ll tell you what you want to know. Maybe I can help you with whatever it is you’re researching.”

He hesitated for a moment, then he said, “All right. Maybe you can help me in that regard.”

Her spirits lifted slightly, and she breathed a sigh of relief. She looked even prettier than she had before, smiling in a relaxed manner. He was starting to feel distracted again, even a little light-headed. He cleared his throat and began. “On the train, I heard your brother telling Potter something about a mirror that he had found in his first year of school. It seems this mirror showed him some predictions for the future. Do you know what he was talking about?”

She stared back at him blankly, her mouth hanging open a bit. Not quite the reaction Draco had hoped for, but at least she might be true to her word; it looked as though she might actually be thinking. Maybe she would help him.

“No, I’m -- I’m not certain what he meant.” Realizing that this could revoke their agreement, she continued quickly, “But I’m sure I can find out. I’ll ask him. He’ll tell me. But if he won’t, then Harry definitely will.”

In an irritable tone, Draco said, “Yes, Saint Potter does seem to be -- rather fond of you.” He gently picked up a few strands of her hair and rubbed them between his thumb and forefinger as he stared intently into her eyes. He broke the contact abruptly and said, “All right. Find out everything you can and report back to me.”

“Fine,” she said with a nod. After a moment of uncomfortable silence, Ginny looked up at him. “So, Malfoy -- Draco -- will you kindly remove these charms so I can leave now and go speak to them? I swear, I won’t scream, and I won’t run away. I’ll just quietly gather my books and go,” she said as sweetly as possible.

Draco had a better idea. She would help him reshelve his books, collect her things, and walk out of the library with him. Then both charms would be reversed. She readily agreed -- anything to keep Ron from wanting to kill her. With Percy, Fred, and George gone, he was all she had.

They finished their task and left the library. He looked around to see that they weren’t being watched. Sophia Bellucci was studying a book and practicing her English, and a few Hufflepuffs were engrossed in a discussion about Quidditch. They ignored Ginny and Draco completely. He soon found a broom closet where he could remove the charms in privacy, and he roughly pushed her inside.

He couldn’t take it anymore; her scent, her soft hair, her cute little bum wiggling just inches from him. It was all too much, and it was making him so horny. He pressed her to the wall and placed a searing kiss on her soft lips. She opened her mouth to really give him hell, but instead, he pressed his advantage. He took it as an invitation and pushed his tongue inside, tasting her sweetness.

Warmth. He felt her warmth rushing all over his body. She felt his too, as she soon responded in kind, her tongue dancing with his. She put her hands around his neck, tenderly fingered his hair, then moved on to his face. Her touch was delicate, and it felt bloody fantastic. He pulled her closer, tightening his grip on her waist, aching to move his hands lower. Her lovely breasts were pressing into him, and he felt himself responding. They were both high on hormones and adrenaline. He had to fight to stop before this escalated into something far too dangerous. This is not the right time, he reminded himself. And she’s definitely not the right girl.

He broke the kiss suddenly and pushed her away. “Sorry, I got a bit carried away there,” he said.

“Yeah, me too. Don’t know what came over me,” she murmured apologetically.

Me, he thought, but didn’t dare say aloud. He was feeling a bit woozy, but with that wildcat temper of hers, she might just go off and kick him in the family jewels. He thought, Note to self: Never cast a restraining charm any closer than three feet on an attractive girl.

She continued her rationalization. “Because you know, I would never kiss you willingly, if I were thinking clearly.”

“Yeah, me neither,” he agreed readily. Like hell. If there were so much as a cot in here, you could just kiss your virginity goodbye.

She looked at him skeptically, crossed her arms, and asked him angrily, “Hey, what kind of charm did you cast, anyway?”

Offended, he put his hands on his hips and snapped, “Well, certainly not that one. I can find girls without having to enthrall them, thank you very much!”

“All right, all right,” she relented. Still feeling she had to justify her uncharacteristic behavior, she went on, “Well, I suppose it’s a perfectly natural reaction, if any of my brothers are to be believed. Guess I wasn’t thinking too clearly, what with skipping dinner tonight.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, he said eagerly, “Hey, me too. Would you like to go to the kitchens and see what the house elves can dreg up for us?”

He thought, Oh, no -- did I just ask her on a date? What is wrong with me?

She declined, saying that her brother would already have something for her. Whenever he saw her miss a meal, he made it a point to bring a plate up for her. Draco felt a twinge of jealousy. No one had ever done that for him, not even his mother. He sneered, “Hmph. Must be nice.”

“Yes, it is. It’s rather comforting, having someone who looks out for you,” she answered candidly. “He’s always been there for me.”

The wave of jealousy fled, and a slight pang of sadness took its place. He felt annoyed that she had someone to take care of her. The only people who had ever taken care of him had done so because they were paid, and paid extremely well. That was the truth of the matter, plain and simple. Well, maybe he still felt a little jealousy, but was it aimed at her or at Ron?

Realizing they had been in the closet for far too long, Draco shook off these emotions. Once again, he was all business. He swiftly reversed the charms then instructed her in a serious tone, “Now go to your tower. I’ll send you a school owl telling you where we’ll meet. This has got to be done discretely, or people will start to talk.”

She nodded, pursing her lips. Clearly, there was a lot on the line. She carefully pushed opened the large, squeaky door and peeked outside. After making a cursory check for students and teachers, she exited the closet and practically ran down the hallway, leaving the door slightly ajar.

He watched as she disappeared down the corridor. He left the closet a few minutes later, heading down to the kitchens for a snack before returning to the dungeons. He thought of her tender lips on his, and his mouth tingled. He groaned to himself, Oh, man, am I ever in trouble. She’s incredible. Hot, fiery little thing --

Then the reality of it hit home. No, I can’t. It would be a huge mistake. Father would surely find some way to leave Azkaban, just so he could come and kill me. He pinched the bridge of his nose and pinched his eyes shut. He took a moment to think rationally, realizing, This has got to be strictly professional.

Then he stopped dead in his tracks and wondered: Was the other one Potter or Granger?

~End of Chapter~

Thank you for reading. Now be a good fan fic reader and review -- like Ives did (thank you for reviewing, lady!)

Author’s Note: This chapter title is a phrase from Puddle of Mudd’s song Blurry.

CHAPTER 4 – Everything’s So Blurry

The next morning, Draco awoke well before sunrise. He’d had a lousy night’s sleep; he was so wound up about his impending meeting with Ginny Weasley that he had not rested very well. The possibility of ending his futile search brought him more joy than anything had since finishing his O.W.L.s last year. And of course, he felt a great deal of satisfaction that someone else would do the work, while he would reap the benefits. What more could a Malfoy ask for?

Knowing that he would be sending Ginny an owl this morning, he was filled with anticipation. He eventually gave up on getting back to sleep. He got out of bed and slipped into his forest green robe. With his brain reeling from lack of sleep, he headed toward the showers. He knew he couldn’t rest until he had written and sent his little note. Maybe he could get a bit more shut-eye before breakfast, once his early morning task was complete. He absolutely could not miss breakfast, however; he wanted to see Ginny’s reaction when she received the owl and to nonverbally confirm their appointment. He refused to be stood up.

After he had dressed and made himself presentable, he wrote a few lines detailing when and where they would meet. He tucked the note inside his immaculately pressed robes and climbed up the stairs to the Common Room. On entering the room, he thought he heard people talking, but the only other person in the room was Michael Grant. He was just staring into the fire, which blazed quite nicely for having been burned to embers late last night. Draco wondered if maybe Michael had nodded off to sleep. “Grant?” he ventured.

Michael quickly turned around, wide awake. Draco had not really expected a reply, and he was somewhat taken aback. The younger boy said, “Morning, Malfoy. What are you doing up at this ungodly hour?”

Draco shrugged one shoulder and said, “Couldn’t sleep. I need to send an owl this morning, so I thought I’d get it out of the way.”

“Writing home to your mum?”

“Yes, she misses me,” Draco lied. Yeah, right. Misses her revolving charge accounts is more like it. “And what are you doing up so early?”

"Me? Oh, just checking in with my parents. With a 13-hour time difference, I can’t very well floo them after classes get out, now can I?” he asked good-naturedly.

“No, I suppose not,” he agreed. “See you later, Grant.”

Draco turned to head out the door to go to the owlery when Michael called abruptly, “Malfoy, I’ve been hoping to have a word with you. Have you got a moment?”

He hesitated for a second or two, but then he said resolutely, “Sorry, I really don’t. Mother needs to get this before noon, so I’ve got to send it now. Could we visit when I get back, or perhaps at breakfast?”

“How about I walk to the owlery with you?” Michael suggested. “I’ve been meaning to go there, anyway. I’ve got this letter to send to my little sister -- she misses me terribly -- and I still tend to get a bit lost around here on my own. Maybe you could show me the most direct route?”

Seeing no way out of this, short of being brusquely rude, Draco acquiesced to Michael going with him. After all, he was a Slytherin prefect, and turning down a plea for assistance one’s own housemate’s would make him look very bad indeed.

As they walked, the younger boy remarked, “I can’t tell you what a thrill it is for me to finally be at Hogwarts.”

“Oh? What school did you attend prior?” Draco asked, not really caring, but attempting to make polite small talk.

“Well, I was home-schooled by my mum until I was 13. She’s a teacher by training, so she taught me the basics. Then I attended Winslett Academy for the Magically Gifted in Wellington for two years, but I just had to get out. It’s an all right school, mind you, but to be perfectly frank, they have too few teachers who are pureblood wizards and far too many muggle-borns enrolled.”

“I know what you mean,” Draco commented. “We’ve got that problem here as well. Suppose it’s everywhere, except maybe at Durmstrang.”

“Would you believe the girl who portrayed the Goddess at last year’s Samhain Festival was a filthy mudblood swine?” Michael spat in disgust. “Not just a halfblood, mind you -- neither of her parents were magical. Now don’t get me wrong, she was very pretty, but where is the pride in one’s heritage? Why even have such festivals, if you’re going to have key roles portrayed by those who have no true sense of what they’re about?”

“Shameful,” Draco threw in, just for conversation.

Michael went on. “Anyhow, my parents thought it was best that I move on. Winslett is the only magical school in New Zealand, and Australia’s academy is even worse, which forced us to look elsewhere.” After a moment’s silence, Michael summarized in a very satisfied tone of voice, “So, here I am.”

“And why would you want to come here, specifically? In what way could Hogwarts possibly be ‘thrilling’?” Draco inquired. “Our headmaster is enamored with mudbloods, halfbloods, and even muggles. He thinks that we should cooperate,” he said as if he were about to vomit.

“Well, partly because of my grandfather. Besides, he went to school here, you know. He was Head Boy, in his day,” Michael said matter-of-factly.

“Who?” he asked, genuinely puzzled. “Your grandfather?”

“Oh, no, certainly not,” Michael laughed. Then he whispered slowly, emphasizing each word: “Him. You-Know-Who.”

When Draco caught his meaning, he said, “But that was ages ago -- anyone who instructed him would surely be long gone --”

“Yes, but his legacy lives on here. It’s alive in these very walls,” Michael said quietly, as if the walls could hear him. Draco thought he looked a bit mad.

Michael stopped walking. He turned to face Draco, took hold of his arm, and said in a hushed but very resolute voice, “He’s going to make our world The World. Not hidden in secrecy, but proud of what we are. We’re better than muggles, and they need to know that. We’ll be in charge of things, instead of those hapless muggles.” He paused for a moment. “And I intend to help him with all of my being,” he added with a solemn nod.

Draco wondered at Michael’s grim determination and eyed him thoughtfully. The sharp look of determination on the younger man’s face caused Draco to feel surprise, admiration, and a bit of envy, all at the same time. His own devotion to the Dark Lord was not quite this intense. In fact, if he had this much enthusiasm, Lucius would have beamed with pride.

When they had reached their destination, Draco found himself in a rather uncomfortable predicament. True, he did have a note inside his robes, but it certainly wasn’t to his mother. If Michael were to recognize the owl he chose now and saw it delivering a message at the Gryffindor table, he might get suspicious. He would know that he had lied, and that could raise a number of awkward questions Draco would have no intention of answering.

He was in a bit of a tight spot until Michael unwittingly solved his dilemma for him. All signs of insanity gone, he laughed, “Oh, bugger, I am such a moron. I grabbed the wrong note.” He looked around the hall then said, “You know, I think I can manage to find the way back on my own. Thanks loads; this way is much better.” Draco wondered vaguely, How else would you get here?

They parted ways, Michael returning to the dungeons and Draco proceeding to send his note. When he returned to the Slytherin Common Room, Michael was nowhere to be seen. Probably went back to bed, Draco guessed. It’s far too early to be up. His own mission complete, he went down to his own room for a bit of a lie-in. He slept like a baby.

At the Great Hall, the owls came right on schedule. Draco saw his land directly in front of Ginny Weasley. She removed the parchment with some trepidation. Trying not to draw attention to herself, she discretely gave the owl a tidbit off her plate then held the note under the table to read it. It said:

Tonight at 7:30. Be at the lake on the side closest to the Quidditch pitch. Wear a cloak with a hood. Don’t be seen, and DON’T BE LATE.

She glanced across the room to find him. Her eyes met his, and she gave a very brief nod in his direction. When she saw him acknowledge her by slightly raising one eyebrow, she immediately looked away. It’s settled then. Good, he thought.

Draco tuned into on the conversation that was going on around him. It was the usual fare, each of them bragging about what he or she was doing to further The Cause. Most of his friends were working to recruit converts to their side, while making life difficult for those who refused. They hoped to prove their loyalty by eventually purging Hogwarts of its mudblood population. Blaise was in the midst of a heated argument with Millicent Bulstrode when Pansy Parkinson chimed in. “Well, at least one of us is actually doing something,” she commented haughtily.

Blaise asked Pansy, “Oh, yeah? Exactly what are you doing? Enticing people by offering to sleep with them, like our Millicent here?” Draco could see in Millicent’s face that the accusation had stung. Although she was appalled by his remark, the group laughed loudly at Blaise, so he continued digging. “Got any takers, ladies? Didn’t think so. Not even a mudblood would want a piece of that.”

“You coldhearted bastard!” Millicent cried, as the tears threatened to spill over her lashes.

Pansy turned to her and cooed gently, “Everyone knows that, dear.” Then she looked Blaise directly in the eye and said, “That’s why he had to go to America to find a girlfriend. No one here would have the vile maggot.”

Blaise gave her a look of utter disgust, which Pansy returned unflinchingly. “No, I’ve joined the Advanced Herbology class,” she announced, taking a bite of a banger and looking very self-satisfied.

He almost spit out his pumpkin juice then asked her incredulously, “Whatever for?!”

“Sabotage, my dear,” Pansy said sweetly and chuckling softly. “It was Michael Grant’s idea, really. He thought that at least one of us ought to join so we are kept informed.”

Draco joined in, his voice laced with sarcasm, “If none of us knew, then who exactly are you keeping informed, dear?”

“Never you mind, love.” She said the last word in an acerbic tone. “It’s in very good hands, I assure you.” They glowered at one another. He couldn’t abide her, ever since they had gone to the Yule Ball together in their fourth year. When they’d gone down to his room later that night, she was most uncooperative, and he resented her for denying him what he thought was his due. Not that he desired her today; on the contrary, he found her somewhat repulsive by his usual standards, but her rejection had hurt him.

And she would have been my first, too! I thought girls liked having that honor. I heard she finally gave over to Marcus Flint. Ah, well, it was her loss, Draco reminisced. He watched his housemates interact. Blaise and Pansy seemed to have stopped bickering for the moment. She pointed a finger at him and commanded sternly, “Now you apologize to Millicent.” Blaise turned to Millicent and asked if she could please forgive him for his rudeness. See, Slytherins do care about each other, in our own . . . unique way.

Draco tried to remain focused on the day’s lessons to keep his mind off of his impending meeting with the little Weaslette. It was Wednesday, which meant Defense Against the Dark Arts with Lupin first thing in the morning (groan), followed by Herbology (double groan). He had Advanced Potions for most of the afternoon, then Quidditch practice after his lessons. This would be a very long day indeed.

Defense Against the Dark Arts and Herbology were still dry and tedious for him, no matter how allegedly advanced the material became. Advanced Potions was both challenging and rewarding, as was Transfiguration. Thankfully, for sixth and seventh years, Care of Magical Creatures was an optional elective, and he opted to get the hell out of it.

As always, Potions was his favorite class, and he put in extra time and care to keep his skills sharp. The only drawback was that the mudblood Granger was an advanced student as well. However, this did give him someone to harass whenever he felt the need. Of course, neither Weasley nor Potter had qualified for Advanced Potions. Shock, shock -- I guess Potter must still be in remedial potions? The thought of it just slayed him, and he broke into a malicious grin at the memory.

Draco seemed to have a gift for brewing potions. Maybe it was because of his meticulous nature, or his keen powers of observation, or perhaps his innate desire to prove that he was the best. He wasn’t sure exactly why he felt he had to convince others, but he certainly had become adept at making potions.

During his fifth year, it seemed that Draco’s hard work was finally paying off. His Potions marks had surpassed Granger’s. For the past two terms, he had been named the top Potions student in his year. He deserved it, as he certainly worked harder than she did. He felt great satisfaction when Professor Snape’s congratulatory letter arrived, and he recalled the day with clarity.

*****
The Hogwarts owl arrived two days before Christmas. “Finally!” Draco said. Professor Snape had already congratulated him personally two weeks ago, but his father didn’t know yet. In order to surprise him, Draco had asked his teacher to address the envelope to him rather than to Lucius.

Since returning home from school, he had been waiting anxiously for this very owl to arrive. Draco longed to show his father this letter as undeniable proof that he was the best. It held the key to an early Christmas present, one that was worth much more than anything he would receive the day after tomorrow. Surely, this would earn him the reward he craved more than anything else: his father’s admiration.

Breathless, he found Father in his study and handed him the letter. Draco’s heart was in his throat, thumping with expectancy.

Lucius took the parchment from him. After he had perused it lazily, he flipped it over, inhaled and exhaled slowly, and then said an offhand manner, “Hmm, I see. It seems as though you have finally done better at something than that worthless mudblood. Tell me, did she leave the school, or is she already in Advanced Potions? ”

Draco bit his tongue to keep from gasping aloud. The words stung like Cruciatus. How could his own father treat him so callously?

Lucius then intensified his wounds by remarking uncaringly, “Well, I see you have finally managed to achieve something worthy of your name, son. About damn time, too.”

A high compliment, indeed.

Sadly, the boy realized that this was the extent of the praise he would receive from his father. He had hoped for more. Foolish, really. Draco winced, hoping his father wouldn’t notice the weak spot he had just trampled upon.

But he did. He always did.

“You are my curse in this life, boy,” he whispered, his eyes narrowing. “You’ve been a disappointment to me since you were six years old and you fell off your first broomstick. Just had to fly too high and show off, didn’t you?”

“I said I was sorry, Father,” Draco pleaded in a quiet voice. “It was an accident.”

“As for me, I think that fall must have jarred something lose in that thick head of yours. Then that stupid bint just had to go and mend your arm and your ribs. I told her that a little overnight suffering would be a good lesson for you, but she couldn’t leave well enough alone.”

Draco didn’t respond. He looked down at his finely-cut robes and his shiny black shoes. What did such trifles matter if he couldn’t even get a kind word from the man he admired so fervently?

He soon felt the redness of embarrassment and impotence rising in his cheeks. At this point, anything he could say would only bring him more scorn. Lucius asked him haughtily, “Do you think I intend to see all these years of hard work and private tutelage go to waste? When are you ever going to earn the name of Malfoy?”

“I’m sorry, Father. I’ll do better,” Draco replied softly.

Thick tears welled in the boy’s eyes. He fought valiantly to keep them from falling, but they betrayed him when Lucius concluded their little father-son chat by saying to him coldly, “I doubt it. Now go on, I have work to do.”

*****
Draco’s mother had been no better. Narcissa cared even less than Lucius did, if that were possible. All in all, it turned out to be his worst Christmas ever, and the bitter recollections still pained him. He planned to stay at school during this year’s winter hols, what with his mother rarely at home and an unfeeling bitch when she was. What would be the point?

He had hoped this helplessness and frustration would ease with time, but it hadn’t so far. He swallowed the lump in his throat, working to put the memories as far back in the recesses of his mind as possible. All he needed was some time alone to think things over. If only I could please the heartless bastard! he ruminated angrily.

The intense need to prove himself was the reason why he was over 100 feet in the air at that moment. He was practicing his flying maneuvers, even though Quidditch practice had ended over an hour ago and their first match wasn’t for three more weeks. He worked on improving his dips, turns, swerves, dives, and feints. He loved the feel of the broom in his hands. It was freedom, and it was power, in one simple device. It was easy to lose himself to the feeling that flying gave him.

Reflecting on the abysmal relationship he had with his parents, he determined that it was only because of family pride that he felt any loyalty whatsoever toward Lucius. He was a ruthless ogre, as Ginny Weasley and untold others who had crossed paths with him knew all too well. Somewhere deep in his mind, he knew his father probably did belong in prison, but he couldn’t voice such thoughts aloud; he still felt his obligations too keenly.

Finally, he spied Ginny coming toward the lake. He landed his broom and headed toward the rendezvous point. He greeted her rudely, “About time you got here, Weasley. If you'd arrived any later, I’d probably have missed dinner again.”

She looked at him with anger in her eyes and said, “Sorry, but I got waylaid by Professor McGonagall. She is my Head of House, you know.” He shrugged, looking at her with disdain on his face. When he didn’t reply, she continued, “Anyway, now that we’re through with the pleasantries, I’ve found something out for you. But you’re not going to like it much.”

“Well, what is it?” he demanded, clearly annoyed.

“What you’re looking for is called the Mirror of Erised. It’s here at Hogwarts, but Dumbledore moved it after Harry and Ron found it in their first year. I couldn’t find a good time to talk to Ron, so I asked Harry. According to him, it doesn’t predict the future, as it showed him his parents. Instead, it shows what’s in your heart, what you desire most. He thinks that while it did show Ron what he wanted most, it was only chance that part of it happened to come true.”

“What good is that to me?” Draco asked exasperatedly. “I bloody well know what I want!”

In reply, she gave him a shrewd look and asked him calmly, “Do you?”

“Of course I know! I’ve always known! Ever since I was little, I wanted those things that really matter. Respect, wealth, raw power -- I mean, come on, isn’t that what’s real?”

When she didn’t answer, he ranted, “And how can it not predict anything? Visions in magical mirrors always have some hidden meaning! I ought to know, I’ve read enough pages about them to wallpaper the entire Great Hall.”

Instead of admitting that his hard work had all been in vain, he tried a different approach. Draco suggested, “Maybe it didn’t work for Potter because he refused to let it. Or maybe he didn’t know how to; he is kind of a fuck-up, you know. Ever watch him brew potions?! He’s pathetic.”

His arguments fell on deaf ears. Ginny shook her head, as if his tirade was not convincing her but simply wearing on her. “Well, if you still want to see it for yourself, Harry gave me vague directions to where it was. I think maybe we can find it. Would you be interested?”

“Yes, yes -- I guess so,” he sighed impatiently. “Can we start tomorrow after dinner?” She agreed and then turned to go. He reached out and touched her arm. “Sorry I got so worked up.” He paused then said, “Thank you, Weasley. You’ve saved me loads of work.” He took her hand and lightly kissed the back of it.

“And I’m sure I’ll regret it someday,” she muttered callously. “But then you didn’t give me many choices, did you?”

Gazing intently into her eyes and still holding her hand, he said, “Well, you shouldn’t go about telling family secrets in a public place. You never know who’s listening.” He turned her hand over to rub her palm against his cheek. He closed his eyes momentarily to savor the feel of it and said in a low, husky voice, “You made your own bed, Miss Weasley -- you’ll just have to lie in it.” Now would you please make mine, so you can lie there, too?

Of course, he couldn’t express thoughts like that. If such wicked imaginings were to escape his lips, she would probably rip his testicles off his body and grind them to dust with a pestle. And he had no intention of doing without those; he liked them where they were, thank you very much.

No, he didn’t dare say such things, no matter how intensely he felt them. He ached to pull her into his arms and pick things up where they had left off in the broom closet last night. He wanted to feel her against him; even if she was just Weasley rubbish, she was definitely curved in all the right places. She had felt heavenly, but he resisted the urge this time and let her go. He watched as she left to go back to the castle, when suddenly she turned around and practically ran toward him. What is she doing now?

When she was about eight feet away, he simply had to ask, “What is it, my sweet? Can’t get enough of me?”

She replied hatefully, “You arrogant prat!”

Then what could she possibly want? he wondered, truly bewildered.

Pulling something out of her cloak, she said, “You got me so miffed, I nearly forgot -- I brought you something to eat.” She handed him an apple, a pear, and two rolls. “It’s not much, but I had to try and sneak it without Ron getting suspicious. I know how hungry I get after long Quidditch practices.”

“That’s -- very decent of you, Weasley,” Draco said sincerely. He was rather touched and mildly shocked. “Thank you.”

“I didn’t think you had anyone looking out for you,” she explained awkwardly. “See you tomorrow, then? In that little nook outside of the kitchens at 8:00? It’s near where we’ll be going.” He agreed, and Ginny left for good this time.

He sighed audibly. Feeling great relief that he finally had some solid information about the mirror, he relaxed a bit. He was also very flattered and pleased that Ginny had thought of him. Pansy never brought me any food when she knew I hadn’t eaten. Come to think of it, none of them have. It felt strange, like maybe someone truly did care, and it felt -- well, it felt wonderful.

He suddenly realized how absolutely voracious he was. His teeth pierced the apple, its juices rolling down his chin. As he walked along, he quickly polished off the fruit and ate both rolls. Damn, I must have been starving! I’ll see what Crabbe and Goyle have stashed away from Honeydukes. Maybe I can trade off one of those vile sweets my mum sent me.

With his meeting with Ginny over and his hunger fairly well satisfied, he headed toward the dungeons. He could feel a severe migraine coming on. Damn, these fucking headaches, he bemoaned. They were the bane of his existence, above and beyond anything else he suffered, including his parents, Potter and his crew, stupid classes, and still no girlfriend to ease his pain (not yet, anyway). He was quite certain that someday soon, the pressure of it all would drive him completely around the bend.

He reached his room, and surprisingly, found that no one was there. Hmm, that’s odd. Where is everyone? It’s nearly 8:30. After removing his cloak and stashing his broom, he set about studying for tomorrow’s Herbology test.

As he read, he thought he saw a brief flash of movement out of the corner of his eye, but he didn’t bother to look up. Apparently, one of his roommates had returned. “Blaise, are you back?” he queried absently. When he received no reply, he glanced up from his books and asked, “How did you get in here?"

~End of Chapter~

Oooh, our first cliffhanger! I hope you are even more intrigued (at least, that was the general idea!) ;-)

Note: I hope the flashback scene isn’t too cliché. Please don’t flame me saying you’ve read this kind of scene before; if you haven’t, then you’re fairly new to this realm. Since a lot of D/G fanfic has something on this order, the idea must ring true for most authors. My only hope is that it’s not overtly cheesy (if it is, please send macaroni with your flames). Besides, when Lucius is portrayed as this loving, doting father, it just doesn’t work for me. And come on, you don’t really think he took Draco out to meet the ice cream truck every day when he was a tot, did you? (Tee hee!)

Once again, thanks for reading, and please review. I appreciate your reviews, Astria and Ives!

Author’s Notes: Thanks again for the awesome reviews. In this chapter, finally, a peek into Ginny’s psyche! Also, watch for the reference to the movie “Dogma.” (I know some people find it offensive, but I just had to watch it because Alan Rickman is in it.) A Chocolate Frog for the first person to correctly identify the quoted dialogue and who delivered the lines in the film.

This chapter’s title refers to a Dan Fogelberg song from his album The Innocent Age -- it’s a few years old, but it’s very good. It has great lyrics and a haunting melody; it fits this chapter perfectly!

CHAPTER 5 – Ghosts

Ginny stewed as she paced around her room anxiously. She had already changed into her pajamas, brushed her hair, and readied herself for bed. As it was nearly time for curfew, her roommates were either visiting or studying in the Common Room. None of them would dare risk a detention by being out after hours.

Furrowing her brow, she wrung her hands fitfully. She couldn’t possibly relax now, not after the stunt she’d just pulled. What was I thinking? Meeting that scoundrel, giving him information, snogging with him -- and now feeding him! I must be mental!

She chewed on her lip nervously as she walked back and forth. Deciding it would help if she put some thoughts down on paper, she grabbed the journal that Bill and Fleur had sent to her last Christmas. She thought fondly of Bill and his wife and their young son. Ginny hoped that she would be able to visit them soon in Marseille.

The journal was scarlet colored with gold trim. The front cover had the letters “GW” embossed in a delicate script. It was filled with a pad of Niadra’s Never-Ending Parchment (Guaranteed not to run out for 5 full years!, the packaging had read).

But what made this gift truly special was the accompanying self-inking quill. Bill had charmed it so that she could write down her thoughts almost as soon as they came to her. She could easily write up to 250 legible words per minute, and her hand never ached or got tired. It was the best present she had ever received, even if she couldn’t use it in class. Her writing that fast would probably raise a few eyebrows. Besides, she wasn’t sure if the spell was entirely legal.

Ginny sighed aloud; she had to get this off her chest. She opened the journal by speaking nephew’s middle name (“Guillaume”). Surely, getting this all down in black and white would help ease her mind, clear her conscience, and perhaps even allow her to sleep. Holding the quill, she whispered, “Stenographa.” The writing instrument glowed briefly, tingling lightly between her fingers, and she began jotting down her thoughts:

DJ,

I must be out of my head. My behaviour has been simply appalling. I mean, it’s bad enough I agreed to do this in the first place. Had I said no, Ron could have just denied everything, but then Malfoy would probably have insisted that Snape use Veritaserum, just for the enjoyment of seeing a Weasley ruined in public!

Oh, bloody hell -- when do we learn to cast memory charms? I could really use that skill right about now!

But why, WHY, did I have to go so far as to bring the prat something to eat? I must be insane. He’s going to think I’ve got the hots for him or something. HA -- far from it! While he is good-looking and well-built (must be all that Quidditch) --

She stopped mid-sentence and nearly screamed at what had just flowed from her quill. She hastily tore out the parchment and wadded it up. Then she continued her rambling scrawl on a fresh sheet: DJ, what is wrong with me? Why do I always believe there is good in everyone? That everyone deserves a chance, even boorish arses like him?

I should have known better. He’s just going to humiliate me when he gets the opportunity. He’ll probably put all of this in a Pensieve then show it to his friends. Have a good, rousing laugh.

Mum would send me a First-Class Howler if she knew about this. She says I’ve got to learn to be more careful, and I am trying. There was a time when I would have gladly given myself, body and soul, to Harry Potter. Thankfully, his continued indifference finally cured me of my desire for him.

I’m so glad I just accepted that Harry didn’t want me. Getting over him once and for all felt good; happened just in time, too. I’m actually quite relieved it’s over and that he’s perfectly clear about my feelings. At least he never took advantage of my admiration, unlike that arrogant pig, Michael Corner. Oooh, I still get riled just thinking about it! How could I have ever been interested in such a troll?

The git used the oldest line in history: “You would if you loved me, Ginny. And I love you so much, darling. Pleeeease?”

I’m telling you, DJ, it is so hard being a girl. One never knows which boys to trust. At the time, I thought I was in love, and I was sure he loved me. He was always so thoughtful, bringing me gifts, sending me love letters, joining DA because of me, and even recruiting his friends to help.

And then that one night, he nearly convinced me. The moment was perfect; the way he looked at me that night with those gorgeous baby blue eyes, holding me up so I wouldn’t fall as my knees gave way. Sucking tenderly on my lips and tongue, his hands on my . .

She paused for a minute or two. Drawing a deep breath, she began writing again. It wasn’t easy saying no, but I just wasn’t ready yet. It’s a really big decision for a girl.

She clicked her tongue in disgust. But looking back, it was quite unimaginative of him. I’ll bet even the ancient Celts tried that ‘you-would-if-you-loved-me’ crap on their girlfriends. Crafty little buggers probably invented it. In fact, I wouldn’t doubt it if those very words helped to repopulate Europe after the Black Death.

When Ginny recalled what had happened the next day, her ire returned in full force. She practically scribbled the next words: And then the weasel had the nerve to cast several charms on his own neck and tell everyone they were love bites from me! He even told his roommates that we actually did it and how good I was. The unmitigated gall! Good thing Ron never heard that, or Corner would still be looking for his appendages.

Personally, I couldn’t wait to dump his arse like yesterday’s rubbish. And then he made it look like he was interested in Cho, so people thought he had broken up with me! At least our break-up gave me a chance to practice aiming my Bat Bogey Hex before using it on . . .

Oooh, wait -- it all makes sense now, Malfoy’s sudden interest in me! He must have heard about my ex-boyfriend’s spiteful lies and thinks he’ll be able to get some. That snake in the grass! And given his dating history, I’m sure that’s crossed his scheming little mind.

She smirked to herself and continued writing: Well, I’ve heard a few rumors about him, too. All about his prowess, if one can call it that. A real ladykiller, that one -- just ask him. He should ask some of his former paramours, like Lydia Turner or anyone else he’s allegedly slept with. They tell a different story.

By the way, DJ, did you know that Pansy Parkinson wasn’t one of his conquests? It’s true, if the gossip at Hogwarts is worth a knut. She kept smacking his hands anytime he tried anything. Smart girl, Pansy. Complete bitch, but very smart. Neville say she’s in the Advanced Herbology class and is contributing loads, too. Who’d have thought it?

Anyway, I wonder if that smarmy ferret Malfoy has any clue that he can’t treat girls the way he does? Bedding a new one whenever he pleases and then summarily dumping them? That won’t work for long. Word gets around this place fast, especially in the girls’ dorms. I mean, we all bunk with four other girls -- what does he expect?

Then a flash of inspiration hit Ginny like a surprise attack from an unseen bludger. Laughing to herself, she continued recording her ideas:

Of course! It all makes sense. I mean, if the rumors have made it all the way around to Gryffindor, then everyone’s onto his little game. The clueless rich boy probably wonders why the girls aren’t flocking to him anymore. And I’ll just bet he’s conceited enough to think it’s because his father went to prison. What a laugh!

Forgive my rambling, DJ. I mean, there’s no doubt he’s attractive, but he definitely has issues. I must remember the words of Professor Moody: “Constant vigilance!” (Which, coincidentally, is also known as ‘The Virgin’s Mantra’. Ha ha ha. I crack myself up! Must share that one with Luna.)

What I can’t figure out is why Malfoy still wants to see the mirror, even though he knows it can’t predict the future. All I know is that I need to be cautious in my dealings with him. Mr. Evil Incarnate Senior taught me that only too well back in my first year. I must stay detached during this . . . what is this? Our ‘mutually beneficial, yet very temporary, association’. Once we find that bloody mirror, my obligation is over, as is my time spent with him.

She sighed to herself, then wrote: Which is really too bad -- he does kiss nicely, his hair smells so good, and his lips are soft and yummy . .

Aghast that she had actually put such thoughts in black and white, she quickly ripped the page out of her journal. She thought, Bugger! I’ve got to burn this!

She did.

*****
Draco’s visitor strolled around the room. “Obscuro Sojournus,” he said.

“Forgive my ignorance, Father, but what exactly is that?” Draco asked. He was frankly quite shocked at the arrival of this most unexpected guest and was feeling rather nervous.

“Just a little spell I picked up along the way,” he smirked. To say Draco’s mind was spinning on full tilt was not an exaggeration. Then Lucius continued in the sweetest, most fatherly tone he could muster, “I simply had to look in on you. I worry about you, son. It’s during the teenage years when we can lose our children forever. It is such a vulnerable time, a time when you will face your greatest challenges.”

Stunned by Lucius’s change of heart (or acting like maybe he had a heart), his son was naturally suspicious. He hedged as he spoke, “Father, I am indeed grateful for your visit. Your concern touches me. But as you can see, I’m fine. Yet . . .” he practically stuttered, “I . . I am curious -- how did you get in here? And even more curious, how did you get out?”

“I’ve already told you. Obscuro Sojournus,” Lucius repeated dully. “Loosely, it translates to the Secret Journey. I leave part of my ‘essence’ behind in the facility while my body roams about for a couple of hours. It allows me to check on certain . . things, every few weeks,” he finished with a deceptively sweet smile.

Draco still had a puzzled look on his face, so his father elaborated. “It seems that twit Fudge managed to round up some of the missing dementors over the summer. Well, a few of them happen to guard my ward. It’s perfect; since dementors can’t really see -- they more or less sense people -- they don’t even know I’m gone.

“At any rate, I have a special arrangement with one of them, just in case. And the price is . . . miniscule. A trifle, actually.”

His son thought, I’m almost afraid to ask what. He raised his eyebrows slightly as if to inquire exactly what that trifle was.

“I only need to bring back one muggle with me on my return journey. For my guard. Quite simple, really, and very well worth it.” He grinned smugly and went on. “Now, son, as to the purpose of my visit. I have been concerned about your recent behavior. Your mother says that you’ve not been writing her as of late, and it is beginning to worry her.”

Draco didn’t believe a word of this; his mother didn’t give a flip about him, but he said nothing. Then his father stared into his eyes and said, “You shouldn’t worry her, boy. Write her a note to tell her you’re all right.”

The boy was feeling extremely agitated. There were a number of spies at Hogwarts, and his own house had no shortage of them. He wondered what else Father knew about his ‘recent behavior’.

“Yes, Father. I’ll do that as soon as you go.”

“No, you’ll do it now,” his father urged in a manner that brooked no contradiction.

“Right.” He set aside his Herbology notes and used the textbook as a makeshift tray. His father began to pace around the room, and Draco started writing the usual correspondence:

Dearest Mother,

I hope this note finds you in good health. I am fine and am doing exceptionally well in my lessons. Captain Warrington has us practicing Quidditch three times weekly, and I feel certain we will win our first match against Ravenclaw in a few . . I hope you . . . Saturday in November . .

His father stepped in front of him and commanded, “Draco, look at me.” When the boy met his eyes, Lucius whispered, “Legilimens,” and the boy lost consciousness.

Draco awoke sometime later, his head throbbing with pain. His father was gone. He could recall nothing that had happened since the time he had passed out. His note lie unfinished on the floor; the ink well was lying on its side, its contents leaking onto his bed. He did a quick cleaning spell to remove the black stains and picked up his half-finished note to Narcissa.

Frustrated, he started to crumple it up and toss it in the nearest bin. Then he noticed his father’s elegant handwriting beneath his own. He had added three words:

Tell no one.

As soon as Draco had read the command, the paper disintegrated.

He rubbed the back of his head, which must have struck the bedpost when he fell. He tried feverishly to wrap his mind around what had just happened. At the moment, he couldn’t remember much, except that it seemed he had spoken to his father, who had insisted that he write to his mother.

Well, that was certainly -- bizarre, he concluded. His head was swimming, and he thought he might be sick.

Just then, his roommates returned, talking loudly and laughing raucously. They were making fun of some of the girls in other houses, and Blaise was leading the way.

“You know which one I can’t stand?” he asked the others. Crabbe and Goyle shook their heads. They were both grinning from ear to ear, as if what he were about to say held the keys to all the knowledge in the universe.

“The tart I absolutely hate is that despicable know-it-all, Hermione Granger. Don’t forget Ginny Weasley and that disgusting Susan Bones. What a bunch of freaks!” His mates guffawed and snorted.

Crabbe grunted, “Yeah, they’re hideous! I’ve got a bulldog that’s more attractive than Granger, and he’s only got one eye!” The others cracked up laughing, practically rolling on the floor.

Goyle joined in the fun. “My Uncle Rudolph has a pet manticore, and it’s a sight better-looking than that wretched Weasley!”

“Of course, it is!” Blaise remarked callously. “Ever take a good look at her down at breakfast in the morning? Ugh, no thank you -- I’d rather date the manticore, if you please!” The other two snorted with laughter.

Given the day he was having, Draco was not amused by his roommates’ crude humor. They were really starting to annoy him. He announced in an imperious tone, “I’m glad you three are having such a smashing time. I for one have had a most trying day, so I’m going to step out to the prefect’s bath for a long, hot soak in the tub.”

“Sorry, mate,” Blaise said, but clearly not meaning it. “Just having a bit of fun.”

“Oh, grow up, will you?” Draco snapped, then said curtly, “I’ll see you after a while.”

“Remember, curfew is in 30 minutes,” his best mate reminded him.

Draco snorted and replied snobbishly, “I don’t have to remember, Blaise. I’m a prefect.”

Moving absently toward his destination, Draco’s mind worked hard to digest what had happened about an hour ago. He distinctly remembered seeing his father, even speaking to him. That’s bloody weird. But how had Lucius managed to get there? Draco recalled that Father referenced a spell that he himself had never heard of. The memory of it all made his head hurt even worse.What was it? Something about a journey or sojourn -- oh yes, something Sojournum or Sojournia. I’ll have to see if Professor Snape has ever heard of something like that.

He quietly spoke the password and entered the prefect’s bathroom. He disrobed and sank into the bubbly, steaming hot water. A place of utter sanctuary for him, it was the perfect spot to meditate over the days’ many peculiar events in peace. Alone.

However, he soon learned that he was not alone. He heard giggling, which made him flinch. Was there a girl in the room? Her high-pitched titter unnerved him slightly, and he jumped to grab his robes.

“Oh, don’t bother with formalities, Draco,” said an ethereal voice. “I don’t mind.”

The voice seemed to have come from nowhere. He spun around to see a female ghost drifting down toward the tub. She hovered a few feet above him, smiled bashfully, and looked at him through her horribly outdated glasses. Feeling a bit shy himself in front of this stranger, he pushed the bubbles around the tub to better cover himself.

“Hullo,” she said rather timidly. “I’m Myrtle. Some people call me Moaning Myrtle. You see, I wasn’t very happy the day I died, and I tend to mope now and then.”

Great. A crying ghost. Just my luck.

That clinched it: this was by far the strangest day he’d ever had. Too knackered to care, he decided to go with it and see where this unexpected episode would lead him. This day simply can’t get any weirder than it’s been so far.

He took a moment to study this most unusual voyeur. She must have died young, possibly when she was a student. Maybe that’s what Hogwarts robes looked like, back in her day. Draco wondered when her day might have been. Judging by her hairstyle and eyewear, he knew it wasn’t very recent.

She may have gone to school with my father or maybe even Hagrid. Smirking to himself, he thought, Well, as long as she has been roaming around the school, she could prove a most useful ally.

Feigning politeness, he greeted the specter. “Hello, Myrtle. Pleasure to meet you. How are you?”

“Dreadful,” she replied mournfully. “I can’t seem to stave off this depression. But then, I don’t suppose many ghosts are very happy.” Her lip trembled as if she were about to cry.

Shit. Anything but that!

He couldn’t stand it when girls cried, mostly because he didn’t know what to do to make them stop. While he could always command house elves to cease their blubbering, personal experience told him that such tactics rarely worked on the average girl. They would run those annoying waterworks nonstop until they had, as they called it, “had a good, long cry.” Ghost or not, Myrtle was surely no exception.

Draco got the brilliant idea to distract her by quizzing her. “So how do you know my name? And you say you’ve seen me before? Where? When did you die? How did it happen?” There, that should keep her busy for a while.

It worked; his questions kept her from wailing. She merely sniffed and then said breathily, “Oh, yes, I’ve seen you. Mostly in here. That’s what the dead do, you know -- they watch the living, especially in the shower.”

Oh, Draco thought. Feeling rather self-conscious yet not wanting to upset her again, he smirked and teased her gently. “So this is your ‘hobby’ since you died? Spying on naked boys?”

Myrtle became defensive. “Well, it’s not as though I go looking for them. But hanging out in bathrooms, one can’t exactly help it.” Then she whispered coyly, “I died before I ever got to see a real one. I’m an innocent.”

He scoffed, Innocent, my arse! Dropping in unannounced on naked boys in the tub and checking their willies?

He had to know, so he asked, “And in your vast experience, who looks best in the buff?”

“Oliver Wood,” she answered without hesitation.

Guess it was too much to hope she’d say me.

She reflected for a moment then said, “You know, there was this handsome blonde boy, Lucius something or other, but he left years ago.” Draco swallowed, but she didn’t seem to notice. Myrtle continued casually, “He had an odd name last name.” She looked at Draco’s face, and as if suddenly recognizing something in it, she observed thoughtfully, “You know, he looked rather like you.”

Draco grimaced slightly then said, “Yes, I suppose he did. He’s my father.”

“Well, that makes sense.” She pondered, “You know, I think I’m going to find a new hobby. Or maybe I’ll just leave Hogwarts altogether.”

But Draco wasn’t listening anymore. Trying to think of anything but his father, he wondered what other information he could glean from this unusual source. “Say, do you know Harry Potter or Ron Weasley?”

He saw that the names struck a chord with her, based on her amused expression. “Well, of course. Mr. Weasley can’t seem to keep out of here in the evenings. In fact, I thought you were him when you arrived.” She added in a whisper, “And he’s rarely on his own.”

Ooh, maybe I’ll get some more dirt on King Weasley! I’ll just tell his sister and see what she’d be willing to ‘sacrifice’ in order to keep his dodgy little habits just between us.

Raising his eyebrows, he asked, “So, do they come here together? Are the two of them -- boyfriends?”

“No, silly!” Myrtle laughed. “Ron’s always with that girl with the bushy, brown hair. The one who’s mean and not very pretty. She brewed that awful potion in my bathroom a few years back.” Draco raised his eyebrows again, and she clarified, “Oh, not here! My regular haunt is a toilet in the second floor girl’s loo. I’m exploring tonight.”

But he didn’t really care about that. “What did this potion look like?” he asked, focusing intently on the ghost.

“It was thick as mud and looked disgusting. I thought all three of them were going to vomit when they drank it.”

That’s it! I knew it was her! Filthy mudblood must have stolen the supplies from Professor Snape. Damn Gryffindors . . always bending the rules to suit their needs.

Then Myrtle continued, “Only she didn’t change like they did. Her transformation was . . unusual.” Draco wondered how the potion could have worked for Potter and Weasley but not for Granger. Myrtle said spitefully, “She looked more like a cat than a girl.”

He let out a wicked laugh. “You should have seen her. It was awful,” she confirmed, her voice filled with mirth. Draco sincerely wished that he could have.

Returning to the present, he asked, “So tell me. What do Weasley and his girlfriend do in here?”

“Oooh, I couldn’t say it. If I could still blush, I’m sure I would. Either those older brothers of his are giving him advice, or he owns a copy of the Kama Sutra.”

Urgh, sorry I asked. Excuse me while I hurl.

“What about Potter? Ever seen him?” he asked.

“Oh, yes, he’s been here before,” she announced, her eyes dreamy. “I must say, Harry looks very nice out of his robes. Good muscle tone.”

This was far more information than he wanted. “But he’s not even a prefect. What was he doing here?” Draco pondered aloud.

“It was during that big tournament. He had this oval-shaped object that looked like a very large egg. He had to work something out about it. I remember he was extremely embarrassed in front of me.”

This was good, Draco decided. He itched to ask her one more question, but it was rather awkward, even for the fearless young Slytherin. “So is he -- I mean, is -- is his -- you know -- small?” he practically stuttered.

“Well, I think so. He was pretty young, so he was shy about all that.”He chuckled to himself. This day might turn out to be all right, after all. Bloody strange, but all right.

Then Myrtle got a bit weepy. “That was almost two years ago. He never comes to visit me anymore,” she said sadly.

Deciding their rendezvous was over, Draco said, “Myrtle, my dear, this has been most rewarding. You have no idea how much you’ve helped. Now would you please give me some privacy so I can prepare to return to my room?”

She nodded and smiled. Turning to float away, she added a final thought. “I like you, Draco. No matter what the girls say, you’re nice.”

That caught his attention. He furrowed his brow and queried, “What girls? What do they say?”

“Oh, it’s nothing important. Will I see you again?”

Thinking about what she’d said, he answered absently, “Perhaps.” Myrtle glided through the wall smoothly, and he stood up to dress. His headache was nearly gone. When he reached his room, he fell asleep the moment his head hit the feather-soft, cool pillow.

His dreams that night were odd and varied. He dreamed of his father and other ghosts. Later he envisioned Harry Potter, standing starkers in the Great Hall and having a tallywhacker no larger than a toddler’s, and Hermione Granger standing next to him, her face covered with fur and sporting cat ears, whiskers, and a fluffy tail. Draco snickered in his sleep.

The scene shifted to a rather steamy one. Visions of Ginny Weasley filled his mind. She was holding an apple up to his lips; when he bit into it, the sticky juice ran down her fingers, which he licked clean. She leaned in and ran her tongue along his chin, savoring the fruit’s sweetness. He lowered his head and caught her lips in a demanding kiss.

The next thing he knew, the fruit was gone, and Ginny was throwing her arms around him and returning the kiss fiercely. She moved her delicate fingers to his shirt, scattering buttons as she raced urgently to rip it from his body. She was panting heavily as he slowly removed her blouse and fingered the edges of her red silky bra. Then, as if she could wait no longer, she lunged at him, knocking him over onto a couch and lying on top of him; they were touching and kissing one another with reckless abandon, and then, sadly that dream, too, faded. And it was just getting good, too, he mused the next morning.

And sometime during the night, he dreamed that he’d finally found that blasted mirror. Yes, it seemed that The Mirror of Erised was finally within his reach. Tomorrow would surely be a better day.

~End of Chapter~

Whew! That was a long day for Draco; I’m sure he’s glad it’s over! (It started in the previous chapter, remember?) ;-)

Ginny calls her journal DJ (Dear Journal). Not very original, but since it’s private anyway, it doesn’t really matter, right? Guillaume is French for William.

Also, I know I spelled “behavior” two different ways. When Ginny is writing, I used the English spelling, as I’m sure this is the way she would write it. But when it is written in the story itself, I used the American spelling. I hope that’s not too confusing, but it sure makes things easier on me and my spellchecker - ! :-) Please review.

Thank you, Ives, for your kind reviews. You always make my day!

Author's Notes: Love it, keep those reviews coming! This chapter’s title is taken from a film -- actually, two films (Eat, Drink, Man, Woman and Sense & Sensibility*) which happen to share this line. Both are directed by Ang Lee and focus on two sisters; one appears to be cold and emotionally detached, and the other is passionate and wears her heart on her sleeve. I highly recommend you check out both videos. But not right now -- now you must READ and review!!

*By the way, for all you Snape fans, Sense & Sensibility has Alan Rickman at his best! His performance is amazing. Also, watch for Emma Thompson in it, who was Professor Trelawney in Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban.

CHAPTER 6 – What Do You Know of My Heart?

“Weasley, do you have a bloody clue where you’re going?” Draco asked irritably.

Ginny was trying her best not to pay him any mind. She didn’t acknowledge his accusation, which aggravated him even further. Clearly, he did not take to being ignored. Instead, as if to confirm her stupidity, he pointed exasperatedly at the nearest door and griped bitterly, “I assure you, we have passed by that very door at least six times now.”

It was Thursday evening, and they had met by the kitchens as planned. Ginny had ‘borrowed’ Harry’s invisibility cloak, just in case they ran into Filch, Mrs. Norris, or Peeves and needed to disappear in a hurry. She didn’t tell Harry she needed the cloak; while he knew she was looking for the Mirror of Erised, she wanted to be sure that he never knew why.

Ginny was looking around the hallway, trying to find a certain painting that would indicate their next turn. Suddenly, Draco stopped directly in her path, causing her to stumble awkwardly into his backside, knock him over, and nearly fall on top of him. He bellowed, “Christ, Weasley!” As he lie on the floor, she groped to find her way back up. He leered suggestively, “Well, if you really wanted to feel me up, why didn’t you just ask?”

She was not amused. Being careful not to touch him, she gathered herself up as quickly as possible then snapped, “Shut it, you imbecile! I was not feeling you up!” She hated it when people made her feel incompetent, and she certainly didn’t like his implications. Feeling a mild panic set in, she started to question whether they would actually be able to find the stupid mirror.

No, she told herself, I can do this. Once she had composed herself again, she tried to recall Harry’s instructions to the letter. In spite of Draco’s constant bitching in the background, she silently reviewed them once more in her mind:

“Listen carefully, Ginny. You go past the kitchens and take a sharp left. The corridor sort of winds to the right and then back to the left again. It may feel like you’re going in circles, and I don’t know -- maybe you are. Look for a door with a painting on the right side of it that has a young witch riding a unicorn. You really can’t miss it. There’s a red velvet curtain on the other side of the door next to an old suit of armor. Once you go through that door . . . ”

She was pretty sure they were in the general vicinity. But where was that frigging door? By now, she was extremely vexed, and Draco certainly wasn’t helping with his constant badgering. Insults and snide remarks just naturally seemed to slide off his tongue, and he kept them coming:

“Face it, we are hopelessly lost. Tell me, how do you manage to find your way around the Quidditch pitch without stopping to ask for directions?”, and “What did I expect? You are a Weasley; you probably couldn’t find your bum with both hands and a roadmap,” and her favorite, “Are we there yet, Mummy? I gotta go wee-wee!”

Shite, what a whinger! Ginny grumbled to herself. Does he ever stop? Even Fred and George know when to back off, and they haven’t an ounce of maturity between the two of them.

She was slowly losing the battle that was waging inside her, and it took all she had not to turn around and simply bite his head off. She even contemplated hexing his mouth right off his face. Her mum had done that to George once, shortly before the impish lad went to Hogwarts, and it had made quite an impression on the young girl. I’ve always wanted to try that. But today, she decided against it; they were on their own, and she wasn’t entirely sure what the counter-curse was. But then, who would really care? she wondered.

Eventually, she couldn’t take any more of his cutting remarks. She got right in his face and yelled, thrusting an accusing finger into his chest. “All right, you prick, I’ve had it with you!! Just run along and tell your precious Professor Snape everything -- I don’t care! Tell him how my brother and Harry purposely distracted him so Hermione could pinch the supplies from his shelves! How they brewed and took a highly dangerous substance so they could infiltrate your beloved Common Room to slum with you and your fellow Slytherins! And, just for good measure, don’t forget to mention that the boys were in a girls’ loo on several occasions, when they bloody well knew they weren’t supposed to be there in the first place! See if I care -- ‘cause I’ve had enough of your effing shit, Malfoy!!”

When she had finished her rant, he thought, Impressive. And she barely took two breaths the whole time.

She started to stomp off in a huff, but he quickly grabbed her arm and pulled her back forcefully. “Oh, no, you don’t. Get back over here, you! What’s the matter with you, anyway? Having the painters in, hmm? Is it that time of the month?”

Ginny, infuriated by his insolence, slapped him with all the force she could muster. Draco gasped loudly as if he couldn’t believe the nerve of this girl. She reached back even further to smack his cheek a second time, but he grabbed her wrist to intervene. Forcing her arm down roughly and twisting it around her back, he commanded coldly, “Don’t ever do that again.”

Following her outburst, she was breathing heavily. He thought, Turned on, love? That makes two of us. But he wisely held his tongue, deciding now might not be a good time to provoke her further. She was getting a little too violent. Instead, he took control again and barked, “Well, don’t just stand there, let’s figure this thing out!”

He turned around and started to retrace their steps to see where they’d gone astray. She followed him without much thought, as she was far too peeved to do otherwise. In hindsight, she would later wonder why she did it. Caught up in the moment, and perhaps a wee bit curious about the mirror herself, she struggled to keep pace with him. All the while, she protested, “Why do you need me here, anyway? You know as much as I do about where the mirror is. Can’t I just go back?”

He had to do some quick thinking, but he soon came up with a plausible excuse. “Because I want to prove to you that it does show the future! I know I’m right, and soon you will too,” he said, giving her a defiant stare.

As she stood there glaring back at him, something on the edge of her vision caught her eye. There it is! A red velvet curtain hanging next to an unobtrusive, pewter-colored suit of armor. The suit was so dull, she hadn’t noticed it before. Based on what she had learned in Muggle Studies, she thought it might date back to the Renaissance. It was undoubtedly ancient.

And there was the painting! It had no light to accent it, so they had walked right past it --apparently, several times. The only light was the unicorn’s snow-white body illuminating faintly in the dim hallway. “This is it!” she exclaimed. “It has to be!”

He said in an abrasive tone, “Thank all the gods for that. I thought you’d never find it.”

But the door was, of course —

“Locked. Bugger,” Ginny commented.

“What did you expect, Weasley? A freaking welcome mat?” Draco sneered. As if bored beyond belief, he muttered, “Alohamora.”

The handle jiggled and the door budged slightly, but it still did not open. They rattled off every unlocking and opening charm that either of them had ever learned, but nothing would open it. After several minutes, they were beginning to think their search had reached a dead end.

Ginny said hopelessly, “Without the correct unlocking charm, looks like we’re up the proverbial creek —”

Suddenly, the door started to swing open very slowly, apparently of its own accord. Ginny and Draco stood there, dumbfounded, staring into the dark room. Wondering whether would be entirely safe to enter, they looked at each other with wide eyes, mouths agape, a half-smile on Draco’s face. They cautiously inched their way inside.

A bodiless voice called out of the shadows. It said, “We meet again, Draco. Hello.” He struggled to recognize the strange voice, but he came up blank. Who the hell is that?

“I said hello, Draco. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten me already?” Whoever it was sounded hurt and slightly upset.

When Draco realized it was only Moaning Myrtle, he breathed a sigh of pure relief. “No, no -- of course not,” he laughed. “Good evening, Myrtle. Pleasure to see you again. Do you perchance know Ginny Weasley?”

“Weasley? Is Ron your brother?” she asked, eyeing her suspiciously. Then with a grin, she continued, “And Fred and George? Bill, Charlie -- and I suppose, Percy too?”

“Yes, guilty on all six counts,” Ginny admitted.

“Wait, wait -- I know you from somewhere. I know I’ve seen you somewhere. It’s been a while, but you look so familiar to me.” Myrtle concentrated intently, working to recall where she had seen Ginny before. Eventually, it came to her, and when it did, her tone changed at once.

“I remember now! You threw a book at me once!” she said indignantly. Then she passed her judgment: “I don’t like you.” Turning her nose up and sniffling, she started to float away, leaving the two living students standing in her wake, goggling after her then at one another.

Draco turned to Ginny and whispered tersely, “Way to go, Weasley! She may have been able to help us!” Then he chased after the ghost, calling out to her, “Myrtle, wait!”

Ginny was completely baffled. What book was she talking about? She’d never thrown a book at anyone in all her life! In fact, she’d never thrown anything, except a few hexes, and then only when she was fuming mad, and a quaffle during Quidditch practices and games. As she was a Chaser this year, that was the general idea.

As Draco ran to catch Myrtle up, he panted, “Wait! Hang on! I just wanted to thank you for opening that door. If it weren’t for you, we might have stood there for hours.” She stopped, and although she was skittish, she said stiffly, “You’re welcome.”

Catching his breath while trying to sound as deferential as possible, he asked, “Also, I was hoping maybe you could -- help me?”

Moaning Myrtle hovered next to the paintings and sparse torches. Pointing to where Ginny still stood, the disheartened ghost sobbed, “Only if she apologizes for tossing that book at me!” She moped dramatically, “If I had been alive, that would have really hurt!”

Draco hoped her knowledge of the castle was extensive and that she might know exactly which way they needed to go next. He held his hands out in a sign of peace, trying to reassure the skeptical ghost. “I’ll speak to her. Don’t worry. She listens to me, and she will apologize,” Draco promised. Yeah, she listens to me, all right. Only problem is when she does, she usually tries to hit me.

The ghost hesitated, then asked him warily, “All right, but what do you need?”

“Well, as you might have guessed, we’re looking for something. A magical mirror called The Mirror of Erised. Have you heard of it?” he asked eagerly. When her eyes lit up in recognition, he was barely able to curb his enthusiasm. He became more determined and inquired, “Do you know where it is?”

“Yes, I do,” she replied and headed back toward the open door.

The two of them returned to where they had left Ginny. Without prompting, she apologized profusely to Myrtle for the book incident. She had worked up a pretty good act, saying how thoughtless she had been and then begging for forgiveness. Hope that’ll do it, Ginny thought. She just wanted to get this whole bloody episode over with, get back to Gryffindor Tower, and return Harry’s cloak, without getting herself a detention or Harry finding out.

Her obnoxious companion nodded in agreement. “Yes, Myrtle, she was way out of line.” When Ginny glared at him, he murmured to her, “One should never miss an opportunity to humiliate a Gryffindor. Slytherin Handbook, page 12.”

But Myrtle took no notice of Draco’s little aside. She merely accepted Ginny’s contrite apology and went on with her afterlife. “I forgive you, Miss Weasley. Now, will both of you please follow me?” She turned and flew away at breakneck speed.

Draco and Ginny practically had to run to keep up with Myrtle. Their pursuit led them through a handful of deserted classrooms that were now used for storage. Long since abandoned, the last lessons taught in this part of the school took place decades, perhaps centuries, ago. A few aged tables, some broken down chairs, and a dusty chalkboard were the only remaining evidence that they had ever been filled with young students, all of them full of vigor and life.

An eerie silence fell over the odd trio as they meandered through the empty hallways and neglected rooms. For several minutes, the only audible sounds were the brisk pace of the Ginny’s and Draco’s feet and their rapid breathing. The tension in the air was palpable as they moved along toward their goal, and Draco could feel his excitement growing as his prize drew ever nearer.

Myrtle stopped abruptly, pointing to a door that was open about six inches. “Here. This is where it is.” A pale, grayish light was emanating from the room, and there was a surrealistic feel in the air. Draco and Ginny looked at each other expectantly, as if they were on the verge of finding a precious treasure that had so far eluded them.

When they walked in and saw a full-length, antique mirror, Ginny smiled, feeling a great deal of relief that their quest was over. Examining the mirror, she noticed there were some letters inscribed at the top:

Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi.

Draco gulped audibly. So this was it. At last, the enchanted mirror he had sought for so long. It didn’t look all that special; now that he saw it, it just looked . . . old. He strode up and took a good, long look at the structure, but he didn’t behold the glass just yet. Glancing upward, he remarked, “What an odd inscription.”

Ginny shrugged in answer, “Probably just part of its mysterious ‘hidden meaning’ you seem so certain of. But I promise you, it will not show your future -- just your dreams.”

“Whatever, Weasley,” countered Draco in his most derisive tone yet. With a self-righteous smirk on his face, he murmured, “Now, let’s see if it actually knows anything.” Just then, Myrtle slid up from behind him and threw in her two knuts worth. “Oh, yes, it knows everything in your soul.” Draco jumped; he had almost forgotten she was still there. She continued, “Headmaster Dippet said it would show a person’s innermost dreams, even if they weren’t aware of them.”

Hmmm . . . How could someone not know what their own dreams are? Draco wondered. Coincidentally, Ginny was thinking much the same thing.

He stepped up to the mirror and gazed into it. At first, the vision was fuzzy and vague. Then as he had expected, he saw himself standing with his parents, who were very pleased with him. He was Head Boy, and he had just beaten his rival at Quidditch. Lucius’s face glowed with pride, and Narcissa beheld her son, her eyes misty with love. Standing in front of the mirror, Draco’s face resonated happiness.

“What do you see?” Ginny asked, interrupting his idyllic moment.

“It’s me and my parents . . . I’m Head Boy, and I’ve just stomped the shit out of His Highness Potter at Quidditch.” A slight grin fell across his face as he took in the sight. “Awesome,” he laughed, not believing what he saw, but there was more to see.

“And I’m dating the prettiest girl in school. She’s in love with me.” He slowly went on, “I have friends -- real friends. Trustworthy people who actually care about me. Loads of them.” His friends waved goodbye then faded from view. He started to step away as he summarized in disbelief, “You should try this, Weasley. It’s freaky.”

But the mirror wasn’t finished yet. It showed him alone with his parents again, only this time, it felt different. His father no longer looked proud but shocked and anguished by the long, sharp blade that had been twisted into his back. Narcissa had tears of joy and relief running down her face. Her beloved son hugged her as Lucius collapsed to his knees and died as they both watched.

He was absolutely horrified at the image of himself and his mother standing by calmly as his father died. And one of us probably did it! Draco’s stomach lurched as he looked on in astonishment. He murmured to himself, “This isn’t right . . It can’t be —”

Edging himself away from the mirror, he gasped with fright, trying to comprehend what he was seeing. He rubbed his eyes, as if willing this nightmare to end and the earlier visions to return.

“What is it?” Ginny asked, a touch of concern in her voice. She leaned in as if she, too, would see what he saw, but he seemed not to hear her.

The images blurred horribly and became distorted yet again. That’s good. It’s changing back. Once more, he looked into the mirror, thinking that it couldn’t shock him anymore. He was never more wrong.

While it did change, it definitely wasn’t what he had seen before. This time he saw a young woman with long, flowing ginger hair, light freckles, and cocoa eyes. She ran up to him, and he held her, kissing her passionately. She was pregnant with his child. Then from out of nowhere, three little ones, all under six years old, ran up and grabbed their father around his legs and waist.

Bloody hell! I have three ankle-biters and another on the way?? Do I lose my mind in the future?

Both of his little boys had his eyes and thick auburn hair. His daughter had light blonde hair, and her eyes and nose resembled those of the woman he had just been kissing. Mirror Draco returned his family’s affection. He laughed euphorically and looked utterly blissful; he was grabbing the older boy, tossing him up in the air, and catching him. I look like an idiot! he thought as he looked on.

As upsetting as the images were, he had difficulty tearing his gaze away from the mirror. He kneeled in front of it, distraught and perturbed by what he had seen. Seething, he yelled, “That’s not what I want! This is all bollocks!!!” He fled the room and raced for the nearest loo. Confused, his head was hurting terribly, and he felt like he would be violently ill. He lied down the cool floor to recover himself and analyze the meaning of these disturbing visions.

Myrtle followed him, concerned for her new friend. “What’s wrong, Draco?” she inquired with care in her voice. “Did you see some things you didn’t expect?”

“I don’t know where those came from. They’re certainly not my desires,” he stated flatly.

Meanwhile, Ginny was left alone with the mirror. She couldn’t resist the temptation of seeing her dreams played out before her eyes. Tentatively, she stepped up to it and concentrated. What do I want? Show me.

First, she saw Harry Potter standing victoriously over a vanquished Lord Voldemort. His Death Eaters surrounded his lifeless body -- Lucius Malfoy, Dolohov, Bellatrix LeStrange, McNair, and all of those she had seen that night at the Department of Mysteries. They were all stone cold dead, killed instantly by their close connection to their controlling master. When he fell, they did too. None of them would ever return.

Then the image blurred, just as it had done for Draco. She saw herself, ecstatically happy. Her father had just been named Minister of Magic, and her husband (My what - ? Husband?) was shaking Arthur’s hand enthusiastically and congratulating him. She couldn’t quite make out who the man was, but his most striking feature was his pale blonde hair. When she saw his eyes, she hit the ground in a dead faint.

Unsure how long she was out, she woke to see Moaning Myrtle hovering above her. The ghost was shouting her name; as she couldn’t touch or shake her, Myrtle had to use what limited physical means she had to rouse the girl.

Sitting up, Ginny grunted, “Ugh. What a nightmare that was.” Curious, Myrtle asked, “What happened? Did it show what you wanted?”

“I don’t think so. It must think I’m someone else,” she answered despondently.

The ghost gazed at Ginny then drifted back toward the mirror, as if to have a look herself. Myrtle wondered casually whether it would still work for her; no longer having a physical being, she wasn’t entirely sure that it would. She muttered, “Oh well, here goes nothing.”

As she looked in the mirror, Myrtle got a wistful smile on her face, then quickly turned away. Ginny noticed her reaction. She felt rather curious; after all, what would a ghost want? She asked her, “Well? Did it show you something?”

Nodding, she replied, “I found what I’ve been looking for. I’ve decided what I want.”

“What?”

“I want to leave Hogwarts.”

Surprised, Ginny asked, “Have you been here a long time?” She had always thought that all the Hogwarts ghosts were permanent fixtures, rather like Hagrid and Professor Dumbledore.

“Oh, yes, many decades. I died long before Dumbledore ran the school. And now, I have decided I am ready to leave,” Myrtle said, a bit dramatically. It seemed to be her forte.

Ginny nodded. Myrtle asked her suddenly, “Didn’t it work for you?”

“I’m not really sure. I saw some of my dreams; most of them I was already conscious of. But to be honest, not all of the visions were comforting. One was downright unnerving.” Ginny shuddered to herself. How could I want that? Him? He drives me bonkers!

“That’s too bad. You know, Draco didn’t look too happy himself. I wonder what he saw?” Myrtle teased. “And what could be keeping him?”

Ginny stood up and asked, “You mean he hasn’t come back yet? Where did the prat go? Don’t tell me he left without us!”

As soon as she had asked the question, he wandered back into the room. “No, Weaslette, I’m still here,” Draco answered dully. His headache had subsided, but he was still feeling a bit shaken.

Ginny said, “We were just wondering what happened to you. What’s the matter? See something you didn’t like?”

“Leave me alone,” he moaned. “I feel like shit.”

“And you look like it, too,” Ginny agreed.

“Shut your trap, woman! I’m ready to get the hell away from that -- that foreteller of doom!” Then as politely as he could manage, he pleaded with their escort, “Myrtle, if you would be so kind as to guide us?”

“Of course, I would be delighted.” Draco thought she sounded different, maybe even happy, as if maybe she’d found a new purpose.

As they prepared to leave, Ginny put an end to his curiosity. “Myrtle has some good news. She said the mirror showed her something useful.”

“What?” he asked, not really caring. His stomach was still a bit queasy, and he just wanted to sleep for the next 14 hours.

“I have decided that I am ready to leave Hogwarts,” Myrtle announced, as if this were the most exciting thing in the world.

“Brilliant,” he said sarcastically. “And praytell, what would a ghost have to do to achieve that lofty goal?”

“The same thing all ghosts need to do before they can leave. Make their peace. For me, that means solving the mystery of my death.”

Ginny staggered slightly. “You mean you don’t know -- how you died?”

“No, I don’t,” she whimpered, her lower lip starting to tremble.

“Great,” Draco sniped quietly to Ginny. “Now you’re going to start her crying, Weasley. The fun just never ends with you, does it?”

“Shh,” she whispered. “I know.”

He frowned at her and asked in an undertone, “You know what?”

“How she died.”

“Well, don’t go telling her until we make it back to civilization, all right?” he snarled.

“I won’t, you moron!” she whispered.

They worked their way back in silence, each of them reflecting on what the mirror had shown them. Myrtle began humming happily to herself. Ginny started to ask her a question, saying, “Myrtle, —”

But Draco interrupted, “Shhh!” He stopped walking and cocked his head as if he were listening for something. I thought so. He commanded softly, “Be quiet. Someone’s coming.”

Ginny looked stricken, as there were no open doors into which they could easily slip. Then she remembered that she had the invisibility cloak. She had shrunk it down so it could fit inside her pocket. She took out the tiny fabric and whispered, “Engorgio,” restoring it to its original size. “Harry’s invisibility cloak,” she explained on seeing Draco’s bewildered expression.

She then turned to the ghost and said quietly, “Myrtle, I believe we can make our way back from here. Thank you so much -- you’ve been very helpful. I hope we meet again soon.”

Myrtle nodded and smiled. “Me too. Goodbye, Draco, Ginny,” she said, then she vanished through the nearest wall.

Ginny looked around nervously. The voices were getting closer, and she prepared to toss the cloak over the both of them. “Here, Malfoy. Stand next to me so we can share Harry’s invisibility cloak.”

“No, thank you. I want nothing of Potter’s to touch my body,” he replied indignantly.

“Oh, come on! Now’s not the time for that!” she pleaded. If either of them were spotted, it would surely mean a week’s worth of detentions, and she had Quidditch practice tomorrow evening.

He sighed loudly. “Oh, all right.” She draped the cloak over his head and her own. She squeezed as close to him as possible so that whoever it was did not walk right into them. Feeling her breasts pressed against his chest once more, his heart rate sped up slightly. He swallowed hard and closed his eyes, attempting to drive away what he was starting to feel. Oh, no -- now is definitely not the time for that. Focus. Yes, that’s it. I don’t want her. I don’t even like her.

A thought came to her and she gasped, biting her lip. “Is it past curfew?” she asked.

Trying to concentrate on what she’d just said, he whispered in reply, “How would I know, and why would I care? As a prefect, at least I have an excuse. If we are found out, you will be the student I caught out after hours. You will, naturally, receive a detention, and I will receive points for Slytherin. It’s a perfect arrangement, really,” he finished smugly.

She implored, “Stop talking, you git! They’re almost here.” At the last possible moment, she cast the same silencing charm over them that he had used in the library the evening before last. It seemed like it was a lot longer ago than that, she observed.

Ginny inched even closer to him to ensure they were well out of the way. His brain was pleading, Oh, please don’t do that. Normally, I wouldn’t mind, but . . He forced his brain to focus on other things, in case he needed to face off whoever was in their corridor.

Soon afterward, four students rounded the nearest corner. They were led by —

“Michael Grant,” Ginny said, astonished.

Draco was surprised as well, not that his housemate was coming down the nearly-deserted hallway, but because she seemed to recognize him. “You know him?”

“Of course, he’s in my year. We have a few classes together. He seems very intelligent. Is he?”

Thick silence followed. When he made no attempt to respond, Ginny needled him, “Well, I just thought since he’s in your house, you might know what he’s up to. Why do you think he would be here at this hour?”

“No idea,” was the only reply she received. As the small group approached the spot where the two of them were standing, Draco wondered, Now, why would Michael Grant and his entourage have followed us?

~End of Chapter~

You know the drill (Read, Review, Recommend, Repeat) - ! :-)

Author's Notes: As always, thanks for the encouraging reviews!! You guys make my day. Yes, this chapter is named for the 1977 Steven Spielberg movie -- kind of a no-brainer, huh? (I just saw it again recently, and even my kids loved it.) See if you can spot my favorite ‘Marxism’ (Groucho Marx that is, not Karl Marx)! ;-)

CHAPTER 7 – Close Encounters

Draco found himself in a most precarious position: pressed up against the wall, hiding under Harry Potter’s invisibility cloak, and sharing it with the muggle-loving blood traitor, Ginny Weasley. She was standing so close to him that he was having trouble concentrating, yet she kept squirming to get closer. He knew she was only trying to stay out of range of the surly crew that was now coming directly toward them, but he secretly wished she had some ulterior motive for her constant wriggling.

“Could you possibly hold still?” he hissed.

“Sorry, your hiney-ness!” she sniped rudely. “Just trying to keep one of those gorillas from crashing into my backside. Or would you prefer to trade places with me?” He gave her a fierce look in reply.

The approaching group was comprised of five male students, including Grant, Goyle, Nott, and Pucey. The fifth was a young boy, no more than 14, that neither Draco nor Ginny knew. All of the boys were wearing cloaks, the hoods hanging loosely on their heads. They were now just 20 feet away; the criminally insane Grant was in the lead. They strode along purposefully, as if they were expected somewhere and the appointed time had nearly arrived.

As far as Draco was concerned, their timing couldn’t have possibly been worse. To be discovered would certainly spell his doom. Now that his father was taking the occasional day trip from Azkaban, he’d be dead for sure. Mother’s not too old to conceive another heir. And Father is so smart, I’m sure he’d find some way to make it all legal. He could only watch helplessly as impending disaster fell on him.

Ginny’s heart was in her throat, beating frantically. Praying that one of the new arrivals wouldn’t accidentally brush up against her or kick her with a clumsy foot, she edged forward once more. Draco whispered arcastically, “Careful, Weasley -- if you get any closer, you’ll be in back of me!”

It seemed they waited an eternity for them to arrive. But when the boys finally reached their hiding spot, they breezed right by, moving so briskly that Ginny she felt the cloak stir. She exhaled softly, her mouth hanging open in disbelief at their good luck. “Whew, that was close! Where do you think they’re going?” Ginny wondered aloud.

“I don’t know, and I don’t care. Let’s just get the hell out of here,” Draco said forcefully.

When the others were a good distance away, she slipped the invisibility cloak off. “You may be right,” she said. Then she thought about what he had said about Grant and asked, “But you’re not the least bit curious what they’re up to?”

"No, why should I be? The area is utterly deserted. Nothing but cold, empty rooms with no fires in them and—”

Then she gasped, “Do you think maybe they’re looking for the mirror, too? There’s nothing else of any value in these dismal rooms.” Ginny had been anxious to return to her tower, but her natural curiosity and daring spirit prevailed. She added impulsively, “Let’s go after them!”

Draco scoffed, "Are you crazy, Weasley?!” Then he added sternly, “I am only saying this once, so listen carefully. We are leaving this hellhole, and I never want to see that blasted mirror again. And I am not about to traipse around this castle, wandering Merlin knows where, to follow a bloody lunatic!"

She stepped back and crossed her arms. In her most innocent voice, she said, "Just a moment ago, you knew nothing about him. Now he's a lunatic, is he? What would make you think that, Malfoy?” Her eyes were sparkling mischievously.

“Never you mind,” he scowled. She just stood there smirking at him, so he elaborated. Sort of.

“It’s none of your frigging business, Weasley. Finding that mirror was my project, and I say it’s over. You are released of your obligation, Weasley -- your brother’s stupid mistake is safe with me. I’ll even sign a little magical contract, if you like. Let’s just go!”

When that still did not dissuade her, he grudgingly explained, “All right, let’s just say that -- I . . I've seen another side of Grant that I find . . mildly . disturbing,” he finished slowly, concentrating on each word.

She cocked one eyebrow and looked at him smugly. She laughed, “This, coming from the son of Lucius Malfoy, ‘The Poster Child for Disturbing Behavior’? Does this mean you can still find behavior that disturbs you? I didn’t think that was possible.”

He clenched his teeth at her wicked barb and stared at her, trying to think of a clever, witty comeback. When nothing came to him, he began with, “You insufferable little, orange-haired, poorhouse bi—”

She interrupted him sharply, “Well, if that’s the best you can do, forget it!” She pleaded, “Look, we have to go now; they're getting away! I want to know what they're doing.” She started to leave, but when she saw that he wasn’t about to follow, she turned and grabbed his wrist.

He yanked it away and asked her snidely, “So you’re not worried about curfew anymore? As a prefect, it’s my duty to report you.”

“Oh, bugger curfew! This could be big-time stuff! Besides, if anything happens, Harry can find us with his map—”

She stopped in mid-sentence. This revelation piqued Draco's curiosity almost as much as the mirror and the polyjuice potion incident had. It was his turn to raise an eyebrow, which he did as his lip curled. He inquired sweetly, “What map would that be, Ginny dear?”

“That's none of your business! I'm going, and I’m taking this cloak with me. If you want the only security you have against Filch and Mrs. Norris, you'll just have to tag along!”

He groaned then followed her reluctantly. She grinned to herself, thinking, Yay, I won! One hundred and fifty points for me! They pursued the boys, walking as quickly yet as quietly as possible, so that the sound of their footsteps didn’t expose them. While their voices had been magically hushed so that no one else could hear them talk, their other physical movements could not be silenced.

Then she got a brilliant idea: “Malfoy, take off your shoes! We’ll need to run to catch them up.”

“But don’t we know where they’re going?” he whinged.

She pointed out the obvious. “Maybe we don’t. What if they go somewhere completely different and we end up getting lost? How will we find our way back without their leading us -- even if they won’t know they’re doing it?”

He sighed, “Oh, all right.” Removing his expensive shoes, he muttered, “Honestly, woman, the shit I go through for you . . . ”

“Aww, poor baby -- however will you manage?” she teased. “Your little toesies might get cold, wearing those scrawny ‘rich-boy’ socks.”

But it was a good idea; they could move faster, more smoothly, and with less noise while carrying their shoes. Damn, I hate it when she’s right, Draco thought. Freckle-faced brat.

When the room that housed the Mirror of Erised was in sight, they slowed down. “Here,” she whispered, hastily tossing the cloak over both their heads. As they approached the room, they heard voices inside. The door was still open, and the same soft grayish light radiated into the hallway, but it felt much spookier. Less hospitable. Something in the atmosphere had definitely changed. Ginny shivered and gathered the cloak around herself, as if the paper-thin material might actually warm her.

She gulped, edging the both of them as close to the doorway as she dared. She stood there, hoping against hope that none of the boys inside would decide to turn and suddenly dart out of the room. They would surely run directly into herself, as well as her reluctant companion.

“Weasley, I don’t want to be caught!” Draco urged, “I told you, I don’t trust this guy.”

“We’ll just watch them for a few minutes,” she begged.

Something weird began to happen in the room. Ginny and Draco watched as Michael Grant instructed the others to get down on one knee and bow their heads; they did so with reverence. They were chanting some bizarre speech about their devotion to the greatest wizard that ever lived, each of them swearing that their faith in him would never waiver. How they would give their blood and even their flesh for him. How they would rather kill their friends, their parents, even themselves, before betraying him.

Geez, Ginny speculated, Draco’s right for once. This guy is a loon. She whispered, “Gods, he’s completely barmy.”

“Don’t I know it,” he snorted softly. “He’s power-hungry to the point of insane. He’s nearly as bad as my father.”

The make-shift ceremony within continued. As if on cue, the boys on the floor all pulled back their hoods, fully exposing their faces. They looked up at Michael respectfully, who was pacing slowly in front of them. He was holding up a small vial, and he spoke quietly and very seriously. “Now each of you will take one drop of this: Veritaserum. You will speak truthfully, so I will know what is in your heart. That way, I can inform my Master of your sincere willingness to join him. It is the first test of your devotion.”

After he had given one drop of the potion to each of them, he set the bottle down. Michael turned around and spouted crossly, “And by the way, Goyle -- where is that son of a bitch Crabbe? I thought you were bringing him with you!” Draco’s roommate shrugged guiltily but said nothing.

Outside the door, Ginny gasped, “Oh, sweet Merlin. He’s going to have them spill their innermost secrets.”

“Well, of course, he is. Even an imbecile can see that,” Draco mocked.

She replied scathingly, “Oh, good, then he’s not moving too fast for you, is he? Not just the potion, you dolt! He’s going to use it with the mirror, in case they don’t know what’s in their hearts.” Then she murmured to herself, “Like me.”

He snorted, “It would be more likely that they’d get scared and try to lie.” He paused then started to quiz her about her experience with the mirror. “I forgot to ask you, Weasley. Exactly what did you see in the mirror?”

Ginny’s mind raced for a plausible lie. Fortunately for her, Michael Grant began speaking at that very moment. “Now each of you, one at a time, will step up the Mirror of Erised. I will ask some very important questions of you. Those who answer correctly will be given a task. A test of your loyalty. Before we begin, does anyone wish to recant their earlier statements?”

The youngest boy shakily raised his hand. He stuttered, “Mr. Grant, I c-ca-can’t -- I can’t go through with this. I’m not ready.”

He looked down at him from his position of power and smiled. “Thank you for your honesty, Darrin. It will save me a good deal of precious time.” Then he uttered, “Stupefy,” stunning the boy on the spot. When his victim fell to the floor, he said, “Obliviate.”

Ginny let out a gasp. Draco sneered, “What? At least he didn’t hurt him.” They both expected Grant to move on with the ritual.

But the madman wasn’t quite finished with the boy yet. Grant took what appeared to be a pocket watch out of his cloak and spoke into it. “Pettigrew? Put this boy’s father into St. Mungo’s. I don’t care how you do it; just do it. And as for his mother -- do whatever you and the other men -- feel like. We need to send a clear message that such weakness will not be tolerated among our ranks.”

“Yes -- yes, sir,” a nervous, squeaky voice replied. Ginny was shocked by Grant’s callous attitude. She bit her lip to keep from crying for the poor boy and his parents. Draco, on the other hand, was taken aback at the way this 15-year-old boy spoke to a man rumored to be one of the most senior Death Eaters. True, Wormtail was a suck-up and a sniveling coward that he himself despised, but the tone this lad took with him was quite surprising.

Grant closed the device and muttered to no one in particular, “No one gets out of this that easily. I do not like being trifled with.” Then to the group at large, he said sternly, “Veritaserum is a precious commodity not easily come by, as is my time. Is anyone else here getting cold feet?”

The remaining members of the party shook their heads to confirm their readiness to move forward. “Good,” Grant said approvingly. He turned to Draco’s roommate. “Gregory Goyle, if you would step up to the mirror?”

Goyle did as he was instructed, then Grant continued. “Now, look into the glass. Focus, and you will see your heart’s desire. Tell me everything, exactly as the mirror displays it.”

At first, the boy hesitated to speak, so Michael urged him gently, “What do you want most of all?”

“Susan Bones. I want to shag her till she begs for mercy. She is sooo hot,” Goyle moaned. He looked greedily into the mirror and licked his lips on seeing his sexy fantasy girl riding him like a bike. The front of his robes started to protrude slightly just below his ample waistline.

“Ewww,” Draco cringed a bit, expressing his distaste with a grimace.

“What?” Ginny whispered harshly to him. “She’s very attractive. I could see Goyle wanting her, regardless how repulsive he may be.”

“Hmmph,” was his first response. “Her? Attractive? That’s a matter of opinion.”

Meanwhile, Grant slumped a bit then rolled his eyes. He sighed as if he was struggling to maintain his patience. If this recruit failed him, it would require a little extra effort, as his parents were not on the list of expendables -- at least, not at the moment. As if speaking to a dullard or a small child, he prompted, “Besides that, Greg, what else do you see?”

Clearing his throat, Goyle continued, “I see myself being congratulated by the Dark Lord and kissing his hand. He is welcoming me and my wife, Mrs. Susan Goyle, into their inner circle. We’ve peformed a great service for him.”

“Excellent, Gregory!” Michael exclaimed. “Then I charge you with a task. You are to win the heart of your princess and convert her to the Dark Lord’s service. I understand her aunt holds a powerful position in the Ministry of Magic. Their family could be of great use to us. Once Susan has been persuaded, both of you will be most welcome to receive the Mark. Do this, and rest assured, you will have her. Whenever you want to.” Goyle looked up with a dopey expression on his face. Michael patted his head and said kindly, “Now please sit down and wait for us to finish.”

Draco whispered to Ginny, “Poor Greg. That’s a fate worse than death.”

“More like poor Susan,” she countered smartly, giving Draco a look of disdain. But before she could comment further, Grant went on. He called Theodore Nott to stand before the mirror.

“Mr. Nott, what do you see?” he inquired.

He stared intently into the glass. Theodore said quite plainly and very coldly, “I see myself murdering Albus Dumbledore. The Dark Lord is extremely pleased with me. Now I am giving him Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived is about to become The Boy Who Died. He is in shackles, crawling on his hands and knees, crying, begging for his life, and asking me to spare his pathetic friends: Granger and the two remaining Weasleys that continue to pollute this school.”

“Such vivid imagery, Nott! You deserve a special challenge, my friend.” Grant was fairly beaming with delight.

“Thank you, Mr. Grant,” he replied with a smile.

“Do you know Blaise Zabini?”

Draco suddenly felt alarmed. Blaise? What’s he done?

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“Good. He is dating an American muggle whom he is parading as a pureblood witch. Says she’s his cousin, to be precise. For his incredible arrogance, Mr. Zabini is to be destroyed, and you are the one charged with the deed. By whatever means necessary, short of actual murder, you are to get him out of this school,” Michael ordered. “Understood?”

“Yes, sir, I shall not fail.”

Draco swallowed nervously. Does Blaise really know that Marianne -- is a muggle? What the hell was he thinking, falling in love with her?! The absurd fool!

Grant released Nott to go and sit by Goyle. He then called the third individual to step up to the mirror. It was Adrian Pucey, a seventh-year on the Slytherin Quidditch team. Draco shuddered at what task his vision would earn him. He’ll probably get the honor of knocking me off my broomstick during practice. Fewer witnesses than at an actual game.

Ginny leaned over to Draco and said quietly, “If Michael has it in for you, Pucey will probably be asked to knock you off your broom at the next Quidditch practice.”

Amazed, he replied, “Damn, you are one scary witch, you know that? Now be quiet, I want to hear what they say.”

“Haven’t we heard and seen enough?” she asked in a worried tone. “Besides, I think I hear Filch coming.”

“You’re just making that up because you were in the mirror as one of Nott’s victims. You’re just scared.”

“I am not!” she retorted. “I’m telling you, I can hear his irritating voice a mile away, and it’s definitely him.”

“All right, all right,” he agreed grudgingly. “But if you’re wrong and I miss Pucey’s task on your account—”

Just then, Mrs. Norris rounded the corner. Draco’s breath caught in his throat. Fuck. The uncannily intelligent cat growled low and then hissed. It was as if she could see through the invisibility cloak and actually recognized him.

Ginny and Draco backed away slowly, so as not to uncover their feet and expose themselves. He whispered, “I hope that rumor about Filch and Mrs. Norris being able to communicate telepathically is just that -- a bloody rumor.”

She said nervously, “Calm down, uh, she can’t see us . . at least, I -- I think she can’t.”

Argus Filch’s dry, grating voice crept down the darkened corridor, saying, “What is it, my sweet, my love? Did my beautiful Mrs. Norris find something?”

Ginny felt sickened. That is one weird guy, she affirmed to herself. He’s just a little too close to that cat.

She and Draco instinctively worked their way around and into the next doorway, attempting to stay close together, and thereby, out of reach of Mrs. Norris’s inquisitive, searching nose. But the feline’s whiskers soon tickled Draco’s toes, which were partially sticking out from underneath the cloak. He snickered quietly, but Ginny nudged him the side. “Be quiet, you prat! Maybe she can’t see us, but she can probably hear and smell us. Once she leaves us alone and Filch reaches that door, we’ll be home free! And Grant will be in so much trouble.”

As they kept backed away from her, he commented cruelly, “Well, I’m sure she can smell you, anyway. Malfoys shower daily.”

“You are a real arsewipe, you know that?”

“I do my best, sweetheart,” was his sarcastic response.

Mr. Filch crooned lovingly to his pet, saying, “All right, my dear, who is it? Who did we find?” The strange cat suddenly turned and moved away from Ginny and Draco. The pair carefully eased their way into an alcove that was diagonally across from the open door, waiting to see what would happen next. Mrs. Norris moved toward the room that the boys were in.

Following her, Argus muttered, “I thought I heard voices. Good work, my girl.” Throwing himself into the room, he bellowed, “What are you boys doing out of bed? It’s long past curf—”

Before Filch knew what was happening, Nott had stunned the poor old squib. “Wonderful!” Grant congratulated him. “That old man is truly a menace. And don’t forget his creepy cat.” Smirking, Theodore repeated the spell on her.

As Pucey was standing well away from the mirror, Draco mentioned to Ginny that he must have already seen his vision and received his task. She agreed, “Yeah, it looks like we managed to miss both of them.”

The bizarre event appeared to be over, as the four boys were standing and shaking one another’s hands jovially. Goyle, Nott, and Pucey were eagerly planning how they would accomplish their individual tasks. Rather than revive the others, they all laughed cruelly and left them in the room.

After the foursome had gone several feet up the hallway, Ginny briskly removed the invisibility cloak. “That was pure maliciousness!” she stated, entering the room. “We can’t just leave them here.”

Following her inside, he contradicted, “Oh, yes, we can. I’m getting my arse out of here -- bugger the lot of them! They’ll wake up . . eventually.”

She surveyed the room, looking at the bodies, all three of them lying there as if they were dead. “Oh, that’s kind of you. I always knew you Malfoys were so charitable.” She felt concerned for them, even Darrin, the Death Eater Wannabe. She said, “After being stunned like that, Filch will probably be so disoriented, he won’t remember anything that happened. And they memory-charmed Darrin, so he won’t even know why he’s here. I even feel sorry for the cat.”

“You deal with them, then. Blaise is in trouble, and I need to warn him. Even if you Gryffindors don’t like us, he’s still my best mate,” he attested.

“Wait, I think we need to tell Professor Dumbledore about this right away. They can’t get away with this! Think of what terrible things could be happening to Darrin’s mother right now! And he probably has no knowledge that any of this ever happened -- the poor kid!”

“Well, at least he won’t feel any guilt,” he offered. Receiving no reply from Ginny, he sighed exasperatedly and walked across the room. “You know, you just beat all, Weasley. A guy just can’t win an argument with you.” Reaching for the floor, he sat down to put on his shoes and said, “Anyway, I heard in the last prefect meeting that Dumbledore was going away for a few days. I think he left yesterday.”

“Shit, you’re right. I hate when that happens,” Ginny grumbled.

“What? When I’m right or when you’re wrong?” he asked her.

“Oh, stuff it,” she said. She exhaled noisily as she finished putting her shoes back on. “We’ll just have to see McGonagall about this. She’s Deputy Headmistress.”

“I know that, but there’s really no reason to approach either her or the headmaster. Not yet, anyway.”

“No reason?!” she jumped on him. “How do you figure that? Darrin’s parents are in trouble, as is your best friend!”

“You are a ninny, aren’t you? Since Grant is in Slytherin, it could all be handled quietly as an in-house matter. I’ll approach Professor Snape first and see what he says. Now let’s go, before Filch comes to!”

“Oh, I don’t know, I don’t know,” she fretted, wringing her hands. “I can’t just leave them here. My conscious wouldn’t let me sleep tonight.”

“All right, Weasley. We’ll move them first. I’ll tell Professor Snape where to find them as soon as I get back to Slytherin. Since I’m a prefect, he might not think it odd that I found them. I’ll just say I was doing a routine hall check. He’ll buy that.” Even though we’re miles from anywhere. I think he’ll believe me.

I hope.

“All right,” she finally relented. “So, Mr. Smarty Pants, how do we move two bodies that are stunned and utterly deadweight?”

“Leave that to me.” He pointed his wand to Filch and uttered, “Mobilicorpus.” He did the same to Darrin, and both of them soon rose to an upright position and were floating a few inches off the ground. Their feet dangled and their heads bobbed about, as if they were life-size marionettes on unseen strings. Ginny was sure she’d never seen a stranger sight in her life.

“That looks really weird,” she commented.

He nodded, “One sees a lot of weird things growing up at Malfoy Manor.” When she just stood there staring at him and the two figures hanging in mid-air, Draco asked smartly, “Well, were you planning on getting the cat, or would your conscience let you leave her here?”

Ginny picked her up tenderly. As she walked along, she stroked Mrs. Norris absently. She held her close, nuzzling into her neck and whispering softly, “I’m sorry this happened, Mrs. Norris. And I’m sorry you got petrified a few years ago. I still feel guilty, even though it wasn’t really my fault.”

The return journey seemed much shorter, as it often does. Draco was still very curious to find out what Ginny saw in the mirror. He pressed her once again to tell him what her vision was. He asked, “So the mirror showed something you weren’t even aware you wanted? What was it?”

“Let’s just say it was not good,” was her vague answer.

Trying to persuade her to tell exactly what was so horrible, he practically sang, “Come on, it’s only fair. I shared my vision with you. Now it’s your turn.”

Changing the subject, she interjected suddenly, “I just thought of something. Your vision proves the mirror doesn’t predict the future!”

“Oh, it does?” Looking her directly in the eye, Draco asked, “And how did your little Weasley brain come to that brilliant conclusion?”

“You said you were Head Boy, right?” When he nodded, she continued with her theory. “Well, in Ron’s vision, he was Head Boy! Since you two are in the same year, you can’t both be Head Boy.”

He fumed silently over her words and began rationalizing with himself. So what? Her brother doesn’t stand a chance of being named Head Boy. A veela has a better chance of dying a virgin than Ron Weasley has of becoming Head Boy.

But bloody hell, the witch has a point. She is so fucking irritating.

On reexamining the evidence, he reasoned that part of what he’d seen was obviously what he wanted most: admiration, leadership, excelling in Quidditch -- even his parent’s love. Other images may have been a possible, however unlikely, future. And what of those additional scenes, the ones that were utterly preposterous? Perhaps the mirror itself was another of Dumbledore’s sick jokes, and it displayed outlandish visions just to screw with a person’s head. It was a bit confusing, as the images seemed to contradict one another. Which ones were his destiny and which were his desires? Feeling confident that he knew, he turned away from her to hide his sneer and said reassuringly, “You know, Weasley, you’re probably right about that.”

Ginny soon saw a set of stairs that she recognized. She sighed in relief. “What do we do with them?” she asked, pointing to the figures of Darrin and Filch. Both of them were still floating, eerily silent, in a kind of suspended animation.

But they were still a good ways from the kitchens. “Let’s drop them off over there,” Draco said. “Will that ease your guilty conscience, Miss Goody Gryffindor? Besides, if either one wakes up, we don’t want him seeing us leave, right?”

“Right,” she agreed heartily. He lowered them both to the floor, first Darrin, then Filch. His careful control slipped ever so slightly as the caretaker suddenly dropped to the floor the rest of the way.

“Ooops,” Draco said mockingly, a touch of false pity in his voice. Ginny seemed not to notice. Having already put the cat down, she was now fussing over Darrin (The poor, misguided boy!), making sure he was as comfortable as possible.

When she looked up, she sighed heavily, “Whew! What an experience that was.”

“I’ll say,” he agreed. “Definitely the most bizarre of my life, and I’ve slept with Milicent Bulstrode.” Ginny shot him a glance, but she couldn’t help snickering.

She said, “I’ve got to get back to my room. It must be dreadfully late -- Ron’s probably having kittens by now. I’ll just remove the silencing charm—”

“Wait,” Draco interrupted. She looked at him expectantly. After a few seconds of awkward silence, he offered a truce. “Listen, Weasley, to show my appreciation, let me get us a little something from the kitchens. Perhaps some cake and tea? Just to bury the hatchet and show there’s no ill will between us, all right?”

Ginny nearly fell over. Yeah, right! she thought. You want to bury the hatchet, all right -- in my skull! Incredulous, she asked, “What?! You actually want to do something nice for me, just for going along with your little blackmail scheme?”

He winced a little, as if he were offended. “Blackmail has such . . dirty implications. But if you must call it that, well -- yes. I do appreciate your help. That whole mirror thing was taking way too long, and in the end, the visions were rather helpful. Sort of. And, incredibly, you’ve actually been -- decent enough company,” he said, looking down his nose at her.

“Well, gee, thanks. Now I feel all warm and fuzzy inside,” she said snidely. “But I thought you had to run off and help your mate, Zabini?”

“Yes, I do need to speak with Blaise, PDQ. It’s just that, well, I’m sure he’s in a deep sleep by now, and with Goyle returning to the room we all share, I thought tomorrow at breakfast might be a better time.” When she didn’t respond, he added, “So will you stay and have a bite with me?”

“I’m not really hungry or thirsty,” she insisted.

He took her hand and kissed it tenderly. “Just let me do this. Please. Besides, you once brought me something to eat. I just want to return the favor,” he said.

She reconsidered for a moment. She couldn’t shake the mirror’s images from her head. Then she said nervously, “Okay. I’ll just wait over here in the nook till you get back.” The words, I’m sure I’ll regret this, ran through Ginny’s mind more than once.

He smiled at her then turned toward the kitchens, tickling the pear on the painting to enter. As he prepared their tea, he snickered to himself, “Oh, yes, Miss Weasley. You will tell me what you saw.”

~End of Chapter~

Getting curiouser and curiouser . . . ;-) Please review; thanks!!

Author's Notes: At last!! Our two favorite characters will be feelin’ some love in this chapter. Please send me your comments, be they good, bad, or indifferent.

The chapter title is taken from a scene in the 1981 movie Excalibur. Fellow sorcerers Merlin and Morgana are discussing life’s contrasts as she tries to manipulate him into giving her a bit of his power. The dialogue and both actors (Nicol Williamson and Helen Mirren) are very good. Yes, the movie is Drama with a capital “D”, but it’s a must-see classic for all fantasy enthusiasts.

CHAPTER 8 – Desire and Regret

Ginny sat across from Draco in the nook as they both nibbled on cakes and drank their tea. She was cautious at first, as he had brought them from the kitchens himself. Deciding that neither the food nor the drink seemed to be poisoned, and the normally smarmy Malfoy seemed to be pleasant, she relaxed a little bit. Soon they were laughing and joking with one another like they were old friends.

However, after several minutes of amusing banter, he dropped all pretence, and the real reason for their late night rendezvous became apparent. Turning to face her, he said point blank: “All right, Weasley, spill. What did you see in the Mirror of Erised?”

It was as if she couldn’t help herself. She related every scrap of information she saw, from Harry Potter vanquishing Voldemort (yes, she used his name!), to Draco’s father, his aunt, and all of the Death Eaters dying as well by their association to him. She went on to say that her own father had been named Minister of Magic.

“Arthur Weasley was the Minister of Magic?” Draco snorted with hollow laughter.

“Yes, he was. And you and I were married,” she divulged freely. Unable to believe what she’d just admitted, her eyes grew as wide as a house-elf’s. Her mouth fell open in utter shock. Why did I tell him that?!

Half of her expected him to laugh in her face, while the other half expected him to throw up in her lap. But he looked more stunned than anything else. He blinked slowly, moving his mouth wordlessly. Incredibly, the one and only Draco Malfoy, the Master of the Double Entendre, was actually speechless.

He carefully set down the tea. When his voice returned to him, he cleared his throat and asked compulsively, “How many children did we have in your version of it?” After he thought about what he’d said, he realized he had disclosed a deep secret, one which he had sworn to take to his grave. He began to feel flustered. Forcing himself to calm down, he reminded himself, Malfoys do not do ‘flustered.’

Ginny was dumbfounded by the way he’d worded this question. She looked up at him blankly and replied, “None.” She was starting to feel a tad woozy. Rubbing her forehead, she asked, “What is wrong with me? I’m feeling so strange.”

As if on cue, Draco confessed blithely, “That’s no surprise, Weasley. You’ve drunk enough Veritaserum to get Crabbe to spill his darkest, most perverted secrets. Lucky for me, he didn’t show up for Grant’s freak show tonight.”

“What?!” she asked, astounded. Then more slowly, Ginny demanded, “Malfoy, what the hell did you do?”

Reaching inside his pocket, he pulled out a small vial and held it in front of her face. He stated, “I took Grant’s bottle of Veritaserum. He forgot it to pick it up before he left the room. When I sat down next to the mirror to put on my shoes, I grabbed it. I put it in your tea, and you’ve been sipping it for the last several minutes.” For a split second, he felt the slightest twinge of regret for having told her. But he soon got over that, telling himself, Hell, what do I care if she knows? At least I got her to tell me the truth.

Astounded that he would stoop so low, her mouth drew into a thin line. Her brown eyes narrowed in anger as she shot him a look of loathing. Thinking she was going to hex him, he looked around for his wand. He glanced down at the floor and noticed something a bit unsettling. His cup was at least a foot away, and her empty one was right next to his leg. He furrowed his brow and asked her accusingly, “Hey, when did you give me your tea?”

“I didn’t, you prat! You took it yourself. And so what? It’s not like you’re going to turn into a troll.” She added snidely, “Whoops -- too late for that!”

He growled in exasperation, “You mean you knew I was drinking from your cup? And you let me?!”

“I guess it didn’t bother me. I’d had enough, and I figured you must have run out,” she shrugged. “Sharing is second nature at my house.”

“Well, it isn’t where I come from,” he snarled. Then he said spitefully, “All right, so now you know. I had a vision similar to yours: we were married. You were pregnant -- it seems to be a natural condition for the women in your family.” She ignored his comment, as she was too irate over the potion to care about his annoying little witticisms.

He paused as if the next part pained him to reveal itself. “We already had three little brats, and I was . . ecstatic about it. We were passionately in love. I felt something akin to -- joy, I think.” Shuddering as if he were still horrified, he said, “Frankly, the whole thing scared the living shit out of me.”

“Oh,” was her less-than-succinct reply. She was bewildered by what he’d said; although he had always professed to hate her, it seemed that he might actually like her -- even want her. Yet the very idea frightened him. Had he not taken the truth potion, she would never have believed a word of it. But he had, so it must be true, Ginny reasoned. No witch or wizard could fight Veritaserum’s compulsive power.

Eyeing him suspiciously, she phrased her next question carefully in an effort to sort this all out. “So you’re saying that you deepest desire is . . . to marry me and have four children? And you think this would bring you . . joy?” she asked incredulously.

“Yes. I mean, no! I -- I don’t know!” His head was swimming. He didn’t make any sense, not even to himself. Fucking hell! he cursed the potion. Shove off, won’t you? Wasn’t he supposed to be interrogating her?

Since he was in the mood for such intense honesty, she figured she might as well go for the brass ring. “Did you see anything else in the mirror that you haven’t already told me?”

He fought to withhold the truth, but the words poured out before he could stop them. “Yes, my father got stabbed in the back right in front of me and my mother. Neither of us were terribly upset; we just watched as he bled to death. I comforted her, and she held me. You know, like she might -- love me,” he said, as if the possibility were mildly startling. Ginny nodded and asked, “Is that all?”

“Yes, isn’t that bloody well enough?” he snapped. “What about your vision? Anything else I should know about? No nasty affairs with Potter while you were my wife?”

“No! I told you everything already. I didn’t see much else; the moment I recognized you, I fainted . . I fell straight to the floor. Suppose I was scared to see anymore.”

“Well, that’s the kind of thing your spouse wants to hear,” he added sarcastically.

Anxious to go before he asked anything really important, like whether Snape was a double-agent, she suggested they leave. “We need to get back to our houses before Filch wakes up and finds us. If we’re caught, it’ll be both our heads!”

He readily agreed and made the dishes vanish with his wand. She started to remove the silencing charm and throw the invisibility cloak over her head to leave, but he touched her arm to stop her. “You mean, you don’t want to walk me down to the dungeons?” he asked with phony affection. Smirking, he added, “Don’t you want to protect the man you want to marry from getting a detention?”

“Yes,” she said. “I do.” Stop with the true confessions, you ninny! she chastised herself.

They walked very close to each other and refrained from talking; neither one knew what he or she might end up disclosing. Silence was best. She could feel his steady, warm breath on the back of her neck. She shivered, whispering, “Stop that, it tickles.”

“What, this?” Pulling her long, soft hair to one side, he blew on the back of her neck. “Why, don’t you like it?” he asked her, trying to get a rise out of her. She’s definitely getting a ‘rise’ out of me.

As if she’d read his mind, Ginny spun around and threw her arms around his neck. She kissed him hungrily on the lips, her tongue forceful, as if he were her favorite desert and she hadn’t eaten in days. Near the point of losing all self-restraint, he responded with fervor. Draco gave her a scorching kiss, fueling a fire that was already on the verge of raging out of control.

They couldn’t get enough of each other. As they stumbled into the nearest unused classroom, he carelessly tossed Potter’s cloak to the floor. Other articles of clothing soon went flying in all directions. Just before she flung her robe aside, Ginny hurriedly cast a cushioning charm to soften the floor.

Draco soon found himself on his back, the lovely Miss Weasley straddling his waist. Divested of most of their clothes, they were both breathing heavily and staring intensely at each other. She bit her lip and coaxed gently, “Tell me the truth, Draco. Do you want me?”

He hissed, “Yesss, I do. Very much.” No point in denying it now, when the truth is standing straight up and stabbing her in the thigh. “I was intrigued by you when we first met at Lockhart’s book signing. Your standing up to me and giving me what-for really attracted me. That hex you threw last year was the final straw; I just had to have you.” He pulled her close to him for another searing, lingering kiss.

It is said that confession is good for the soul, and that baring one’s soul can have a profound effect on a person. With a Malfoy, the difficulty typically lies in finding such an elusive item. But Draco felt sure that Ginny must have found his; she was devouring it completely and bringing to the surface the most intense feelings he could ever remember having felt.

When she sat up and slowly removed the remainder of her clothes, his breath caught in his throat. He resumed placing his hands and lips on her body, eliciting a soft moan from her, which only encouraged him to continue. It wasn’t long before neither one of them could stop if they tried. Caressing each other without restraint, they followed where their instincts led them.

*****
Gasping to catch his breath, he said, “Whew! That potion works wonder, Miss Weasley. Must get some more of that, eh?”

She smacked his arm lightly and giggled, “I don’t think we need to bother.” After they were both dressed, she picked up her wand and pointed it to her lower abdomen. She uttered the spell her French sister-in-law had taught her to prevent an unwanted pregnancy. Draco thought to himself, Good, I was hoping she knew that spell.

As they started to leave, they donned the cloak once more and he said hesitantly, “One more question, then I promise, I won’t ask anymore.” She looked up at him curiously. “You didn’t sleep with Michael Corner, did you?”

“No, I didn’t. That creep is nothing but a lying bastard,” she stated harshly. Thinking about Michael Corner reminded her of Quidditch and her own team practice tomorrow evening. As Ron was the team captain, she knew he would skin her alive if she couldn’t go because of a detention. She said, “It’s dreadfully late. I need to get back my house before I’m missed.”

She escorted Draco to the dungeons under the safety of the invisibility cloak. His head was starting to ache ferociously from sheer exhaustion. It had been the longest, most confusing, yet strangely satisfying, day he could ever remember.

They stopped around the corner from Slytherin House. He turned to look at her. He kissed her deeply once more and breathed in the scent that made her uniquely Ginny, as if hoping to hold onto this blissful feeling forever. “Good night, Ginny. You were wonderful.”

She lifted the corner of the cloak slightly so that he could ease out from underneath it. As he slid around the corner, she whispered, “See you, Draco.” She slipped away silently, leaving him alone in the hallway with his thoughts.

Well, he thought was alone.

“So the great Draco Malfoy finally returns,” said the Potions Master, disapproval evident in his silky, smooth voice. “Hmm, where could you have been this late at night? And with a wonderful girl named Ginny whom I could not see . . My -- this is interesting.”

*****
On reaching her tower, Ginny quietly spoke the password to be admitted. She crawled stealthily through the portrait hole and entered the common room. Except for the crackling embers from the evening’s fire, the room was completely silent. I wonder what time it is? she thought.

“Do you have any idea what time it is, young lady?” her brother asked in a severe tone.

Ginny whipped her head around to see Ron, Hermione, and Harry staring at her with varying looks of disappointment on their faces. Hermione cast a significant glance at her boyfriend, as if to indicate that he must remain calm. He held his tongue with extreme difficulty, and Harry looked at Ginny painfully.

Hermione walked over to Ginny. In her hand was a piece of parchment, smaller than the ones that were typically used for homework. The older girl cleared her throat and said in a shaky voice, “Ginny, exactly what is this?”

She thrust the parchment directly in front of Ginny. The younger girl recognized it immediately as a page from the journal that Bill had given her, the one place she felt completely safe about writing down her most private thoughts. Taken aback, she stared at it in astonishment. Not only had Hermione taken her journal, deciphered the password to magically open it, and rummaged through her secrets, she’d actually had the unmitigated nerve to remove a page from it! Was there nothing sacred to this girl?

Fuming, yet concerned she might still be under the influence of the Veritaserum, Ginny forced herself to speak as calmly as she could. “Well, it looks like a page from my journal.” She desperately needed to buy some time; it felt like the potion may be starting to wear off, but she certainly didn’t want to find out that it hadn’t. Who knew what else she might confess to before the night was over? And there were some things she simply could not confess.

She snatched the parchment from Hermione’s hand. It all came back to her as she swallowed nervously. Oh, shit! It must be that first page; I burned the others, but this one -- damnit, I forgot all about it!

Trying to finagle her way out of it, Ginny scrutinized the page closely for some phrase that would prove that this was not actually from her journal and that she had not written whatever it was that Hermione found so unsettling. But as she continued scanning the words, a silent horror spread through her core: DJ, I must be out of my head. My behaviour has been simply appalling. I mean, it’s bad enough I agreed to do this in the first place. Had I said no, Ron could have just denied everything, but then Malfoy would probably have insisted that Snape use Veritaserum, just for the enjoyment of seeing a Weasley ruined in public!

And the text continued, digging an ever larger hole for her to sink into. She read: Oh, bloody hell -- when do we learn to cast memory charms?

Of course, there was still more, but she didn’t dare read another word. Ginny quickly decided to turn the tables on her brother’s busybody girlfriend. Rather than let Hermione ask her anything else, she accused angrily: “How did you get this?”

She answered without hesitation. “It was wadded up on the floor by your bed. Lucky I found it, instead of one of your roommates. We may be able to put a stop to this without incurring any spiteful gossip or employing any memory charms. What does Malfoy—”

“Malfoy?!” Ginny interrupted Hermione to keep her from asking any questions that she would have to respond to with a lie. She wasn’t sure how long the effects of Veritaserum lasted.

It was then that Ron rose to his feet, utterly incensed. Remaining calm was not something he did very well, especially considering that his sister had been out three hours past curfew with that -- that -- thing. He was getting more agitated by the minute, until finally, he could no longer sit still or stay quiet. “What the hell have you been up to, Miss Guinevere Weasley?!” He was absolutely livid, his face nearly as red as his hair. She had never seen him so angry.

“R-r-returning from the kitchens?” she stuttered feebly. She remembered the muggle phrase that Fred and George had so often employed when being grilled by their mother: Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies.

But Ron was not appeased. Pointing to Harry’s map, he yelled, “We saw you and Malfoy on the Marauder’s Map, together, right there! Exactly why were you with that demon spawn?”

Praying the potion was finally wearing off, Ginny closed her eyes, fearing the worst. It had been a miniscule dose; perhaps she could pull this off . . . “I’ve been . . helping him with a research project,” she struggled.

“Oh, that’s just great!” he roared. “My baby sister has been helping -- helping -- the Crown Prince of Slytherin House with a project! Fucking brilliant!”

Harry intervened, “Ron, calm down. You’re going to burst a blood vessel!” Turning to Ginny, he asked her plainly, “What sort of project was it?”

The words slipped out almost without thought: “He wanted to find the Mirror of Erised. Evidently, he overheard you and Ron discussing it on the train, and he was intrigued. He’s been seeking it since the first day of school. Thanks to your instructions, Harry, and your invisibility cloak,” which she now pulled it out of her pocket and restored to its regular size, “he’s now seen it.”

Hermione jumped in at this point. “Why would Draco Malfoy be interested in the Mirror of Erised? And why in Merlin’s name did you help him find it? What could Ron have denied?” She paused then asked suspiciously, “Did Malfoy blackmail you?”

Ginny sighed, “It’s a long story, and I’m really tired. Can we discuss this tomorrow?” Hey, wait -- I didn’t feel like I had to tell them everything that time. The Veritaserum must be losing its potency . . . and not a moment too soon! She tried not to sigh too loudly with relief.

“But we saw you together,” Ron interjected. “Tell me you’re not -- are you -- his girlfriend? His secret lover?” His face scrunched in disgust at the last word.

That was it: the one question she had been dreading. She managed to form an accusation instead of dignifying it with an answer. “Ronald Weasley, what a thing to say! Of course not!” Regaining full command over her faculties, she even managed to justify it to herself. Not in the truest sense; one brief, albeit hotly passionate, encounter does not constitute a relationship. So I am neither his girlfriend nor his lover.

Ron and Harry both breathed a sigh of immense relief. Hermione smiled a little at Ginny then took her aside. “Listen,” she said as she held her hand, “we are really quite worried about you. If he ever does anything to harm you, believe me, the bastard will be sorry he was ever born.” She continued sweetly, “You’re not to blame, so don’t waste one second feeling guilty. Just remember if there’s anything you ever need to talk about -- sister to sister -- please know that I am here for you,” saying the last part very seriously. “Now you get on to bed, dear.”

“I know you are, Hermione. Thank you,” Ginny said, smiling weakly and feeling instantly relieved. As she climbed the stairs to her room to get some much-needed rest, her mind asked, But if I’m not guilty, then why do I feel a strong need to repent?

~~~

Staring up nervously at his head of house, Draco’s mind grasped about for a good lie. If I can even tell one; is the poion still working? “Yes, sir, I wanted to do a routine hall check, and I,” he struggled, “I saw Miss Weasley down near the kitchens. She had been at the library -- she said she had fallen asleep in her book, and . . . and, well . . it’s rather complicated,” he finished weakly. Shit, that was my worst attempt ever! The potion is trying to force me -- but thankfully, it’s finally weakening.

Whatever load of dung Draco was selling, Professor Snape was not buying it. “One evening’s detention, Mr. Malfoy, for lying to a professor,” he declared briskly. When Draco gasped, astonished that he would be punished, Professor Snape clarified, “It isn’t your night for checking the halls, is it? I thought not. Besides, it’s rather late for that, yet I can’t imagine why you would be with Miss Weasley. It’s not like the two of you would have been having a late-night snog session,” he sneered. After thinking for a moment, he announced, “Three evenings’ detention for her, then.”

Now that’s more like it, Draco thought smugly. Professor Snape entered his classroom and headed toward his office. The boy followed him blindly, blinking furiously to cope with the throbbing pain that was taking over his head. He suddenly remembered the hapless Darrin, Mr. Filch, and Mrs. Norris. Should I tell Snape about them? he wondered briefly. No, I’ll only find myself in even deeper shit. Someone will find them. Sooner or later.

Snape turned to look at him. “Yes, Mr. Malfoy?” he asked, apparently confused as to why he was still following him. His head of house looked at him intently. “Something you wish to add?” Draco shook his head quickly, and Snape went to dispense some more justice. He grabbed a handful of glittery dust from a jar above his office fireplace. He tossed it into the flames and called out, “Minerva McGonagall!”

Her pointed, tartan hat and bespectacled eyes soon appeared in the fire. She smiled tiredly and asked, “Yes, Severus?”

“Ginny Weasley of Gryffindor House was out after hours. She is to receive three evenings’ detention with me, beginning tomorrow evening at 7:00. Will you please notify her?”

“Yes, of course, Severus. I’ll inform her in the morning. Good night,” she said curtly.

Snape eyed his student and asked him irritably, “Why are you still here, Mr. Malfoy? Do you want another evening’s detention?”

He said, “No, sir.” Hedging for a moment, he explained, “I just wanted to apologize for my behavior. Good night, sir.”

“Good night, Mr. Malfoy.”

Turning to leave, he stopped suddenly and turned around to ask, “Professor Snape? Do you have a good, strong headache potion I could take? My head is killing me.” He said that he did and summoned a small vial of it.

“There, that should help -- although nothing is better for headaches than sleep,” his professor said pointedly. “Now go straight to bed, Draco. It’s well after midnight, and if you are even one second late for my class tomorrow, I shall be forced to give you the same punishment that I gave to Miss Weasley.”

“Yes, sir. I understand.” On his way downstairs to his dorm, he drank the foul-tasting headache potion, coughing and sputtering as the viscous liquid coated his throat. Why is it that all healing potions taste repulsive? The remedy is almost always worse than the affliction itself. He fell asleep the moment his head hit the cool, silky pillow case.

The next morning, Draco missed breakfast and his morning lessons. He had been far too exhausted to get out of bed, as the headache potion had made him very groggy. Perhaps the combination of the two potions taken so closely together, not to mention the almost continuous adrenaline rush he had experienced the previous evening, had just kicked his arse.

When he finally did wake up, it was 11:20. The room was empty, and when he noticed the time, he panicked. Shit, I’ve got to talk to Blaise! he reminded himself as he bolted out of bed and headed directly for the showers.

He made it to the Great Hall just in time for lunch. Seeking out his best friend, he located him quickly and pulled him aside before he’d had the opportunity to sit down. “Blaise, we need to talk.”

“Hey, Malfoy. What’s up?” he asked casually.

“Not here. Somewhere private,” Draco murmured.

“Can it wait till after we eat? I’m starving.”

“All right. I’m completely famished, since I had a lie-in.”

“Yeah, I wondered where you were this morning. Snape didn’t look too happy that you skipped his class.”

Draco sighed as he filled his plate with roast beef, steamed carrots, potatoes, and pudding. The boys spoke very little during the meal. When Draco saw that his friend was finishing up, he motioned for them to leave and have their conversation.

Blaise was at a complete loss as to explain Draco’s strange behavior. What could be so crucial that he would actually leave the table in the middle of a Quidditch discussion, especially with their upcoming match against Ravenclaw? It would be an easy win, and he never missed an opportunity to bash the utterly incompetent Cho Chang. Although the entire Slytherin team agreed she was quite a looker, they claimed she was picked for her “talent at riding the captain’s broomstick” rather than for her actual flying skills. As the other team members laughed raucously, the two friends quietly slipped away from the table.

Once they were well away from the doors of the Great Hall, they stopped. Draco looked at Blaise intently. “So what gives, mate?” Blaise inquired, utterly clueless as to what could be bothering him. “Is something wrong?”

“It’s over, Blaise. They know.”

“What’s over? Who knows what?” he asked, utterly baffled.

“They. Know.” Draco explained carefully, “My father’s friends know about Marianne.”

After he stared at him significantly for a few more moments, realization dawned on Blaise. He breathed, “Oh, shit.”

“You must stop all communication with her immediately. Deny any knowledge of her heritage. It would probably be best if you get another girl right away, to ensure plausible deniability.” Blaise had never seen his friend look so serious in all his life. “I mean it, Zabini. You are treading in dangerous waters here. I’ve seen what Lucius can do to people,” he whispered, “without even batting an eye.”

Blaise became rather defensive. “And how would you happen to know all this?” he asked in a raised voice. “Did he just all of a sudden feel like sending you an owl from his prison cell and sharing his plans with you? Another of his father-son chats you love so much?” he asked with contempt.

“No!” He hesitated but then added, “I can’t tell you how I know, but that’s not important anyway. What matters is that it’s true. Watch out for yourself, especially around Theodore Nott. If you can, try to arrange a trip home for a few days. Please.” Just then, Draco spotted some students coming up the hall; he immediately changed the tone of the conversation and laughed loudly, “So I said to him, if you think I find that cow remotely attractive, you are out of your fucking mind! I wouldn’t screw her with your dick!”

They laughed spontaneously, carrying on as if they had been having a grand old time. They continued talking in this vein until the group was well out of earshot. “Blaise, just promise me you’ll be careful,” Draco pleaded.

“I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me,” he confirmed, the gratitude apparent on his face.

“Thanks, Malfoy.”

Draco nodded and patted his friend’s shoulder. “Hey, no problem. What are brothers for?”

~End of Chapter~

Don’t worry, Draco is not heading down the well-trodden ‘path to fluffiness’! Remember, he and Blaise are best friends. As far as those last few minutes he spent with Ginny, he is one of the horniest creatures on the planet (AKA, a teenage boy -- no offense to any who might be reading :-D), and since he just got it on with a girl he really likes, and he would like to do so again, it’s not surprising that he’s feeling a little “gushy.” But fear not! To paraphrase a line from Willy Wonka, in the next chapter, you can expect him to be fully restored to his normal, terrible old self. Only cause y’all love him that way . . . :-) !!! (Sue grins evilly~)

How was that ‘love scene’? It was my first time . . . { blush } I've thought of writing a more detailed description (we’re not talking blatant smut here, people, just something to go in between the tildes ~~~), but I haven't found the time to do so just yet. If I do, it will post it here as an R or NC-17 cookie.

And now, loyal readers, please review!! If you like what you’ve read, please introduce a fellow Draco/Ginny addict to the world of Sue Bridehead’s “Unbidden Desires.” THANK YOU!!

UPDATE (12/2004): Okay, so the outtake turned out to be blatant smut (NC-17)... My cousin, Jude Fawley, wrote it for me, so look under his author name to read/review it. Thanks!

Author's Notes: This chapter is a bit longer than most of the others, but I couldn’t find a good place to break it up, so here it is. The title is an Italian phrase that means “A Messy House Invites Unexpected Guests.” I just thought it sounded more interesting in Italian. (Look, I’m writin’ a multilingual fic! Ain’t I worldly?) :-D

Also, watch for the reference to the movie “Matilda.” The line is spoken by the principal, Miss Trunchbull, who is played to perfection by Pam Ferris -- who incidentally played Aunt Marge in “Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban.” One of the finest character actresses working today, I thought she did an absolutely spiffing job.

CHAPTER 9 – Casa sporca, gente aspetta

Later that evening just before 7:00, Draco entered Professor Snape’s classroom to serve his detention. His head of house was not there but had left a note for Draco on his desk next to a pitcher of cool water. His note read:

Mr. Malfoy,

I must attend a meeting with the Deputy Headmistress. I expect to be finished by 9:00 or so. There will be six other students for detention (Mr. Wickham, Mr. Bennett, Miss Bellucci, Mr. Collins, Mr. Bingley, and Miss Weasley). You are to supervise the others. Their task is to scrub by hand every dish in my storage cabinet, which I have been saving for an evening such as this.

It should take about two hours for them to finish the job. If their work is not satisfactory, they shall return tomorrow at the same time. As usual, no magic is allowed. If any of them are stupid enough to have brought their wands along, please take them as they enter the classroom, as well as five points from their house.

Depending on you - Professor Severus Snape

P.S. Professor Lupin will be dropping by sometime this evening. Please let him in my office; he already knows where to find what he requires. Should he have Professor Sprout and Madam Pomfrey with him, allow them in as well. One of them is to deliver some notes; please have her leave them with you.

Thus Draco sat at the front of the dismal Potions classroom, utterly bored to tears as he watched younger students do menial labor. He helped himself to a glass of water then gazed at Ginny, who was concentrating feverishly on her task. Ah, well -- if he couldn’t have his wicked way with her (Not yet, anyway), the least he could was try and make her feel as uncomfortable as possible. Sipping his drink slowly, his eyes lingered on her, trying to catch her attention and remind her of the forbidden passion they had both felt the night before.

Eventually, she could no longer ignore his intense stare. She looked up at him, glaring spitefully. He could tell she felt this whole situation was incredibly unfair. Displaying her emotions plainly on her face (As all Weasley’s do), he could easily imagine what she was thinking just then: ‘You complete arse! Here I sit, scrubbing layers of filth for Professor Snape, and all you have to do is watch. And it’s entirely your fault that I’m here in the first place!!’

Draco smirked and winked at her, and she glowered back at him. Trying to unnerve her, he flicked his tongue between two fingers in a suggestive fashion, implying something both naughty and sensual. Ginny squirmed a bit in her chair, but she refused to let his antics get to her. Undaunted by his insinuating gestures, she focused on her work.

He soon got annoyed at her lack of response. He wondered, What’s got her knickers in a twist? Giving up for the moment, he sighed and opened his Transfiguration book to Chapter 6, occasionally glancing over the tops of the pages to keep an eye on Snape’s detainees.

A short while later, Professor Lupin walked through the doorway to the classroom, Professor Sprout at his side. The two were deeply engrossed in a discussion about some of the new plants her Advanced Herbology students were working on. After a few minor setbacks, it seemed like they were on the verge of their first important breakthrough.

Professor Lupin looked up and greeted Draco. “Good evening, Mr. Malfoy. Pleasure to see you.”

Draco was never openly rude to any teacher (Even those I personally find disgusting), so he responded respectfully, “Good evening, sir. Ma’am.”

Professor Sprout nodded in reply. Professor Lupin gave Draco a friendly smile then got right down to business. “I believe Professor Snape has something for me in his office. May I?”

He indicated his consent by turning his head toward the office door and slightly shrugged one shoulder. The two professors walked along, Professor Sprout speaking in a hushed voice. Draco could not resist the opportunity to eavesdrop, as it was always far more interesting than reading one’s textbook. Besides, that’s where the real learning is at this place.

That, and Hannah Abbott’s bedroom.

“As I was saying, Remus, I believe my Advanced Herbology students are on their way to making something very special. Miss Granger’s idea of blending DNA from the Mimbulus Mimbletonia and the root of asphodel -- the results were simply astonishing! The hybrid finally seems to be thriving. That girl certainly is a cracker-jack. She’s very bright.” Draco scowled to himself, A bright mudblood?!

“Yes, she certainly is that,” Lupin agreed heartily. “She has a lot of potential.” Just then, Professor Sprout enthusiastically volunteered some surprising news. “And speaking of bright students, the way that Miss Parkinson has jumped right in and offered to help Neville Longbottom with his charms has simply amazed me! She certainly has a good command of her skills.”

Draco practically choked on his water and had to fight to keep from sputtering. Parkinson is actually helping Longbottom? Maybe Michael Grant needs to be informed of that. Even if he is mental, I’d love to see Pansy get her comeuppance -- she treats me and Blaise like dirt! Grinning evilly, he decided, This may turn out to be my most worthwhile detention ever.

Staring into his book, his ears pricked up to catch Lupin’s response, trying to make out every word. Professor Lupin replied, “Yes, I saw promise in both of them when I was their teacher before, and they continue to excel.” The instructors went into Snape’s office and shut the door. They emerged two minutes later, Professor Lupin wearing a nasty grimace on his face and Professor Sprout eyeing him sympathetically.

They left the classroom, waving to Draco, who acknowledged them with a slight smile and a nod of his head. Professor Sprout made a sudden turn-about, saying, “Oh, Mr. Malfoy! I nearly forgot. Professor Snape is expecting this. Would you please see that he gets it?” She handed him a thick folder, jam-packed with notes that were haphazardly thrown into it. With a bland look on his face, he nodded in silent response. She smiled broadly and added, “Thank you, young man.”

He set the folder down, stretched his arms above his head, and inhaled deeply. Wanting to get up and move around a bit, he rose slowly and ambled around the room, observing the work of the younger students in an offhanded manner. He strolled nonchalantly, all the while stealing occasional glimpses of Ginny, who was seated three tables behind the others. Feeling compelled to speak to her, he slowly sauntered over to her table.

He stood by her side, pretending to monitor her work. He pointed to an imaginary spot on the dish she was working on, just so he could touch her hand, and whispered, “Ginny, last night was amazing.”

“Delightful, I’m sure,” she sneered quietly. She was infuriated that his so-called ‘detention’ was a walk in the park for him. Damn him! He never gets in trouble for anything, even with his daddy locked away in prison and Snape secretly on my parents’ side! It’s so unfair.

But the person she was most angry with Ginny Weasley. Cursing herself for her actions of the previous evening, she had been thinking of the Quidditch practice she was now missing and how Ron was going to be so mad at her. Like last night, only five times worse. And if he only knew what I’d really done -- I’d surely be pushing up daisies by now!

Draco was appalled by her attitude. He hissed, “Don’t pull that crap with me, Weasley! You wanted it, too! Innocent, blushing virgin, my arse—”

She turned to face him directly, her response immediate and fierce. In a half-whisper, she said, “Maybe I did, but it’s never going to happen again, so just forget about it!” Shock and disappointment registered on his pale face. She explained in hushed tones, “I was under the influence of a very powerful potion! Compulsory behavior can be excused, you know,” she said, fixing her eyes on her work. She stared at the dish and continued scouring, her eyes never moving, as if she could make the stubborn marks vanish by sheer will.

“Compulsory—” he started. But he had another thought: “If the Veritaserum ‘made you do it’, then that’s all the more reason to believe it was your idea. Your body’s, anyway,” he leered as his eyes roamed up and down her. “So tell me, love. Does it want to have another go?”

She felt like slapping him for his presumptuous innuendo. Instead, she slammed the dish that she was working on down rather forcefully, causing a couple of the boys to turn around and gawk momentarily. One furious glare from Draco was enough to make them refocus on their own tasks. As she reached for a new dish, he grabbed her hand; he needed her to look at him, or this would never work. He softly stroked her hand with his thumb and spoke quietly to her. “Ginny, I was only saying . . we could both . . . enjoy one another so much. . ”

That was the wrong thing to say. She abruptly pulled her hand away from his. At her look of utter contempt, he narrowed his eyes and spat in as low a voice as possible, “Oh, just forget it! You’re bloody impossible!”

He stormed away and headed toward the front of the room in a huff. The nerve of that bint! No girl snubs me, especially a peasant like her! He was moving along at a pretty good clip when he stopped abruptly right by Miss Bellucci, who promptly dropped three of the five dishes she was holding. The aged glass shattered instantly on hitting the stone floor.

Being the only one with a wand, Draco did a quick Reparo spell to fix the bowls. He didn’t want Professor Snape to be angry with him for allowing a student to make a mess. In a loud voice, he reprimanded the young girl for her stupidity. Forgetting herself, she apologized -- in Italian: “Scusi, Signore Malfoy!”

Realizing her lingual mistake, she gasped and promptly corrected herself in her thickly accented English, saying, “I am sorry, Mr. Malfoy,” blushing deeply. Her contrite apology gave Draco a feeling of power, which he lorded over her as he stared at her menacingly. As if Ginny was watching and could read his mind, he thought, See? She respects me. She fears me -- and you should, too, Weasley.

As Sophia’s blush faded, he continued to watch her and wondered, Is her skin always that dark? He shook his head and concluded, She probably tried one of those new tanning charms and didn’t quite set the intensity properly. Either that, or somebody’s got me so bloody miffed that I’m seeing things.

Not quite satisfied, he spun around and spoke crossly to Maurice Collins for the poor cleaning job he was doing. He growled at him, “Are you a complete moron? I already took your wand and five points -- do you want Hufflepuff to lose even more tonight?” Maurice shook his head and shuddered at the accusation. But for some reason, Draco found that yelling at the boy wasn’t nearly as enjoyable as it should have been.

He threw himself back into Professor Snape’s chair. Frustrated beyond belief, he thought about Ginny once more, blaming everything on her. I knew it. I can see the harpy in her coming out already. I was only going to suggest a repeat performance in the nearest secluded room immediately after detention, but I guess I’ll just . . go back to my room, alone, cast a silencing charm, and have myself a good, long wank-fest. Merlin knows, I need it!

But try as he might, he couldn’t take his eyes off of her. Even though she was angry, or perhaps because of it, she looked so very sexy. So incredibly tempting. He couldn’t possibly focus on his Transfiguration homework now. He sighed in annoyance and slammed his book shut as he fidgeted in the chair. This was going to be a very long and trying evening.

In an effort to distract himself, Draco reached for the folder Professor Sprout had left with him. He thumbed through the disorganized notes, revolted to find small particles of dried mud stuck in between the stacks of parchment. Not only was it all a hopeless mess, the text may as well have been written in Greek, for all he could make out of it. Roots, hybrids, dicots, seed coats -- gods, I hate herbology. Most boring subject ever.

When he turned to the next page, a series of items written in royal blue ink at the bottom caught his eye. He read with curiosity:

1. Contact Dr. Bertram at University of Michigan for his graduate students’ DNA results and samples. Exchange gold to U.S. dollars and send to his school.

2. Help Severus and Poppy with possible combinations for UCD-I.

3. Get Arthur Weasley’s help in obtaining Ministry approval for tests and securing funding to continue research.

Draco was baffled by what he’d read. UCD-I? What the hell was that? How was the Ministry involved in all this? Had they actually sanctioned this crazy old bag’s hair-brained project?

He speculated about what DNA might be but decided he really had no clue. He read a bit more of the cryptic notes, occasionally checking around the room to see that all the students were still working and that Snape was not skulking back into the classroom. It was twenty minutes until nine o’clock. Good. Just enough time to snoop a bit more. Since Ginny won’t talk to me -- no, won’t even look at me, I may as well make my time here useful.

Most of it was pretty dry reading, so he scanned for more information about what this ‘DNA’ was and what new potions they were planning to brew. He saw a sketch of an odd-looking plant that combined the qualities of three others -- what was that thing? Disgusted at his complete ignorance, and the nagging fact that Neville Longbottom most likely had a better understanding of what all this crap meant than he did, he rearranged the notes and tossed the folder to one side.

Moments later, Professor Snape returned to the classroom. He surveyed the room and said snidely, “It looks as though each of you have adequately managed to complete your part of the task. You may go.”

The younger students prepared to depart for their individual houses. Draco opted not to tell Professor Snape about the broken dishes; after all, Miss Bellucci was his housemate, and getting her into trouble could reflect badly on him and perhaps lose points from his own house. Instead, he simply gave Maurice his wand, along with a cold, superior sneer. While Draco collected his schoolwork, the others made a hasty exit, with the exception of Ginny. She had just been finishing her last dish when the Potions Master had dismissed them.

As Draco looked around the room, he noticed that there were about a dozen dirty dishes remaining on the various tables. He started to make his way toward the door when Professor Snape grabbed his shoulder and clarified, “Oh, no, Mr. Malfoy. Not you. You are to finish the job, without magic. Your wand, if you please?”

Stunned, his mouth fell open. Ginny fought the giggles to keep from snorting at him, and he turned red, fuming silently at her. Professor Snape turned around sharply and snapped at her, “Miss Weasley, perhaps you would like to assist Mr. Malfoy?”

Her face lost all expression when she said demurely, “No, sir.”

“Good night, then,” he said brusquely. “I shall see you here back again tomorrow evening, promptly at 7:00.” She left before the surly Potions Master could change his mind and decide to extend her punishment.

“But Sir,” Draco began, “I still have two more chapters to read and summarize for Professor McGonagall by tomorrow morning. She’s one tough old bird; even though it is Saturday, and a Hogsmeade weekend, she won’t let me off the hook for my being ill this morning. Can’t you please—”

After watching him squirm for a bit, his head of house cut him off mid-sentence. “Don’t worry, Malfoy. I’ll take care of those dishes in a bit. Didn’t want to show ‘extreme favoritism’ in front of members from other houses. Headmaster’s orders, you know.” He glimpsed toward the doorway and said quietly, “The real reason I asked you to stay is that I need to speak with you privately.”

“Sir?” Draco asked expectantly.

Professor Snape pointed his wand toward the door and muttered a spell to close it. “Look at me, Draco. Relax. I must see something.”

Confused, the boy obeyed. Snape raised his wand and said a strange word, one which Draco knew he must have heard somewhere before, but he couldn’t place exactly where or what it meant. Must be some kind of advanced spell they haven’t taught us yet, was the last cognizant thought he remembered having for several minutes.

Soon he felt like he would pass out. Hundreds of images flashed through his mind rapidly; some of them he grasped, others slipped by too quickly. Of the ones he did capture, they were mostly humiliating or cruel in some way. Falling off his broomstick, long before he came to Hogwarts, and his father being angry with him. His mother sitting at his bedside, cold and distant, reading the gossip column of The Daily Prophet, as he endured a severe bout of pneumonia during winter break of his third year. His father yelling at him for losing yet another Quidditch match to Potter, calling him unskilled, weak, hopeless -- and Draco feeling very ashamed. Laughing maliciously when he’d heard that Hermione Granger had been petrified and wishing she would die. Disbelief when he learned of his father’s arrest. The warmth that emanated from Ginny Weasley as she took him to completion, the fear that she would never take him there again—

“Draco,” Snape prompted gently, “are you all right?”

Looking around, he realized that he was lying on the floor, sprawled flat on his back, his cheeks moist. Fighting to keep the accusation out of his voice, he asked, “Wh-what just happened? What did you do to me?”

“I am sorry, Draco, but I had to. It’s a spell called Legilimens. It allows one to penetrate the mind of another.”

“I - I’ve heard of that before,” the boy whispered, still gasping for air. “Yes, I’m quite sure I’ve heard Father use it at home, from time to time. What does it do?” he asked inquisitively.

“I can’t tell you much about it right now, but you weren’t harmed,” he said seriously. “Besides, someone is coming to visit you directly. Your mother is most anxious to see you.”

“Mother?” Draco asked, puzzled.

“Yes, I had mentioned your headaches to her, and she is seeing Madam Pomfrey about an appropriate remedy. She should be on her way down shortly. In fact, I expect her momentarily.” He opened the door with a simple spell, and both wizards fell silent.

As they awaited her arrival, Severus Snape wistfully recalled the day he first laid eyes on Narcissa Black. She was possibly the most striking beauty to ever grace the halls of Hogwarts. Rumored by her classmates to be at least one-quarter veela, the pale, svelte blonde could turn the head of every wizard on campus, including a handful of the instructors. It was easy to see why the powerful and handsome Lucius Malfoy had made Narcissa his wife shortly after she graduated.

The rare and magnificent flower was now standing in the doorway of Professor Snape’s classroom, bestowing him with a faint smile. Entering with her usual flair for the dramatic, she nodded to Professor Snape and acknowledged him coolly, “Severus.”

“Narcissa. How good it is to see you again,” he said with a thin smile on his lips. “I’ll leave you two alone.” Before he left, he uttered, “Scourgify,” pointing his wand at the remaining dishes. He quickly banished each one to its rightful place on his shelves, leaving the room neat and tidy. He turned to go, bowing his head slightly, and retreated to his office and his private quarters behind it.

Mrs. Malfoy closed the door behind her quietly. At first, a slight smile graced her ruby lips, which Draco found rather unusual yet strangely reassuring. His mother never came to Hogwarts without a compelling reason, and he sincerely hoped she wasn’t there at Father’s behest. Damn, I never did finish that note for her. I hope she wasn’t seriously expecting one.

Hoping to get in her good graces straight away, he began with a genteel kiss on her hand. He murmured, “You’re looking well, Mother.”

She pulled her hand away from his and smacked her son on the cheek as hard as she could. “How dare you, Draco Lucius Malfoy?” As the sting started to rise in his face, she accused angrily, “Do you hate me?!”

Putting his hand to his cheek, he asked in surprise, “What? Of course, I don’t hate you! What are you on about?”

“You -- ingrate! What were you thinking, sleeping with . . . a . . a Weasley?”

Shocked at her accusation, yet not feeling bold enough to confirm it, he decided that denial was the best way to handle it. That, and a bit of humor, was the only possible course. He scoffed defensively, “Me, sleep with a Weasley? I think not. Ron’s not really my type; even the sleekest Quidditch robes can’t help that body.”

She was not amused and spoke severely to him. “I am serious. I would have come earlier today, but I was visiting your father, as I do every Friday.” She paused to gather her thoughts and continued ranting, “What if that whore gets pregnant? They breed like rabbits, or didn’t you notice?! Do you think I want to be a grandmother at my age, not to mention, be related to something that is part of that -- that -- herd of revolting blood traitors?!” She cried into her lacey silk handkerchief, as if his actions had wounded her to the bottom of her black heart.

To say Draco was stunned that she’d managed to find out about it in the first place was an understatement. But he wasn’t going to ask her about it; instead, he continued with his denial.

“I’m sure you don’t, but you needn’t worry about that, Mother. Yes, Miss Weasley helped me with a project, but I assure you, nothing else happened.”

As if controlled by a faucet, Narcissa’s tears ceased flowing immediately. She stared up at him, utterly livid. “Don’t try and dispute me, young man. I know you did it -- even things you think you keep secret from me, I always find out,” she hissed. “You are to stop this affair, and I mean immediately. As you can imagine, your father will be less than thrilled with your behavior. And I fully intend to inform him of it.”

Deciding things couldn’t get any worse, he said irritably, “And what would you know about my ‘behavior’? You and I never talk. You don’t write to me to ask how I’m doing, and you’ve never once called me in the Slytherin common room’s fireplace.” He paused for a second, then asked, “Who is your spy, Mother? Is it Snape?”

She laughed coldly. “Severus? What a thing to say! I have my own sources, and they are extremely reliable. They have my best interests at heart, unlike my son, who apparently appreciates nothing!” She stomped out the door without looking back.

“My,” Draco remarked dryly to himself, “that went well. Wait till I tell her about the wedding plans.”

~~~
Meanwhile, Ginny was trying to evade problems with one of her own relatives. She was just returning to Gryffindor tower, hoping to avoid a blazing row with Ron for having missed practice again. Dreading she would run into him, she ducked surreptitiously around the knot of people that were standing near the center of the room. In their midst were Jack Sloper and Andrew Kirke, the inept pair that had become their team’s Beaters, replacing her brothers when they were banned from playing last year.

She looked around the group and spotted former Gryffindor Chasers Angelina Johnson and Katie Bell. They were Fred and George’s current girlfriends, so Ginny decided she would say hello. Moving closer, she thought defiantly, Piss on Ron’s bad attitude, anyway!

Working her way into the crowd, she suddenly noticed a bit more red hair than she’d seen at first. Some of it didn’t reach quite as high as Ron’s, and she wondered briefly where Katie and Angelina had gotten to. That was when she spotted the bane of Mr. Filch’s existence, the Weasley twins. Bloody brilliant! When did they get here?

Ginny had to talk to them. It had been over three months since they had been to the Burrow. They were staying at Oliver Wood’s flat, as he was almost always off playing professional Quidditch. The twins had not been to Hogwarts since their spectacular departure just weeks before their impending graduation.

“George! What in blazes are you doing here?” she shouted enthusiastically, breaking through the crowd and embracing him. “Were you here just a minute ago?”

“No, my dear, we just ‘arrived’, as it were.” At her puzzled look, George explained, “I’m sure Filch hasn’t forgotten us from last year, so we came Polyjuiced as our girlfriends. Didn’t you see Angelina and Katie come in a while ago?” he asked with an impish wink.

“Ah, I see. That would explain your unusual garb, I suppose?” Ginny snickered, looking down at George’s rather feminine attire. “And here I thought you were both just blossoming transvestites.”

“Lady Guinevere, fairest maiden in Gryffindor Tower!” Fred exclaimed, bowing low. “How are you, love?”

“She’s in deep shit, that’s how she is,” Ron snarled. Snapping his fingers, he ordered, “You -- over here -- now.”

“Hey, Ronald, don’t be so harsh on our darling Gin,” Fred defended her as he hugged her affectionately. “Is that any way to speak to our favorite sister?” he asked, smiling sweetly.

Turning to Ron, George piped in, “He’s right, you prig. You’re as obnoxious as Percy.” Then he added, “Whoops -- my bad -- you’re worse than him. If you make Head Boy, I’ll feel sorry for the whole school, including the Slytherins.” Ron glowered at him but did not respond.

“So you’re still not speaking to what’s-his-arse?” Ginny asked Fred.

He scoffed in reply, “What! Me, speak to Percival, the Patron Saint of Suck-ups Everywhere? He is more unbearable than ever.”

“And that’s really saying something,” George threw in, taking over where Fred left off. “Ever since Fudge changed his tune and started singing you guys’ and Mum and Dad’s praises, Percy has been acting like he knew all along that You-Know-Who was back. No one was pulling the wool over his sharp eyes, by golly.” He snorted, “What a pretentious arse-kisser!”

Fred sighed, “Ah, some things never change. Remember the time we transfigured his beloved ‘Hogwarts: A History’ -- no offense, Hermione -- into a stack of Playwizard magazines? Perce told Mum he didn’t know how all those got in his knapsack. She obviously didn’t know that the horny creep already had loads of them under his bed. He actually had the nerve to accuse us!”

“But didn’t you do it?” Hermione asked rather indignantly.

“That’s beside the point,” Fred said.

George interjected, “And then, to top it all, this strange owl flew right through the kitchen window and delivered the latest edition to him. Dropped it right into his hands. I thought Mum would kill him!” He paused for a moment then remarked innocently, “I still don’t know how that owl got there -- do you, dear brother?”

“Not a clue,” Fred replied.

“Could it have been because we asked Charlie to pay for it as an early birthday present to us?” George suggested.

His twin said thoughtfully, “Hmm . . . you could be onto something there.”

“But we digress; we are not here to discuss the carefree days of our youth.” Wiping a mock tear away from his eye, George added melodramatically, “Alas, they are gone forever.”

“Well, not quite,” Ginny laughed, “but you still haven’t answered me. What are you two doing here?”

Hermione piped in excitedly, “I know, they’re here to finish their N.E.W.T.s!”

Fred retorted, “Actually, Miss Granger, for once -- you’re wrong.” Then he shouted, “Call Rita Skeeter! Exclusive: Hermione Granger answers question incorrectly! All of Gryffindor in shock! See the photos!” She gave him a good-natured smirk.

Then George announced rather loudly, “We are here seeking new product testers. You will be well-paid for your services, either in gold or product exchange.” Then as an aside, he tacked on the fine print: “We regret that we cannot guarantee the safety of your limbs, facial parts, hair, etc. We will do our utmost to restore them to their original condition, should you encounter any occupational hazards. If not, well -- then, please consider it a sacrifice for the greater good of wizardkind everywhere.”

Fred added in a booming voice, “We are also here to announce that will be setting up shop in . . drum roll, please, George . . the lovely village of Hogsmeade, subleasing space from Honeyduke’s,opening promptly at 9 a.m. tomorrow—”

Ginny’s eyes drew wide. “You’re not!” They nodded in reply. “Oh, you are! That’s smashing!”

George affirmed, “Indeed, we are, dearest sister. And yes, it is most definitely smashing. Being so close, we will be at all of your Quidditch matches,” which induced a groan from Ron, “and see you at every Hogsmeade weekend, starting tomorrow of course—”

“Not so fast, Lady Guinevere,” Ron sneered. “You missed Quidditch practice tonight, and you know what that means -- make-up session, first thing tomorrow morning!”

“But Ron,” she pouted, “I told you, I had a detention with Snape! And I already had plans to go to Hogsmeade with Luna!”

“I don’t give a crap. You’re staying here and going over the game patterns we practiced tonight. And then you’re going to practice your moves, alone, on the pitch. You’ll need to finish by 2:00, because that’s the time Slytherin has it booked for their practice.”

Ginny was furious. She nearly screamed, “Oooh, you’re the worst captain ever! And a lousy brother!”

“Couldn’t agree more, sis,” Fred chimed in. “He’s much more brutal than Oliver, and not half as cute.”

“Quite true, bro,” George concurred. Then he said in a loud whisper, “Besides, any guy who’s getting as much sex as he allegedly is has no right to be grouchy.”

Ron’s fuse was growing short, with his three siblings all picking on him. He snapped, “I heard that!”

“Good. I meant for you to,” George said with a wicked grin.

Fred tried to smooth things over. “Now, now, dear brothers, let’s not fight, shall we? We need to head back to Oliver’s soon -- we have a big day tomorrow -- and we still have all this free butterbeer to give away.”

Ginny and Harry reached for a butterbeer at the same time. Harry’s hand brushed up against hers as they both grabbed for the same bottle. “Oh, sorry,” he said, blushing. She still made him a little nervous, as he had not managed to get over his crush on her. He held out hope, however faint, that she would change her mind and give him a second chance.

Holding his bottle out in front of him, Harry opened it and said, “Lucky the tops were still on these, or I’d be questioning whether or not they were safe to drink.” He tried to hide the mild anxiety she instilled in him. “So . . you were going to go to Hogsmeade with Luna tomorrow?”

“Yeah, well, guess I’m not now, am I?” Ginny grumbled.

“Well, I’m not all hung up on going there myself, except to see Fred and George’s new shop.” After thinking for a minute, he got a brilliant idea. “Hey, I know. How about I join you for practice, just to give you someone to toss the Quaffle about with? Then we could run over to the store after you finish. All right?”

She hedged for a moment then decided that practice would be a lot less boring with a friend along. “All right, Harry -- that sounds great. Thanks.”

Harry sighed and gave her a slight smile, teasing, “You’re welcome, ‘Lady Guinevere’.” They agreed to bring their brooms down to lunch with them and then go to the pitch together.

Everyone toasted Fred and George several times, wishing them fantastic success in their new venture. It was an exciting evening in Gryffindor Tower, as its residents drank butterbeer and sampled some of the new products. The revelry wound down nearly two hours later, when Hermione sternly reminded everyone to go to their rooms and rest.

“Cor, you’re a wet blanket, Hermione,” Fred remarked. “Are you sure you’re dating the right Weasley? Perhaps you’d like to meet my older brother, Percy?” She wrinkled her nose at him, and Ron spit a mouthful of butterbeer everywhere.

The twins took the rest of their Polyjuice Potion and transformed so they could exit the school grounds without incident. Ginny smiled and waved at the two girls as they left, then headed upstairs to her room to rest up for her practice in the morning.

~End of Chapter~

A big thank you to cf and Vanessa for your reviews!

*Pushing up daisies: Dead and buried.

I wasn’t going to put Fred and George (aka Thing 1 and Thing 2) in this chapter, but they begged to make an appearance, so I let the little scamps out of their box. Poor Harry’s still not over his little crush on Ginny. Will he ever be? ;-)

One more footnote, then you can go review: Did the names of any students in detention sound familiar or the doctor in America? If you’re an Austenite like myself, they should. ;-) If not, you should become one-! (As soon as you’re done reading my fic :D)

~~~
PREVIEW OF CHAPTER 10:

“I should report you, you know!” she threatened.

“To whom?” Draco asked snootily.

“Ron, of course. He is a prefect in my house.”

He snorted, “And what are you going to say to him?” He added in a girlish squeal, “Help me, big brother, I’ve slept with the evil, incredibly sexy, Draco Malfoy, and even though I came all over the place, now he’s being all mean to me! Waaahhh!”

~~~
Should be fun, right? ;-)

Note about the twins' girlfriends: I made a boo-boo by saying that Katie was out of school. (eek!) Thank you, Hermionerules, for pointing this out to me. I had completely forgotten that she and Angelina were not in the same year until you mentioned it. For now, pretend that Katie was super-brilliant and finished one year early... :-D Please forgive the oversight, and enjoy the rest of the fic!

Author's Notes: I have a few items to catch up on. I've made little references to different books, movies, etc., throughout. Some of them are not exact quotes, but I wanted to point them out, in case you were wondering so you can say “I knew it!” and do a little happy-dance around your computer. ;-) These will be listed at the end of this chapter.

By the way, for those of you who have guessed that my pen name refers to a character in Thomas Hardy's “Jude the Obscure”, Kudos to You!! You are correct and obviously have excellent taste. :-D Sue Bridehead is Jude's free-spirited cousin who constantly surprises yet frustrates him. Watch Kate Winslett in the movie “Jude” to see why I like her. While we don't know if Kate's portrayal is exactly what Hardy had in mind (in the book, she seemed a little less brash to me), she certainly gives Sue a lot of life.

Happy reading!!

CHAPTER 10 - Strategem

Whirr. Click. Buzz. Whoosh.

Ginny sat in the corner of the Gryffindor Common Room, staring at the Weasley Quidditch Practice Model with fascination. About the size of an opened textbook and slightly less than one foot tall, it displayed a miniature Quidditch pitch with little, flying holographic images of fourteen players and four balls moving about in play. It was almost like a real game, on a much smaller scale.

The invention had been a compilation of many Weasley hands and the sweat of many a red brow. Bill had started it years ago to aid his Gryffindor team but eventually had to put it aside. The project lay in the attic for years, half-finished and all but forgotten, although Arthur did tinker with it from time to time. Molly threatened to throw the piece of junk in the bin more than once, but her boys, including her husband, always managed to dissuade her.

Years later, the creative team of Fred and George took over the project. But it was far too benign for them, and they soon gave it up to pursue more interesting activities. Their younger brother was the one to finally complete it, with a few finishing touches added by their father. Ever-fascinated by muggle technology, Arthur was dying to use a bit of eclectricity on it. Sadly, he could find little use for it in the end, other than making it click and buzz. Yet it was Hermione who had actually made the device indispensable. Although she cared little for Quidditch, she cared deeply for Ron, and she wanted him to succeed more than anything.

Hermione and Harry had stayed at the Burrow the last two weeks of summer. During that time, she helped Ron charm the new device to be able to store information about various plays and to factor in the statistics of up to 28 different players. When Professor McGonagall first saw the amazing contraption in action a few days later, she was very impressed; Harry felt certain that it had single-handedly solidified her decision to choose Ron as team captain. She had been leaning toward him anyway, not because he was such a great player, but due to his brilliance as a strategist.

Ginny watched the miniatures play, completely mesmerized by their activity. Six tiny Chasers lobbed the Quaffle about, occasionally dropping it; then one of them would catch it deftly and carry it to the end of the field, where it would either go sailing through a hoop or be intercepted by a quick-thinking Keeper. All the while, little Bludgers were being knocked around, sometimes reaching their intended target, injuring or unseating a rider. The winged Snitch fluttered nervously, eluding both Seekers like a miniscule speck of precious gold. Yes, Ginny decided, this was much better than studying Quidditch moves on a one-dimensional piece of parchment. It made her feel proud of her brother (In spite of the fact that he is an annoying git!) and his clever girlfriend.

"Some invention, eh?" Harry interrupted, his broom slung over his shoulder. Then he asked her in a friendly tone, "So, Gin, ready to go down for lunch and then head out for practice?" She nodded that she was. Using her wand, she shut down the device and banished it to its storage location in Ron's trunk.

"Just let me grab my broom," she answered. They walked down to the Great Hall side by side, discussing everything from the week's lessons to what had she had missed at last night's practice. She felt comfortable talking with Harry these days. Once she had gotten over her infamous crush on him, she saw him more like a brother than anything else. As they sat down together at the Gryffindor table, they were talking about how glad they both were that neither of them was a prefect. "Too much work for too little glory," Ginny summarized.

"Exactly," he agreed. They ate in relative silence, completely oblivious of the jealous gray eyes that were on their backs the entire time. After finishing their meal, they rose together, picked up their brooms, and headed out to the pitch to start her make-up practice session. The sooner they got started,
the more time they could spend gallivanting around Hogsmeade. Ginny for one was intrigued by the prospect of seeing the twins run an actual joke shop and behave -- well, if not respectably, then maybe somewhat responsibly. She decided that was far too much to hope for, but it promised to be an interesting afternoon regardless.

As they crossed the lawn in the crisp autumn air, Ginny and Harry discussed the plays she had seen on the Model this morning. "You know," she admitted grudgingly, "I'm really glad that Ron cares so much. Yes, I hated changing my plans for a practice session. But at least he holds me to the same standards as the other players. He really is a good captain."

Harry nodded, "Yeah, I think so. Angelina -- now don't get me wrong, I'm not a sexist or anything, but -- well, she is Fred's girlfriend. It's kind of hard to take her seriously, based on that association alone. And Wood, that guy bordered on obsessive. But then, I guess that's probably why he's a professional now," he added, shrugging his shoulders.

The pair arrived at the pitch and started to practice. As they zoomed through the chilly sky, their noses and cheeks turned red and their teeth chattered. Yet the freedom of flying soon made them forget any discomfort.

At first, Harry played the part of Keeper, doing his best to hover near all three hoops at once to block the Quaffle. Then he switched to Chaser, passing the Quaffle back and forth to her as they approached one end of the pitch then the other. Neither position was his specialty, but Ginny was grateful for the company; practicing flying patterns alone was a lousy way to spend an afternoon. He even attempted to play Beater for a while, but after nearly landing a Bludger in her face -- twice -- he put an abrupt halt to that.

All in all, the session turned out to be invigorating and quite fun.. They laughed, joked, and took turns playing the roles of opposing team members. Harry did a spectacular imitation of Gregory Goyle, which Ginny likened to an ape on a broomstick. She cracked up, teasing, "Amazing! It's almost as if you've been in his skin!" They nearly fell off their brooms as they both laughed hysterically.

Next, Ginny did an imitation of Malfoy that was spot-on, and Harry was cackling so hard that practically flipped over. "That's perfect!" he said in between snorts. When he finally caught his breath, he asked, "When did you get to know the King Ferret so well?" She blushed and looked away, suggesting casually that they return to their plays so they could finish up and head on over to Hogsmeade.

After about an hour of practice, coupled with what Oliver Wood would have said was 'far too much frivolity', they landed in the Gryffindor stands. Ron had been sitting there with Hermione for the past twenty minutes, watching their practice runs in between her distracting kisses. "Good job, Ginny," he called out to her. Then he said, "Harry, thanks for helping her, mate. Nice to know you can switch caps, if needed."

"Not really," Harry laughed. "I like the cap I normally wear -- it fits me best." The others readily agreed. Anxious to see what new surprises Fred and George had in store, not to mention a bit uncomfortable at seeing Hermione stuck to the face of his other best friend, Harry cleared his throat and inquired, "Er, Ron? We've been out here for at least an hour now, and Ginny studied the Model this morning for God knows how long. Is she free to go?"

"Hang on," Ron replied. He mentally reviewed the plays they had practiced, moving his hands about to imitate the patterns in each one and closing his eyes in concentration.. On opening them, he peered across the pitch and then leapt to his feet. He pointed an accusing finger and yelled angrily, "SPY!!"

The others turned to see what he was on about and caught a glimpse of pale hair just as it slipped behind the stands across the field. "It's that smarmy Malfoy!" Ron spat venomously. He growled as he gave chase, "Just wait till I get my hands on that scrawny neck of his! I'm going to punch his pointed little face into the next century!"

Taking long strides, Ron easily outstripped his friends. They were soon trailing in his wake, practically running just to keep up. Hermione begged him not to start anything. "He's not worth it, Ron. Please! Be reasonable! Just report him to Professor McGonagall -- she'll do the right thing!"

"To hell with the 'right thing', Hermione! That snot-nosed creep is up to no good, and I'm going to have his memory modified to be sure he doesn't remember any of our plays!"

His sister felt compelled to chime in, adding, "Oh, stop it, Ronald! Forget about him!" She reasoned that Draco wasn't spying on their Quidditch plays at all; if he was, he would have brought his knuckle-dragging friends along for backup. No, she thought, he's here to watch me with Harry. Laughing to herself, she determined, He's jealous! To tell the truth, she rather . . liked the idea of him watching her. A shiver ran through her, although she was no longer cold.

"Ron, the girls are right," Harry jumped in, grabbing him by the arm and panting to catch his breath. "Let it go. Trust me, you don't want to be banned from Quidditch. It totally sucks. And this year, it would be a real ban, not just something trumped up by Umbridge -- and it could actually be permanent."

The hot-tempered redhead stopped suddenly, as if this thought had never occurred to him. "Well . . I suppose you may have a valid point."

"Of course, he does." Hermione sighed, "Ron, I don't want you to lose your prefect's badge or your right to play Quidditch just because you punched some worthless ferret. And you know he'd make it worse than it really was. Please, please be sensible," she pleaded.

He took a few deep breaths, working hard to collect himself. "You are the best friends a guy ever had." Smiling as though he were forcing it, he pulled her to him, kissed her on the temple, and added, "My special girl -- where would I be without you?"

"In perpetual trouble, that's where," Hermione teased, poking him in the side. Ginny and Harry were both relieved that Ron had finally relaxed enough to let her have a calming influence on him. Not one hex had been thrown nor fist fight broken out between him and Malfoy, or any Slytherin, since school began this year. It was rather unsettling, like the calm before the storm, and Hermione fought down a nervous shudder. She added, "Now let's go see how the two fledgling proprietors are managing on their first day."

Once Harry and Ginny had stashed their broomsticks and freshened up a bit, the four of them started out on the 20-minute trek to Hogsmeade. As they walked, the sixth-years spoke of something unbelievable that had happened yesterday in Advanced Herbology. They said that Pansy Parkinson had actually volunteered, without any apparent malevolent intent, to assist Neville Longbottom with his charms. Everyone in their class had been shocked, but Ginny merely said, "I know."

Ron jeered rudely, "How could you possibly know? It only happened yesterday."

Looking at him as though he were really daft, she replied irritably, "Detention, remember? I was in the Potions classroom last night when Professors Lupin and Sprout came in, and I overheard her telling him. She also said Hermione and Pansy were both very bright and that Pansy has a good command of her skills." Returning to the present, Ginny asked curiously, "But it is strange -- what possibly could have caused Parkinson to change her opinion of Neville, after all this time of loathing him?"

Ron shrugged, "Oh, you know her. She probably just infiltrated the class on some damned spy mission for You-Know-Who in the first place. Most likely, she's going to hex him the first chance she gets." Harry nodded in agreement, but Hermione saw it differently.

"You don't think she maybe had an honest-to-goodness change of heart?" she proposed.

Harry snorted and tossed in his two knuts worth, "She'd have to have one before it could change, wouldn't she?"

Hermione tutted, "You are both so obtuse!" Ron and Harry gave her a look that indicated that they neither one knew what she meant, so she clarified, "Clueless! Thick! Dim-witted!"

"All right, we got the message," Ron interjected. "Well, if you're so damn smart -- and we all know you are, Miss 'Boo-Hoo-I-Only-Got-12-O.W.L.S.-and-I-Was-Hoping-For-100!' What's your opinion?"

Harry rolled his eyes at Ginny, who only smirked in reply. He was thinking, It's just like in first-year Charms class; are those two ever going to grow up? Well, at least they both finally admitted they liked each other.

Hermione explained her theory. On Friday morning at breakfast, as Ron and Harry talked over Quidditch strategies, Neville suddenly turned to Hermione and told her that Professor Sprout had asked him for a favor. She wanted him to give the Advanced Herbology class a first-hand account of what the Cruciatus Curse had done to his parents. Normally, he wouldn't have done it, but she is his favorite teacher, and she said she needed to stress to the class the importance of the work they're doing. Besides, she had promised Gryffindor 30 bonus points if he would. He whispered to Hermione that the 60 points he had earned since first arriving at Hogwarts had hurt a lot more than this would, so how could he refuse?

Once they were in class, Professor Sprout called on Neville. He was a bit shy at first, despite the relatively small class size. His confidence slowly grew, as he told them what it was like to grow up basically an orphan because of some overzealous Death Eater. He never really knew his parents; he lived with his grandmother, who treated him like a hapless squib. He could only see his mum and dad occasionally, and when he did, he was keenly aware of the fact that they didn't know who he was or why he was there. But they were always kind to him.

To make matters worse, as a tribute to his parents, Neville's grandmother insisted that he remember them, so she put a few of her own memories into a Pensieve for him to view. At first, it all sounded great, but when he looked in, he felt indescribable anguish. Before, he hadn't really known what he had lost -- he was too young when it had happened -- so he could bear it. But now, seeing them
interact, knowing their mannerisms . . feeling what he had lost -- it was simply horrible. Much to Gran's chagrin, he never attempted a second viewing.

He finished by saying that he was proud of his parents. They fought for something they believed in: a world that would be a safe place to raise their son. It had cost them their sanity, and with it, their dream of being parents, their freedom -- their very lives. By the end of his heart-wrenching story, practically everyone in the room was choking back tears or weeping silently. Hermione chanced a glance at Pansy, and incredibly, it looked like she, too, might actually . . . cry.

Hermione was misty-eyed when she added, "As we were leaving class, I told Neville he'd done very well. Do you know what he said to me?" They all shook their heads. "He said he was wrong; it was far worse than mere physical pain."

Amazed that Neville would share his intensely private story with so many others, Ginny looked at Hermione in awe. How had we gotten on this subject? Oh yes. I remember, she recollected, Pansy Parkinson's mysterious reasons for helping Neville. Refocusing, Ginny shook her head in disbelief and said callously, "I still can't believe that Parkinson was actually 'moved'. It must be a ploy, since the bitch has no heart whatsoever."

Hermione began, "That was my first thought as well. But if you could have seen her--" then she stopped, suddenly shifting gears. "You should be very proud of your dad, Ginny. It's all his doing that this project ever got off the ground. It's about time his influence started expanding at
work."

Ginny felt slightly stunned; judging by her _expression, she had no clue what Hermione was talking about. Influence? she wondered. Since when does Dad have any influence? Not wanting to appear completely ignorant, she said nothing for the moment, but her face spoke volumes. Hermione instantly recognized her own blunder and worked to grasp for a new topic of conversation.

Yet Ron, who was never the most sensitive person under the best of circumstances, completely missed the message his sister was sending. He boasted cheerily, "Yeah, ever since he got that raise and his new title -- and wasn't it great that he got a bonus this summer?"

"What?!" Ginny stopped walking and gave Ron a look of disgust, her fists on her hips. She was never so insulted! “No, I didn't know that! What raise? I hope it was significant -- after all, he nearly died for those bastards last year! And a bonus, too? That's . . wonderful," she said. But her tone didn't match her words.

Hermione picked up on her disappointment, saying apologetically, "I suppose your mum just forgot to tell you. Or maybe she didn't want to remind herself of the suffering he went through to get it."

Still, Ginny felt somewhat betrayed. "I know, I - I felt simply awful for Dad, and Merlin knows if anyone deserves it, my parents do . . but -- I just can't believe this!"

"What? That no one told you?” Harry asked, confused.

She hesitated. She was starting to feel a bit guilty for being so petty. After all, her dad could have died, and she knew she should be grateful that he had not. Then she explained, "Well, Dad rarely gets any extra money, and when he does, we kids usually get something a bit . . special. I asked Mum for one thing this year: if we could manage it, I wanted a decent broomstick, like the one Ron got last year when he started playing Quidditch for Gryffindor. Instead, I'm flying around the pitch on this ancient piece-of-crap broom that Charlie used when he was in school!"

Ron corrected her, "Actually, I got my new broomstick as a congratulatory gift for making prefect." Hermione elbowed him and gave him a look that shut him right up.

"Whatever," Ginny sighed despondently. "Anyway, I figured the Ministry must have overlooked Dad again, like they always do at bonus time, and well -- Mum said we couldn't afford it. It's just so unfair!" She paused then added softly, "Why couldn't they have done this one thing for me? Or at least told me the truth?"

Her brother put his hands on her shoulders gently and said, "I don't know, sis. I'm sorry - I - I really thought you knew."

Casting Ron's hands away, she huffed, "I'm always the last to know everything! Born last, always last!" Then she stomped away.

"Aww, come on, Ginny--" he pleaded, but she was already gone.

Harry and Hermione exchanged an awkward glance. Facing his friends, Ron sighed in frustration. He grumbled, "Last to know everything, eh? We just told her about what happened in Advanced Herbology, didn't we? We always include her! She's just so frigging -- emotional!"

Harry laughed mirthlessly, "Yeah, it's so un-Weasley-like. Can't imagine where she comes by that trait."

Ron, completely missing his jab, fired back, "How the hell should I know?"

Hermione ignored their sniping. She touched Ron's arm and said gently, "Don't worry. She'll come around." She paused briefly then said, "Look, it's natural that she'd be upset.. I mean, you and I both knew about this; even Harry knew. And she didn't?" She reprimanded, "You really need to learn to communicate better with her. Less protective, big brother, more concerned, loving friend. All right?"

~~~
Not caring where the others went, Ginny walked around the village of Hogsmeade aimlessly, debating if she even wanted to see the twins today. She certainly didn't want to speak to Ron or his friends. They obviously aren't my friends; they never tell me anything! Even my own mum and dad lied to me -- they knew how badly I wanted that Nimbus 3000!

She decided to seek out Luna. With Ginny not knowing when her practice would be over, they had agreed just to keep a lookout for each other, and if they met, that would be fine. As she passed by an unfamiliar alley, someone reached out and surreptitiously touched her shoulder. She spun all the way around to see who it was.

Draco took her by the hand and pulled her into the alley. He pushed her back into a narrow opening that was not visible from the street. As he did so, he held one finger up in front of his lips and whispered, "Shhh--" in an attempt to keep her from screaming. Incredibly, she didn't.

"Malfoy," she sneered.

"Got it in one," Draco replied softly. "Tell me, are all Weasleys as sharp as you?" He moved to her side so that his back was toward the street, blocking her from view.


She hissed, "I know why you were at the Quidditch pitch today, and it had nothing to do with the game! Now quit stalking me!"

He said calmly, "I need to talk to you." Leaning nearer to her, he moved so his face was very close to hers. He inhaled her scent, and she edged away and swallowed nervously.

She told herself, He doesn't scare me! and said defiantly, "Don't you get it? I have nothing to say to you. I told you, the other night was just a -- mistake! It never should have happened."

"Oh, that," he said coolly, leaning back and crossing his arms in front of his chest, as if he could care less. He shrugged nonchalantly, "Perhaps. And what a lovely mistake it was. But that's not why I need to talk to you."

"No?" She asked snidely, "Then what else could a smarmy ferret such as yourself want?"

"Cute," he said with a nasty grin. "Ah, how to put this delicately," he pondered aloud, as if he were actually considering the most polite way to begin. After a few seconds, he blurted out, "Why the bloody hell does your heart believe you and I should get married someday, when we can barely stand each other? Aside from the obvious--" he paused to leer at her and lick his lips, "fringe benefits."

"You mean, you can actually think of some?" she retorted scathingly.

He suggested, "How about shagging one another's brains out on a daily basis? A guy could really get used to that."

Ginny was fuming. He always said the worst possible thing at the most inappropriate time. She damn well knew why her heart believed such an utterly ludicrous plan. But she couldn't possibly tell him; he'd only laugh at her. Instead, she responded with a threat.

"I should report you, you know!" she threatened.

"To whom?" Draco asked snootily.

"Ron, of course. He is a prefect in my house."

He snorted, "And what are you going to say to him?" He added in a girlish squeal, "Help me, big brother, I've slept with the evil, incredibly sexy Draco Malfoy, and even though I came all over the place, now he's being all mean to me! Waaahhh!"

She snapped back, "Anyway, what the hell are you doing here today? I thought you had a 2:00 Quidditch practice."

"Oh, you've taken to learning my schedule? How sweet, how -- endearing," he said in a mocking tone. He slipped his fingers into her hair, caressing the nape of her neck and making her skin tingle. But her glare said to back off, so he relented, saying, "No, actually, Captain Warrington forgot that this was a Hogsmeade Weekend. Our team has a third-year who had never been here, then there's Crabbe and Goyle, who are still enamored of this place -- though I can't fathom why." He paused momentarily then refocused. "Answer my question, then you can go."

She played stupid. "Which was . . ?"

He snarled in frustration, "Why?"

But instead of answering him, she kicked him in the shin to try and get away. He reached out to grab her and force her back against the wall, but her reflexes were quicker. Looking out into the street, she shouted, "Luna!"

Ginny hadn't really seen her friend, but she had read once in a muggle magazine of Hermione's that if someone was after you, it was a good idea to pretend you saw someone you knew to try and dissuade the person who was chasing you. He fell back as she slipped into the crowd. She felt instant relief and thought, Well, that was a lucky escape. I nearly felt like kissing him!

Frustrated, Draco slumped against the wall. A few minutes later, Blaise Zabini came into view on the crowded street. He was looking around, as if on his guard, when he caught a glimpse of Draco and called out to him. Walking toward the alley, he asked, "Malfoy, what are you doing here? Was practice cancelled?"

His friend nodded and sighed, "Yeah. Hey, want to go get a drink down at the Hogshead? I'm sick of this fucking crowd already." Blaise agreed, and they made their way toward the less-populated pub in Hogsmeade.

As they entered, Blaise asked for a private table and cast a silencing charm. "Why the charm?" Draco asked.

"I need to give you an update on -- you know," he said quietly.

"Really? Has Nott tried anything? Or Grant?"

"No, not yet," Blaise replied. "But I've got some good news. I was able to arrange to go home. I'm leaving later today."

"Good," said Draco, truly relieved. "If you're not here, they can't hurt you. Are there good wards up at your house to protect your family?"

"Of course. And my parents are thinking of transferring me to a new school. Dumbledore recommended a Fidelius Charm, but I don't think that's necessary."

Draco was stunned. "Wh-what? You're -you're leaving? As in, leaving the country? For how long?" Then as if it just struck him what Blaise had said, he added snidely, "And since when do you trust the Headmaster?"

Blaise sighed, "Since I realized I didn't have much choice. I was desperate, so I confided in Professor Snape. He spoke with Dumbledore, and the three of us met in secret to discuss everything. How to do this, when I should leave, all that."

Draco jumped to the most logical conclusion. "So you need me to be your Secret Keeper, is that it? I would, if you asked me; you know I would."

His friend smiled and shook his head. "I told you, I don't want to go that way. I really see no point. Once I'm out of Hogwarts, I should be safe." When the boy across the table didn't seem convinced, Blaise reassured him, "It'll be fine. No matter what, you needn't worry -- I'll be all right."

Draco sipped on his butterbeer then asked, "What about Marianne, then? Was she heartbroken?"

Blaise hedged for a moment. "I haven't actually . . . told her . . yet. But I will," he insisted.

"Are you insane? You've got to. This could be bad for her entire family. If Nott and Grant decide to go after you, then you could very well be endangering the Elliots. Since you profess to love their daughter, I thought you might want to protect them. After all, they're just muggles; they wouldn't know what to do."

The boys finished their drinks and left the pub. Weaving in and out of the throng of students, they made their way back through the town. With his mission to speak to Ginny a complete and utter failure, and with Blaise not feeling up to shopping around, they decided to return to the castle for a game of chess.

When they got back to the Slytherin Common Room, Blaise went to their dorm to grab the new chess set he had gotten last week for his birthday. Heading for his trunk, he noticed a neatly-wrapped package addressed to him lying on his bed. The words "From Grandmamma Zabini" were written clearly on the label. He was surprised she had thought to send him something; after all, the old bat was ancient and typically forgot her grandchildren's birthdays. He opened it cautiously, making sure it wasn't some sort of gag gift sent by one of his roommates -- or worse.

His breath caught as he eyed the fine gilt-edged frame of the beautiful mirror. The glass was oval-shaped and stood on a small pedestal. It appeared to have been designed to set on one's nightstand or bureau. There were words inscribed on the base, and he read them in the faint torchlight:

"I might reflect your own face or another one's instead;

Speak your lover's name to see who she last took to her bed."
The inscription bluntly assumed that only a wizard would have use for a Fidelity Mirror, but he didn't find this at all strange. The Zabinis were a staunchly traditional wizarding family; that meant the man was the final authority in his home and accountable to no one, least of all his wife. Regardless of how many sexual conquests he had, his wife was for him alone: her fidelity had to be guaranteed to ensure the purity of the family line.

Blaise did find it a bit surprising that Grandmamma had sent this particular gift. Was she saying something about his choice in girlfriends, or did she even know he had one? Maybe this was just as a preparation for when he got married.

For a moment, he thought about his research on enchanted mirrors. He had found little detail written about this kind, other than what purpose it served. It certainly looked authentic. As he surveyed the gift, he wrestled with his desire to use it. In the end, he couldn't resist the temptation; he yearned to know, to reassure himself of her faithfulness. He was risking an awful lot for her. Looking into the mirror, he whispered, "Marianne."

Moments later, with his hand wrapped around a small vial, Blaise Zabini lay dead on the floor. He was just 17.

~End of Chapter~

Now, I know that Blaise has been somewhat of a jerk to the Slytherin girls, but he is our hero's best friend, and for any of you who may have liked him, I'm sorry. I seriously debated whether or not to do this, but I finally decided it had to happen this way. (author ducks from flames and/or flying debris)

Please share your opinions by reviewing! Also, if you have any theories, please e-mail or OWL them to me; do not put them in your review. And for the curious, here are the references I mentioned above:

Chapter 4, “Dogma” - “That's what the dead do, you know -- they watch the living, especially in the shower.” Spoken by Chris Rock, who played the apostle you never heard of, Rufus the 13th Apostle.

Chapter 7, My Favorite 'Marxism' - Draco whispered sarcastically, “Careful, Weasley -- if you get any closer, you'll be in back of me!” This is paraphrased from the 1937 Marx brothers film “A Day at the Races.”

Chapter 9, “Matilda” - Draco's thought about Hermione: 'A bright mudblood?' The line was “A bright child?” If you've seen Matilda, think of the inflection in Miss Trunchbull's tone; you'll see why I threw it in on the last rewrite.

Also, the Jane Austen references: Mr. Bingley, Mr. Collins, Mr. Wickham, and Mr. Bennett are all characters in Pride and Prejudice (it was no mistake that Mr. Collins was the bumbling idiot), and (Dr.) Bertram was a character from Mansfield Park, although Jane Austen called him Sir Thomas Bertram. I couldn't resist; I needed several English-sounding names and didn't know where else to pull them from!

And thank you, Vanessa, for the review! :-D

Author’s Notes: Wow, two chapters in one day! Thank you all for reading. This chapter is named for a song recorded by the Polish singer Basia (pronounced Bah’-sha). I think of her as eastern Europe’s answer to Celine Dion, except she’s a bit more jazzy.

Anyway, looong chapter ahead -- a lot of stuff happens, including some hot and heavy D/G action, a bit of crossover with “The Mists of Avalon,” the return of Moaning Myrtle, and more Order of the Phoenix members . . . so let’s get started. Please review when you are done! Thanks :-)

CHAPTER 11 – Yearning

Blaise Zabini’s funeral was a quiet, somber affair that took place a few days later. Only relatives, a few close friends, and a handful of Hogwarts professors were in attendance, but this was typical. Wizards and witches who took their own lives were looked upon as outcasts who were obviously mentally unstable. Their lives were not to be celebrated nor their deaths recognized. As such, the casket remained closed, no photos or portraits were displayed, and aside from Draco, none of his housemates were present.

Staring in disbelief at the handsomely carved casket, it was hard for Draco to fathom that the body of the closest friend he had ever known was actually inside it. He lingered after the funeral was over, Ginny at his side. He had asked -- no, begged -- her to go with him. She had intended to refuse, but he looked so helpless, so desperately alone, she found that she couldn’t. Now that she was here, she was glad she’d accepted. He seemed to need her companionship, and they hadn’t sniped at each other once.

They sat there together in silence, each one thinking their own private thoughts. As she pondered how long Draco and Blaise had known each other, he reflected on what had happened after they left Hogsmeade. He kept mulling over that one aching question, the only one for which there was no answer: Why?
*****
Draco had been growing impatient. Walking toward the stairs, he called out, “Blaise, what is taking you so damn long to find that chess set? You just got it last week -- you haven’t had time to lose any pieces!” When his friend did not respond, he sighed loudly and tromped downstairs to see what the hell could be keeping him.

As he entered the dorm room, the silence was deafening. There lie Blaise: unmoving, not breathing. He ran to him and shouted, “Blaise! Wake up! Please, please wake up!” When he felt no pulse or breath, he screamed, “NO!!!”

Cradling Blaise’s head tenderly in his hands, he cried for the first time in Merlin knew how long. He sobbed loudly, not particularly caring who might overhear this blatant display of raw emotion. He eventually composed himself and surveyed the room for -- he didn’t know what. A suicide note, evidence of foul play, anything . . . some clue that could possibly hold the key to what had happened. That was when he spotted the torn packaging and the mirror lying on the bed. On reading its inscription and seeing Blaise’s fingers wrapped loosely around an empty vial, he quickly deduced what must have happened and ran to his friend’s side.

“You fucking idiot!” he yelled through furious tears. He grabbed his friend’s limp shoulders and shook them roughly. “You had everything to live for -- what were you thinking, you selfish prig?!”

Draco’s heart was racing. He stood up, pacing the floor around his friend’s lifeless body. “I’ve got to find Professor Snape,” he said to no one. He bolted out of the room, up the stairs, and out of the Slytherin Common Room. Desperately seeking his Head of House, he silently prayed that he had not gone to the village for the afternoon. He soon found Snape, who Flooed for Madam Pomfrey. When the mediwitch arrived, she confirmed that Blaise had indeed poisoned himself. It was too late to save him. He was gone.
*****
Even as he sat here at the funeral, he could not comprehend it. How could Blaise have been so despondent over Marianne’s betrayal that he would actually kill himself? Over a girl? A muggle, no less? For the boy to even consider such an unspeakable act . . . it was just so unlike him.

Then why did you do it?

As sons of Death Eaters, Blaise and Draco shared a unique bond. It was sort of a ‘members-only’ club, one that could only be fully appreciated by those who lived it every day. They had a keen understanding of the cruelty their fathers were capable of. This had created a feeling of kinship between them, weaving some connecting thread that not many understood. Most people wondered how the two ever became friends, each one being as ruthless as the other, but they actually had a lot in common. They shared an unwavering respect for their fathers, although it stemmed mostly from duty and fear rather than love. They also secretly dreaded the day that an overzealous Ministry agent, or worse, some surreal, unspeakable horror might take their fathers away. When that day had arrived for Lucius Malfoy, his son’s world fell apart, and Blaise’s letters of support helped sustain him through the very difficult time that followed.

Pulling him out of his thoughts, Ginny stroked Draco’s hand tenderly. She sighed, gently swiped a fresh tear from his cheek, and asked, “Do you want to walk outside and get some fresh air?” The day was unseasonably warm, and there was a lovely rhododendron garden on the grounds that she wanted to see.

“Yeah, sure,” he answered absently. He slowly rose to his feet, sapped of all energy. He had not been able to eat much the past few days. Food had lost all its flavor. With his headaches recently intensified, sleep had been elusive; when rest finally did come, it did not refresh him.

The pair ambled along the rock path in the meticulously-kept garden, moving among the tall, hardy bushes. As they walked, Ginny considered how little she really knew about Draco Malfoy. He must have some capacity to care, perhaps even to love. He was obviously devastated by his friend’s untimely and inexplicable death, and his emotions were palpable. Just being here today, she too felt incredibly sad, although she had never really thought much of Blaise. Maybe it was seeing Draco in such misery that made her feel that way.

She felt very close to him all of a sudden and decided she was ready to share something with him, something intensely private. She took his hand, then biting her lip, she asked hesitantly, “Listen, er, do you want me to -- help take your mind off of -- all of this?”

He looked at her in wonder, his mouth hanging open. Gods, I love this girl.

“I thought you’d never ask,” he replied breathily. Pushing her in between the tall bushes, he wrapped his arms around her and lavished her with hot, wet kisses. Sure, he was nearing mental exhaustion, but he could always find the physical strength for this.

Somewhat surprised, but by no means repulsed, she backed away slightly. He wondered for the briefest of moments if this wasn’t what she had meant, but he did not regret it or even think of stopping.

Although this was not what she meant, she soon found herself relinquishing to his deep, hungry kisses, a singular thought filling her brain: Not what I meant, but it’s definitely good. She returned his passion, enthusiastically working up a good-sized love bite on his neck. As she did, he moaned, “Ginny,” into her silky ginger tresses, breathing in their crisp, fresh fragrance. He launched an all-out assault on her lips; almost immediately, his eager hands were wandering everywhere, worshipping her body with tender strokes and caresses.

For a fraction of a second, his mind protested, Why can’t I keep my hands off of her, even at my best friend’s funeral? But his body clinched that argument, quickly convincing the rest of him, Why would I want to, when she feels so bloody amazing?

He removed her robes in record time and transfigured them into a velvety, forest-green blanket. He hastily cast the two mandatory Charms (Silencing and Cushioning) and magically spread the blanket. Meanwhile, Ginny pointed her wand toward a sign she had seen just outside the garden’s entrance. She reworded it to read, “Danger – Keep Out!”

Catching her movements out of the corner of his eye, he asked with a sexy grin, “What did you do, you clever witch?”

“Just giving us some modicum of privacy. You don’t mind, do you?” she asked huskily. All the while, she laid her delicate hands in places that were making him feel weak and empowered at the same time.

“Mind? Hell, no. I don’t want anyone seeing you naked but me,” he growled, kissing her possessively.

Without much thought, she murmured, “Good, that’s . . good.” But it wasn’t long until she could say nothing but his name, softly and lovingly, between her tender kisses. She worked on undoing his robes, her lips never left his. As the offending garments were removed, he struggled to maintain bodily contact with her so he could feel that glorious touch of hers he loved so much.

At almost the last moment, Ginny tried to convince herself that she didn’t want this, that it somehow wasn’t right. Sweet Merlin, we’ve just attended Blaise’s funeral! How could we be so selfish? But it was far too late for that. Hesitating for all of four or five seconds, she pounced at him with renewed vigor, pushing him onto the softened area beneath them, where they both surrendered to their feelings completely.
*****
Both of them utterly spent, they rested for a bit. Ginny eventually rose and reached for her wand. She whispered the spell Fleur had taught her, stood up to dress, and then said, “You know, we really should start looking for our portkey. Professor Dumbledore said it would only be active from 4:07 to 4:11. By the way, do you know what time it is?”

“What do I care?” Draco said casually. As his eyes lingered on her lightly-freckled skin, he wished she weren’t in such a hurry to get dressed again. He drew a deep breath then sighed, “Ginny, you are sensational. Incredible. And yet . . you’re driving me insane! I mean, most girls I’ve been with, they hung all over me. But you never even spare me a glance. I see you in the Great Hall or at the library and—” he paused. “You ignore me. Why?” he asked, the hurt evident in his tone.

Or at the Quidditch pitch, she thought. She was flattered that he had been watching her, apparently enough to notice that she was not returning his gaze. For a moment, her heart stirred. So the emotionally detached Draco Malfoy does have feelings. But she knew that in the natural order of things, reality would soon return and bring with it a few bitterly cold facts: Weasleys hate Malfoys, and vice versa, she told herself. Malfoy men have only one use for women. This isn’t real. I’m such a fool.

When she ceased her self-ridicule, she saw that he was studying her, waiting for her to say something. She worked to force down any feelings she might fancy herself to have for him, convincing her mind that they were simply a fabrication of her own design, and therefore, she could just as easily make them vanish. “You know why,” she replied calmly, as she pulled on her stockings. “Because of who you are, and who I am, I just -- have to.”

He started getting ready at a leisurely pace. “I know, what you’re saying does make sense, but it’s just that—”

After struggling for a moment, he said, “Ginny, you’re special. To be honest . . . I’ve never known a girl like you.”

With a mildly skeptical laugh, she asked, “To be what?! Honest?” She looked to where they had shared such intensity a short while ago -- so much so that it made her knees weak just thinking about it, and she felt even more idiotic. Aggravated that she could not suppress her conflicting feelings, she snapped at Draco, “I’m sure you don’t feel anything for me or any girl, so you can just stuff your so-called honesty.”

He was puzzled by her remark. “What are you on about?” he asked, getting quite peeved with her.

“Your ex-girlfriends -- no, your conquests -- they talk, you know? Were any of them ‘special’? Perhaps all of them?” she asked snidely. At his confused expression, she sighed, “You really have no clue, do you?” She turned the blanket back into her dress robes, and after sweeping off any debris, she put them back on. She said stiffly, “We will discuss this some other time.”

“I look forward to it,” he said without emotion, continuing to stare at her intently. As soon as these words left his mouth, a clock near the garden chimed loudly, four times.

Knowing they were nearly out of time, Ginny pleaded, “Oh, come on, you! The portkey will only be active for a few minutes! I do not want another detention; we’re lucky to have been able to come at all today.”

“Yeah,” he moaned, licking his lips, “weren’t we? And it was great.”

Ginny sighed exasperatedly, “Is that all you think of?” He shrugged and smirked at her.

But truthfully, he had no intention of missing the portkey time either. Using his wand, he finished dressing in seconds, and any evidence of their tryst in the garden was removed. They soon found the ragged old umbrella that was their portkey back to the school. It was covered with rust and draped in cobwebs. Draco thought it looked disgusting, while Ginny thought it looked like something from her family’s shed.

As they waited for it to activate, he put his arm around her and kissed her cheek. Another girl may have seen the gesture as positively endearing, and Ginny might have too -- if he were a different boy. However, since it was Draco, she saw it as a sign of ownership, a silent message that said, ‘You’re mine’, and it did not set well with her. She instinctively moved a few inches away from him, much to his chagrin. He sighed loudly in frustration, but she told him coolly, “I don’t know if we’re being met by someone, and if so, who that someone might be.”

Each of them placed a hand on the aged umbrella. Shortly after 4:07, they were standing outside the Hogwarts gates, being met by Rubeus Hagrid. “Hello, Ginny,” the half-giant said, smiling tenderly at her, then he added gruffly, “Afternoon, Malfoy.” Draco sneered in reply.

“Hello, Hagrid,” she said with a sugary-sweet smile, as she distanced herself a bit further from Draco. “Thank you for meeting us.”

“No trouble at all. Wouldn’t leave you out here to your own, now would I?”

They entered the grounds, and Hagrid clanked the gate shut behind them. He marveled at the unusual pair, wondering why they were together in the first place. Why would Ginny go to a funeral for a Slytherin, with another Slytherin? It don’t make no sense. Thinking he saw a love-bite on Malfoy’s pale neck, Hagrid had an unsettling thought that the two of them might actually be romantically involved. But he put that idea down straight away as pure codswollop. Why would she go out with the likes of Draco Malfoy? She’s too good for him. But, stranger things have happened. Look at Lily Evans and James Potter. I had her pegged for liking Severus Snape meself. She always stood up for him.

The three of them proceeded in silence, Hagrid and Ginny at ease in each other’s company, Draco wearing a tight expression as if he were irked about something. They walked together for several minutes until Hagrid’s path diverged. “I’ll leave you two now. Ginny, you’ll be alright?” he asked, eyeing her companion suspiciously and definitely concerned for the youngest Weasley. With a smile that appeared somewhat forced, she nodded, and he said, “I gotta go head over to the greenhouse and retrieve some more of that . . that er . . . stuff for Madam Pomfrey. She and Professor Snape are needing more of it, to er, . . never mind.”

As he walked away, Ginny could have sworn she heard him muttering regretfully to himself, “I should not have said that . . . Definitely . . should not—”

As Draco and Ginny drew near the castle steps, he impulsively grabbed her hand. He shoved her toward a small stone bench veiled within a cluster of trees. Pulling her down with him, he sat on the bench and said roughly, “We need to talk about us. Now.”

“There’s an ‘us’ to talk about?” she asked bluntly.

He sighed in exasperation. “I don’t get you at all, Ginny. What goes on in your brain? I mean, sometimes, you actually seem to like me -- that’s usually a prerequisite for sex, especially for girls -- but then at other times, you act like I’m something a hippogriff dropped.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, becoming mildly irritated with him.

He grumbled, “Just now, with Hagrid! Moving so bloody far away from me, just to prove to that creature that you don’t ‘like’ me?” She gasped softly in offense, but he went on, jeering sarcastically, “Oh, no, you obviously can’t stand me; you just shag me senseless every now and again! Anyway, who cares what a freak like that thinks?”

By now, she was angry. She said defensively, “Hagrid is my friend! He is also friends with my brother and his friends.” Then she half-whispered, “I’ve got to be careful, or Ron will find out that you’re my . . that we’re having . . semi-regular . . . relations.” As she said this, she looked away and crossed her arms coldly.

But he would not be ignored any longer; he grabbed her arm and forced her to face him. “See? That’s exactly what I mean. You act like I’m some arrogant, cold-hearted bastard, someone you wouldn’t give the time of day to, but what you do give to me . .” He paused momentarily then said affectionately, “That passion, that spark in your eyes . . it’s so intense, I can feel it somewhere deep in my soul. And the way you’ve helped me through all this with Blaise -- I mean, he was like a brother to me. I know you didn’t think much of him . . hell, you probably didn’t even know him, and yet you went to his funeral with me.”

He paused, turned away from her, then muttered weakly, “Can’t believe I’m saying this to you, of all people.”

Then he looked her in the eye and said clearly, “I like you. And although your behavior is sometimes . . unpredictable, I know you care for me. A little, anyway, or you wouldn’t have dropped your knickers for me -- twice,” he added with emphasis. “What I’m trying to say is . . . I need you, Ginny. And I don’t just mean the sex, which, by the way is definitely first-rate. I don’t know what this is, or why it is, but it isn’t just physical.” Then in a voice that hardly sounded anything like his own, he said quietly, “I know because . . of the way I feel with you when we’re not.” He leaned closer to her, kissed her softly on the cheek, and stroked her hair; this time, she did not move away. Running his fingers through her ginger mane, he thought, Gods, I sound like Saint Potter.

But he didn’t really care.

Ginny had the most bewildered expression on her face. She was looking at him intently, saying nothing, and trying to absorb what he was telling her. To be perfectly truthful, she too was struggling to grasp what she felt. She gazed at him and said softly, “I know exactly what you mean; it doesn’t make sense to me either. And I’m sorry if I’ve been snappish with you, but I honestly don’t know what I feel.”

She drew a sharp breath but then hesitated.

“What?” he prompted.

“Well, maybe I can enlighten you on my -- unpredictable behavior. This may not help much, but at least . . ”

“Anything, please. I am begging for this to be clarified,” he sighed.

Ginny sat up straight and inhaled deeply. Then, perhaps not very wisely, she decided to go against her instincts and trust him, taking him into her confidence. She figured it was probably the best time (If there ever was one, she thought) to reveal the one secret that nobody knew, not even her family or her best friends.

“Maybe if I answered your question from the alley in Hogsmeade -- you know, why my heart thinks we should get married someday?” She paused then chuckled nervously. “There is a reason. I’ll tell you, but you have to promise not to laugh.”

“Well, that depends,” was his initial response. Then he grinned and asked, “Will you at least acknowledge my existence in the Great Hall, from time to time? Gods, how can we carry on a proper ‘clandestine affair’ if we are forbidden to sneak an occasional glimpse of one another?”

She rolled her eyes. “Okay, but don’t let my brother or Harry catch you,” she warned. “And what about your friends?”

He snorted then said with acute honesty, “No worries there. I just lost the only one I really cared about anyway.”

“Right.” She hedged momentarily then took the plunge. “Well, as you may know, our family is a very old one, perhaps even older than your own.” He raised one eyebrow, but she ignored it. “The Blacks or the Malfoys -- neither predates the Weasley line. It dates back to Uther Pendragon. Before that, no one knows, but King Arthur is definitely our ancestor.”

He interrupted her, asking suspiciously, “You are King Arthur’s descendent? Is that who your dad was named for?” She nodded, and he remarked wryly, “Who knew the ‘Weasley history’ was so colorful?”

“It’s true,” she insisted earnestly. “Centuries ago, Mordred, Arthur’s son he had with his half-sister Morgaine, was about to become a father himself when he was killed. The mother-to-be was a young witch named Mary Weasley. They were going to get married and live near Camelot, but when Mordred died, she moved away. So the people in her new village wouldn’t banish her, she told them she was a widow. She had twins, a son and a daughter. Her daughter died of disease at age ten; her son also became seriously ill, but he survived. His mother never married, so he carried on the Weasley name.” She stopped briefly to gauge Draco’s reaction. “With me so far?” she asked.

Mildly intrigued, but still skeptical, he nodded and said, “Go on.”

“Well,” she continued, “there were no daughters born into Mary’s family for almost two hundred years. Only sons. Morgaine, High Priestess of Avalon, stood by and watched. Eventually, a Weasley did have a daughter, and when the girl turned eleven, the Priestess granted the family a legacy. She would get to visit Avalon and meet Morgaine and her Aunt Viviane, The Lady of the Lake.”

Ginny looked at him to see if he was still listening. He was, very intently, although he did not really believe a word of it. Shaking his head, he chuckled, “All right, Weasley, now I know you’re having me on, so you can stop with the fairy tales, okay? Morgaine and the Lady of the Lake are both myth. And this is answering my question how?”

She bit back, “They are real! And if you don’t shut it, I won’t tell you anything more!”

He sighed and closed his eyes, steepling his fingers on the bridge of his nose. In a very tired voice, he said, “Fine. You were saying, my dear?”

She breathed deeply then continued, “I turned eleven the year I started at Hogwarts. On June 21st, the summer solstice, I took a portkey to the edge of a mist-covered lake; a long, narrow boat arrived to ferry me across. The mists gradually lifted and there it was: Avalon.” Her eyes lit up at the memory, and Draco thought she might cry.

“I entered the Hall, and Morgaine invited me to sit down. She placed her hand on my head and said, ‘Guinevere—”

“Your real name is Guinevere?” Draco sneered with laughter. “Bloody hell -- that’s hilarious!”

“Oh, shut your face,” she snarled at him. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, laughing at my name! What about your own?”

He only glared back at her coldly, saying nothing.

Continuing with her story, Ginny said, “The Priestess said, ‘You have survived childhood and are now burgeoning on womanhood. You may ask one question, and my answer will be true.’”

Ginny shrugged, “Like any young girl, all I wanted to know was who I would marry when I grew up. I concentrated on Harry Potter with all my being, hoping it would help if she saw him in my heart.” Draco scoffed, and she narrowed her eyes at him briefly then pressed on.

“Anyway, Morgaine took my left hand in her right and placed them both on my heart. Then she put her left hand on my forehead and closed her eyes. Even though the room was stiflingly hot -- you know, like it is in Divination -- a shiver ran through me. It was over in a matter of seconds.

“She opened her eyes and pointed to The Lady of the Lake, saying, ‘One day soon, you will speak to a young man whose mother looks just like my Aunt Viviane. He is the one you will marry.’

“Confused, I started to ask her what she meant. But before I got the chance, the sweltering Hall, Morgaine, the Lady of the Lake -- they were all gone, and I was back home in my room, utterly exhausted. I must have slept for days afterward.”

She paused then Draco urged, “So what happened next?”

Ginny chuckled without amusement and said, “Well, I couldn’t wait for Ron to get home from school. I had to know what Harry’s mum looked like, but it was much too late to send an owl, especially a decrepit one like Errol.

“We met my brothers at King’s Cross, and I immediately asked Ron about Harry’s mum. She had red hair, green eyes, and was sort of pretty. He asked, ‘Why, already planning what your children will look like?’ The twins snickered -- even Percy bit back a grin. But when Mum threatened to hex their mouths off of their faces until dinner, that shut them all up,” she added with a smug grin.

“So I continued to pine away for Harry, hoping that Ron or maybe Morgaine was wrong. Then the summer before my third year, we went to the Quidditch World Cup. I saw a woman there who was a dead-ringer for the Lady of the Lake. My heart jumped; it was her! Then I saw your pointy little face and put it all together. She was your mother. I nearly died from the shock.”

For a moment, neither one said a word.

“My, that’s -- that’s interesting, Wealsey,” Draco concluded. “This trip to Avalon, it really happened? You’re not just messing with my head?” he asked, eyeing her doubtfully.

“Of course I’m not! Why would I make up some dumb prophecy, when it’s obvious I would much prefer it didn’t happen?” she said with a scoff.

He returned his own, saying with disgust, “And you expect me to believe that crap! Honestly, what do you take me for? And to think I just now . . . bared my soul to you!”

She gasped at him defiantly, fiercely proud of her Weasley heritage and its connection to the Pendragon line. She respected Morgaine’s gift, even if the results were -- less than desirable.

As she rose from the bench, Ginny’s eyes narrowed. “Believe whatever you want to, Malfoy. But when I first saw your mother and figured out who she was, I was horrified. I never said I wanted to marry you; I just knew that I would. I guess it’s up to you to change my mind.” She walked away in a huff.

Thoroughly vexed, he groused, “Whatever you say, Weasley.” Yet he stood up and followed her anyway.

They soon reached the opening they had come through earlier. Looking across the grounds, he spied a bench near one of the greenhouses. On it was Professor Lupin and beside him
was—

“Nymphadora?”

“Tonks?”

Draco touched Ginny’s arm and asked her suspiciously, “Since when do you know my cousin?” He seemed perplexed that the two of them could have ever met before.

She scurried to cover her tracks. “Well, I . . I don’t really. She’s a friend of my parents.” Not wanting to look Draco in the eye, she kept her eyes on the distant bench instead. Clearly, Tonks and Professor Lupin were on very friendly terms indeed, as she was practically sitting in his lap. Ginny added slowly, “I thought she was seeing my brother Charlie, but evidently -- they, er, broke up.”

“Looks like it,” he agreed. “What are they doing now? Can you tell?”

“Oh, he kissed her. Wait, now he’s kneeling in front of her,” Ginny informed him. Squinting her eyes, she asked, “Is he holding up a ring box?”

“Aww, shit. That stupid cousin of mine; only she would get involved with a damn werewolf. She is definitely one of a kind -- and thank Merlin for that! That awful pink hair—”

“Oooh, she kissed him back, and I think she’s -- yes, she’s crying, and he’s practically beaming . . oh -- this is sweet!”

“Oh, yeah, this is bloody wonderful. Remember, that idiotic bint is still related to me, and I do not approve of her becoming engaged to a werewolf. Wait till Mother hears about this!”

She lambasted him. “You are so prejudiced! Here you were, hands all over me not a half-hour ago, and I’m friends with both of them! Does that mean you disapprove of me?”

He said derisively, “No, you’re a pureblood witch, so you’re suitable, even if you are a bit -- misguided. But them—!” For once, words failed him. He sighed loudly, adding, “It’s just not right.”

“So you’re saying half-bloods and werewolves should not be married?”

Miffed at her accusation, he snarled, “She is not a half-blood! All the Blacks are purebloods!”

“Oh, really? And just how much do you know about your mother’s other sister? The one who’s not a known Death Eater? The one who isn’t a barmy maniac?”

He gasped at her impudence. “I happen to like my Aunt Bellatrix!”

She snorted quietly, “Loser.”

That set him off. “Look here, I’ve had just about enough of you!” He glared at her then passed by her to go inside the castle. She looked again to see what Lupin and Tonks were doing now. But they were already gone. Hmm, guess they went inside the greenhouse. Maybe they wanted to have a quick celebratory shag before dinner. But only students go there to ‘do the deed’. Surely, professors have their own private quarters . . .

Giving up on finding them again, she went into the castle as well. Besides, what am I, a voyeur all of a sudden? She rolled her eyes at her behavior. Not watching where she was going -- she was too ticked off at Draco for his horribly biased attitude -- she nearly bumped into Sophia Bellucci, the young girl from Italy, as she approached the front doors.

“Hello, Sophia. How are you?” Ginny asked in a friendly tone.

“Oh,” she began awkwardly in her thick accent, “I am well, Miss Weeeasley, how are you today?”

“I’m fine. And what brings you out on this brilliant afternoon, other than the lovely weather we’re having? It’s a good amount of sunshine, for this time of year.”

Sophia looked confused, as if this were a few too many English words for her to grasp at one time. Ginny simplified her question, asking the poor girl, “Nice day, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is bell-beau-beautiful weather. Sun hot, no?”

“Yeah, it is. Where were you just now?” she asked curiously.

“Just now?” Sophia asked, confused by the phrase. “Oh, oh -- from -- where did I come? Now?”

“Yes,” the older girl prompted. “Were you at Hagrid’s?”

“Ah, I did see Hagrid, yes. He’s very nice. I like his aneemals. The uni-un-unicur—”

“Unicorns,” Ginny finished for her. “Yes, they are lovely, aren’t they?”

“Oh, si, I like. Pretty.” She struggled for a better word then came up with, “Gras-ful.” She moved her hands fluidly, as if to illustrate their movements and flowing manes. Ginny thought, Not bad.

“Graceful,” she guessed aloud. The young girl nodded enthusiastically. “Well, Sophia, I’ll see you later. Glad you like it here. Bye.”

“Graci -- thank you, Miss Weeeasley. Arrivederci.” She turned and headed toward the dungeons, waving and smiling buoyantly. Ginny thought, She’s probably grateful to have had at least one English conversation in which she was actually understood.

As she walked the path leading toward Gryffindor Tower, she heard voices up ahead of her. She recognized Draco’s instantly, but was he talking with -- another girl? Finding herself a little jealous, she thought irritably, What was all that baring-my-soul-to-you shite? I should have known, the lying bastard!

When she rounded the next corner, any jealousy she felt was abruptly squelched. He was talking to Moaning Myrtle, evidently about Blaise. Ginny sighed to herself. I’m such a moron.

Myrtle asked Draco, “And this happened how many days ago?”

He answered, “Four. He died four days ago. Can you help me?”

The ghost thought for a moment, then said assuredly, “Yes, I’m sure I can.”

“Great! Thank you so much, Myrtle. I owe you one for this -- maybe even two.”

“Maybe,” she asked hopefully, “you can find someone who can help me leave Hogwarts?”

“Yes, yes, I will definitely get right on that,” he affirmed.

She grinned from ear to ear and said, “Wait here. I’ll be right back.” Then she zipped away through the nearest wall.

Ginny had a mystified look on her face. Draco grabbed both of her hands and kissed her lips soundly. Whirling her around, he explained why he was so excited. “It’s wonderful, Ginny. Moaning Myrtle says when a person dies here, their spirit remains on the grounds for a week, sometimes longer. If they choose to remain here, they become a ghost.”

“So you think that Blaise might wish to remain as a ghost?” she asked slowly, as if trying to determine how that would be ‘wonderful’.

“Hell, no!” he snapped at her, rather insulted. “That would be a terrible thing to wish on anyone, except maybe Pansy. No, Myrtle is going to find him for me -- his spirit, anyway -- so I can talk to him before he goes! Isn’t that brilliant?”

“Yes, I-I guess that would be . . good.” She wasn’t sure this was what Draco needed. But how could she talk him out of it, when he was so enthusiastic about it? She hadn’t seen him this excited, this hopeful, about anything since she first met him. And as it meant so much to him, she did not wish to dissuade him. “Yes, it is wonderful.”

“Damn right, it is. First, I’m going to yell at him and then I’m going to strangle that arrogant bastard for leaving without so much as a by-your-leave or kiss-my-arse. Frankly, he’s going to be glad he’s—”

As suddenly as she had left, Myrtle reappeared. He looked at her expectantly, asking as if she were daft, “Well?”

She had an odd look on her face and hesitated when she spoke. “Er, Draco . . I-I- don’t—”

But he couldn’t wait all year -- he only had three more days until Blaise would leave Hogwarts forever! He ranted excitedly, “Where is he? Did you bring him with you?”

A bit nervous, she hedged, “I don’t know how to say this, but he-he-he’s not here.”

“What do you mean?” he asked irritably. He was beginning to lose patience with her.

“I mean I can’t find his spirit. It’s-he’s not on the grounds,” she added with a slight wince.

“What does that mean?” He was getting more agitated by the second. Why did I have to meet up with a stupid ghost? he asked himself. She wasn’t making any sense at all!

But Myrtle was baffled as well. “I-I don’t understand it myself. What it means is,” she said warily, “if he’s not here -- then . . then he must not be dead.”

~End of Chapter~

I can see you now: “Blaise isn’t really dead? What the heck’s going on?” Fear not, all will be explained -- you must keep reading to find out! ;-) And to those who were shocked and/or disgusted by his ‘death’, vengeance shall be yours! (Go on, do your ‘happy dance’ around your computer now; we won’t laugh -- too much.) Regarding the ‘pseudo-fluff’, Draco is not turning into a softy. It’s just hard to express such feelings without a little tenderness.

In an attempt to keep him in character throughout, I tried to make it more of a ‘me’ centered thing, as he would probably think of himself first. And please forgive Ginny’s attitude toward him; I’m trying to write her as JKR might in a similar situation. (Can’t you just imagine what she’d say to that? “As if!!”) :-D

In the Credit Where it’s Due Department: A humongous *Thank You* to the late great Marion Zimmer Bradley, whose excellent book “The Mists of Avalon” inspired the Morgaine sequence. And some ‘Disclaimers within the Credit’, I know that MZB said The Lady of the Lake had dark hair, but most films depict her as a blonde, so I went with that. And Mordred did not father any children (that we know of). Call it “creative license.”

Oh, and Mrs. Weasley says, “Now, please be a dear and click where it says “Review!” and tell everyone what you thought of this chapter.” (THANKS, Ms. W!! :-D )

Author’s Notes: Thank you for your kind reviews! Sorry about having two terrible cliffhangers in a row, but it worked best that way. And you’re back now, aren’t you? ;-)

This chapter’s title is from the Bee Gee’s song (call it a guilty pleasure of mine - !). You know what they say; no one admits to actually owning a Bee Gees album, but they sold billions of copies to someone . . . !

CHAPTER 12 - Spirits Having Flown

“Not dead? Of course, he’s dead! We just got back from the bloody funeral!” Draco bellowed indignantly at Moaning Myrtle.

“Draco,” she asked him as gently as possible, “did you actually see the body? I mean, was the casket opened or closed?”

“It was closed. So no, we didn’t ‘see the body’,” he replied nastily.

“But if it was closed -- is it possible he might not have been in it at all?” she wondered aloud. Then she voiced what they were all thinking: “Why would they have a funeral for someone who’s not dead?”

“Why, indeed?” Draco snarled, his fingers curling and uncurling as if he might choke the next person who happened by. One staff member, in particular . . . he thought vengefully.

Distracted, Myrtle continued, “Do you suppose . . that could be why the casket was closed? Because it was actually -- empty?”

Shouting at her as if she were a small, stupid child, he growled, “Gods, you’re a ninny -- I told you before, it was a suicide!” That was all she could take of his rudeness; she burst into tears, wailing loudly and fully earning her nickname. He groaned in frustration, “Ugh, not that! Now, Myrtle, please—”

“Draco!” Ginny chided. “She was only trying to help!”

“Yes, I know that,” he snapped at her. Then he turned to Myrtle and said, “Look, I’m sorry . . You just threw me off when you said—” But this time, she would not be so easily appeased. She had gone beyond the veil for him, and this was the thanks she got? For what seemed like an eternity to Draco, but could have only have been a minute or two, she ranted about how unkind he was and how cruel he could be. She simply would not be placated this time, no matter how he pleaded with her.

Then Ginny got an idea that she thought might help to calm her down. As Myrtle’s anguished cries continued unabated, she approached her cautiously. Weighing each word carefully, she said, “Myrtle . . I know . . . how you died.”

Draco’s mouth fell open, shocked that Ginny thought that now was the best possible time to bring that up. He began in a threatening whisper, “Weasley—”

But the ghost’s babbling did cease instantly. “You do?” she asked hopefully. “How? Tell me, please. I am definitely ready to leave Hogwarts.”

Draco hissed, “Not yet! I still need to ask her a few more questions!”

“I don’t think she can help us any further, Draco,” she replied in a flat tone. “She’s helped us all she can. We need to look elsewhere.”

He ignored Myrtle’s ecstatic giggles, saying to Ginny, “You’re right, Weasley. And I’m not going to stand around and wonder about it. I’m going straight to the source!” He turned and ran down the hallway as fast as he could, despite the limited energy that now remained at his disposal. The day had been an emotional roller coaster. Running as if the answer would vanish if he didn’t hurry up and find it, he thought for a brief moment, Damn, I really shouldn’t have exhausted myself back in the gardens . . . but hell, it was definitely worth it!

Ginny groaned then started to chase after him, demanding, “Malfoy, where are you going?”

“To the hospital wing!” he yelled back over his shoulder.

Myrtle, who didn’t see the urgency or the connection, asked, “Why, are you sick?” Apparently, her mood had lightened tremendously and she had forgiven him for insulting her a few minutes ago.

“No!” he replied as he pressed on determinedly. “Madam Pomfrey -- that slag -- she was the one who pronounced him dead! I never have liked her. I’m going to give that lying bitch a piece of my mind then find out what the hell this is all about!”

“Oh, please be rational, Draco!” Ginny shouted as she trailed further and further behind. He was now about twenty feet ahead of her, but he would not be deterred form his mission.

Ginny stopped running and blew out a frustrated breath; she was tired to following him around the school in a futile attempt to keep him in check. If he wants to yell at the school’s Healer, he can do that on his own, she decided. Sighing, she said, “Oh, Myrtle. I swear, I’m either going to kill him, or I think I’m falling in love with the prat.”

The ghost laughed, “Yes, even though he can be a royal pain the arse, there is something rather -- endearing about him, isn’t there? Thank goodness he’s not like his father.”

“What?!” Ginny was shocked and turned around to face her. “You knew his father?”

“Well,” Myrtle confessed shyly, “I had sort of a crush on him, if you must know. He was quite a few years younger than me -- he didn’t even start at Hogwarts until long after I was dead -- but he was easily as handsome as his son. I’m rather embarrassed to admit it, considering how hateful he was -- constantly called me four-eyes, big ugly crybaby, and whatnot.”

Ginny snorted, muttering softly, “Hmph, that’s nothing. He only got worse when he left Hogwarts.” She thought about something for a second or two then asked, “So . . a ghost could have a crush on the living?”

Myrtle nodded in reply. “Oh, yes. I was enamored of Harry Potter for years. Up until last year, in fact, when he got so -- godawful weird.”

“I know exactly what you mean, Myrtle,” the redhead agreed with a faint smile. The conversation was giving Ginny an idea. “Funny you should mention a ghost having a crush on someone who is alive. In my first year at Hogwarts, I myself had sort of a crush on someone who was . . no longer . . . real.” At Myrtle’s bewildered look, Ginny stopped and bit her lip, thinking to herself, This is not starting off well.

She tried again. “Myrtle, do you remember who was Head Boy the last year you were alive?”

“Yes, vaguely. A boy named . . . somebody -- Riddle, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. Tom Riddle,” Ginny confirmed dryly. “Tom turned out to be a very bad wizard. He no longer goes by his name; today, he is called ‘The Dark Lord’ or ‘You-Know-Who’. People are afraid to say his name.” She stopped walking then said seriously, “He was the boy I had a crush on. Aside from Harry, of course.”

Myrtle was stunned. She gasped, “Tom Riddle became The Dark Lord? And you liked him?!”

Ginny clarified, “Well, I didn’t know that at the time! Tom was -- nice. He listened to me.”

Yet the ghost was still skeptical. “Besides, if he went to school here when I did, and now he’s ‘You-Know-Who’, how did you ever happen to have a crush on him?”

“Well, it wasn’t him, actually. It was a memory of his 16-year-old self.” Ginny sighed, “It’s a long, complicated story. I’m sure you remember that book I threw at you?” Myrtle nodded. “Well, I wasn’t throwing at anyone. It was Tom’s enchanted diary, and I just wanted to be rid of it.” She paused then admitted, “He was controlling me with it. Since then, I’ve learned a lot about his days when he was Head Boy. He had some pretty horrible notions, even when he was a student . . and he wasn’t afraid to act on them.”

“How so?” asked the ghost, unsure where this was going.

“Well, when he was in school, he hatched a plot to rid Hogwarts of what he callously called ‘mudbloods’ -- people with nonmagic parents. He hated them all.”

Appalled, Myrtle breathed, “No! You mean, he didn’t like people like me, just because of who we were? Was that why I died -- because of what I was?” Ginny nodded. “But that’s just stupid.”

“I know, but he believed, like Salazar Slytherin did, that people who did not have magic parents should not be allowed to attend Hogwarts. The ironic thing is, his father was a muggle, so he wasn’t even a pureblood himself. Anyway, to eliminate the ‘mudbloods’, he used dark magic to create and control a horrible creature called a Basilisk. It’s a gigantic snake that can kill, just by looking at a person -- with its large, yellow eyes.”

Myrtle stared at her, wide-eyed and a horrified expression on her face. The dawn of reasoning took its place as she uttered: “Oh my God, Ginny,” she said slowly, “was I one of its victims?”

“Yes, you were its first and last . . . until four years ago, when the past, most terribly, most regrettably—” she choked, “very nearly repeated itself. Fortunately, no one was killed the second time it happened, when he was using me to do his . . . dirty work . . through the diary.”

But Myrtle was no longer listening. She had a sort of peaceful, dreamy look on her face. Suddenly, the hallway was filled with all of the other Hogwarts ghosts: the Bloody Baron, the Gray Lady, Sir Nicholas de Mimsey Porpington, Peeves, the Fat Friar, and a few Ginny didn’t recognize. They were floating around, all of them looking at Moaning Myrtle.

Just then, Draco came storming back down the hallway. He started to tell her something as he caught his breath, but then he muttered, “What the fucking hell—”

“Shhh,” Ginny whispered. “I just told Myrtle how she died. I told her everything. All about the Basilisk, Tom Riddle . . everything.”

“Who? Oh, never mind.” He tutted, “I should have known you’d pull a stunt like that.” She glared at him, but he ignored it and went on with what he was going to say. “Well, I didn’t find Madam Pomfrey, so I guess I’ll go see if I can find my Head of House—”

But when the Gray Lady swirled directly in front of him, he found himself distracted by . . . whatever macabre ritual the ghosts were performing. “What are they doing?” he asked, annoyed yet mesmerized. “Are they -- dancing?”

The other ghosts were indeed circling around Moaning Myrtle in what looked rather like a morbid farewell dance, with all the participants hovering just inches above the ground. A few minutes after they started, something odd began to happen to the ghost of honor: She appeared to have regained most of her color. Soon she was practically . . solid, and no longer in drab grays and dirty whites: she looked -- almost human, lifelike even. Her cheeks were radiant, flush with the excitement one gets when preparing to take a trip they have looked forward to for a long time. In turn, her fellow ghosts said their goodbyes.

“Godspeed, child,” said the Fat Friar, his voice jolly.

“Farewell, my dear,” Sir Nicholas added in his strangely warm yet haughty, high-brow tone. He looked as though he admired Myrtle’s courage; if he could still cry, Ginny felt sure he would have.

The Gray Lady reached out to her and whispered softly, “Safe journey, sweet girl.”

The Bloody Baron said nothing. He nodded once to her and lifted his hat as a sign of respect, while Peeves blew her his biggest raspberry ever. “Goodbye, Peeves,” Myrtle laughed, “I’ll miss you, too.” The obnoxious specter’s grin spread across his entire face, and the other ghosts applauded Moaning Myrtle as she prepared to take her final journey. Some of them were sad that she was leaving, others were jealous, but all of them were very happy for her as she went on to the next great adventure. Content with her decision, she sighed and spoke the last words she would ever say to anyone on Earth:

“Thank you, Ginny.”

Blinding streaks of light, starting at her waistline, spread slowly through her corporeal body. Her outer shell gradually evaporated, one fraction at a time. At first, Ginny suspected that it must have been painful, but Myrtle only smiled more and more broadly. As the vanishing girl became evermore ethereal, she glanced heavenward and said excitedly, “Oh, hello, Cedric! How lovely it is to see you again! My, death has been good to you . . . ”

And she was gone. No signs remained that she had ever been there, and the only physical evidence was not exactly solid. As if to give themselves some form of proof that this hadn’t just been some bizarre, shared illusion, both Draco and Ginny grasped for an explanation. Each of them was feeling the after effects of gazing at the sun or some other brilliantly bright light for too long, and for a short while, it was as if they were both drawn to it, still staring into it, and could not look away, as it held them under its spell.

But there was something more . . something intangible and strangely surreal, but with definite substance, that pervaded their consciousness. Neither one could ever quite fully describe it; as she would eventually find out, Harry, Ron, and Hermione had felt it too. The Gryffindor trio, along with Ginny, later deduced that current Hogwarts residents whom Myrtle’s afterlife had touched -- had felt her pass through them as she moved on to the next realm. It was a mystifying experience that the four Gryffs spent a great deal of time analyzing and discussing in the coming days, Hermione being the most outspoken one on the matter.

After Myrtle’s departure, all of the ghosts left the hallway, and the two students prepared to return to their houses. They rounded the next corner, nearly bowling over Professor Snape. Draco made eye contact with him and decided that regardless of the bizarre experience he had just had, the man might be able to explain exactly what had happened to Blaise Zabini. Not caring if he got a detention for his impertinence, he narrowed his eyes and spoke testily, “Why, Professor Snape, just the man I’m looking for—”

“Good, Mr. Malfoy, I need to speak with you as well. You too, Miss Weasley.”

“Me?” squeaked Ginny. “Wh—”

Professor Snape turned on his heel and walked away abruptly, expecting the students to follow him obediently. When she didn’t, Draco grabbed her hand forcefully and dragged her along. They reached their apparent destination, and Professor Snape gave the password; the repulsive gargoyle in front of them moved and the wall opened, revealing a spiral staircase. After they stepped onto the platform, the entire staircase moved in a slow, upward motion. Draco’s first thought was, Man, I gotta get me one of these! As the staircase made its final rotation, Professor Snape commented in a low voice, “Some other staff members are already here. I beg you not to jump to any conclusions; please let them explain themselves first.”

The young Slytherin looked around and thought cynically, If Father could see me now, he would be so furious, he would spit blood! The walls of Professor Dumbledore’s office were covered with portraits of aged wizard and witches, many of whom were asleep and others who were merely pretending to be. There were also a number of oddities and trinkets almost as strange and bizarre as the old man himself. And speaking of strange, he had three guests who were already seated: Madam Pomfrey, Argus Filch, and a woman that neither Ginny nor Draco had ever seen before. Impulsively, he felt like lunging out at the Healer, but Ginny saw him flinch and dissuaded him, grabbing his arm and giving him a cross look.

Albus Dumbledore’s face lit up in a genuine smile. He conjured up three more fluffy armchairs for the new arrivals and greeted them. “Welcome, Mr. Malfoy, Miss Weasley. I thank you all or coming this evening. Severus, if you would be so kind as to explain to these good young people why they are here,” he prompted.

“Certainly, sir.” Professor Snape said smoothly, “I need to relay to you some information about what you have been through recently, Moaning Myrtle’s departure aside. I must speak to you about your friend, Blaise Zabini.”

“Well?” Draco demanded. The fury was evident in his gray eyes as his pale eyebrows raised, urging the man to continue.

He did so, sighing, “The funeral today -- it was a sham. Blaise is fine.”

Draco snapped irritably, “Yes, so we heard. Moaning Myrtle told us that his spirit should be here, but it’s not.” He was having difficulty remaining calm but forced himself not to yell at the professors. “And yet, with all due respect, sir -- how could he not be? I saw him, I touched him, there was no pulse,” he insisted roughly.

Then he stood up and pointed a finger at Madam Pomfrey, accusing, “She said so: He poisoned himself.” He collapsed into his chair, his mind spinning from all that had transpired since they had arrived back at the school. He laughed, a soft, maniacal sound; confused tears threatened to spill over as he said, “If he’s not dead, then of course, I’d be overjoyed . . . But how could that be?”

Taking over for the Potions Master, Professor Dumbledore said, “Mr. Malfoy, I assure you that your friend is in perfect health. I understand your being angry, and I am very sorry we had to make you believe otherwise. It was for his safety, which brings us to why you are here now.” Draco could see in his eyes that the decision had pained him, but he didn’t really care about the old man’s present discomfort.

He clearly deserves it, was his opinion.

The Headmaster went on, “As Professor Snape mentioned, we need to inform you of what has happened and why. Madame Pomfrey?”

“Yes, sir,” she replied. She gave Draco a weak smile and said, “Mr. Zabini’s suicide was staged to convince those who wished to harm him that they could not. It was all carefully planned. Surely you have heard of the powerful sleeping potion, the Draught of Living Death? It is made from root of asphodel and wormwood—”

“Of course, I’ve heard of it!” Draco groused. “Every first-year has!”

Madam Pomfrey pursed her lips and continued, “Professor Snape brewed it for him, and Blaise took it to appear to have died. He was in a very deep sleep and has since revived. He is in America, living safely with the Elliots in their new city. Only their Secret Keeper knows where they are.”

Draco’s expression was one of shock, hurt, betrayal, and relief, all rolled into one. “So Myrtle was right,” he said to himself as his tears flowed freely. “Blaise is alive.”

Madame Pomfrey winced and went on, “Mr. Malfoy, believe me when I say that we are all very sorry to put you through such grief, but our plan had to be completely foolproof.” He looked directly in her eyes, as if he were studying them for any signs of lying. For the briefest of moments, he thought he saw something in them but couldn’t name it . . perhaps a lost memory of some event long since forgotten, or maybe a time when she had kindly mended his Quidditch injuries. If there ever was such a time -- but frankly, he couldn’t recall one. In his fury, the thought fled as he quickly swept it from his mind.

“Why?!” he shouted angrily. “How? I thought—” he stuttered, “it just seemed -- I mean, right after the mirror had arrived, he -- he must have seen an image of someone else, indicating Marianne had been with another -- but how do you explain all that? Was that part of your bloody plan?!” They all looked at one another, as if debating who should answer the belligerent teen’s questions, and how.

Before anyone could answer, another thought occurred to him. “Did Blaise know what the potion was?” His brain was reeling. This was too much for him to comprehend.

Madam Pomfrey sighed and looked to Professor Dumbledore for support. He gave her an understanding smile, silently agreeing to take over for her, saying, “Yes, Mr. Malfoy, your friend knew.”

“That lying, bloody bastard!” he gasped. “He said he was going home!”

The Headmaster continued, “When Blaise learned what some of the students were planning, he went straight to his Head of House for advice. We decided it was best to plan for an eventual attempt on his life. If he believed his enemies were about to strike, or put him in harm’s way, he would take the Draught. Did you not notice him wearing it on a chain around his neck for the past few days?”

Draco was in shock and did not answer the man’s question. “What are you saying? Did Blaise suspect the mirror was part of their plot? That it could be from -- someone other than his grandmother?”

“He knew she would certainly have the means to procure one, so no, he was not fully certain at the time. Naturally, he was curious, having such strong feelings for Miss Elliot. But she sent him letters all the time; he got owls from her practically every day, so of course he doubted what he saw. His suspicions were correct; her feelings for him had not waned. So despite your well-intentioned advice,” he said, looking Draco directly in the eye, “that was why he never could break it off with her.”

He was still perplexed. “Then why did he go through with it? Knowing the potion was false, assuming the mirror may have been from Nott or even Grant, why did he ever -- look into it . . ?” He was trying unsuccessfully to wrap his mind around what he was hearing. “Wait . . . can Fidelity Mirrors be Charmed to lie?” he asked, looking around the room.

Professor Dumbledore answered. “No, they cannot. Although the more common variety of enchanted mirrors, for example, Vanity Mirrors, can, Fidelity Mirrors have anti-charm spells built in -- presumably so a wife cannot keep a hidden lover and therefore compromise the purity of the bloodline.”

Professor Snape took over, “However, it is possible to Charm an ordinary mirror to behave like an enchanted one, giving it some code spell to activate it. But this can only be done by a very experienced witch or wizard; it is far beyond the skill of any student, and we do not suspect any of the instructors. Ever since Professor Quirrell and Barty Crouch, Jr., attempted to deceive us, all Hogwarts staff members have been beyond reproach. The Headmaster sees to that personally now.”

Draco asked irritably, “Then how can we know for sure? Is it possible that Blaise was duped into this?”

“There is a way to determine whether it is a true Fidelity Mirror,” Professor Dumbledore said. Holding the same mirror that had been on Blaise’s bed, he asked, “Mr. Malfoy, would you be so kind as to break this?” Draco scoffed, utterly confused where he was going with this. He grabbed the mirror and threw at as hard as he could at the wall, taking out some of his frustrations on the inanimate object. Shards of glass flew in all directions. Several of the portraits’ subjects jumped, a few of them cursed, and those who actually were asleep were now fully awake.

“Now, Miss Weasley, would you please repair the mirror?”

Unsure why he requested this, she pointed her wand at it and said casually, “Reparo.” The mirror was fully restored to its original state, and Professor Dumbledore smiled with satisfaction.

Draco sighed impatiently, “Exactly what does that prove?”

“Everything, Mr. Malfoy. Once shattered, Fidelity Mirrors cannot be repaired, which is part of what makes them so extremely rare,” the Headmaster replied. “It was the fact that they are so rare that made me suspect that this one could very well be a fake -- that, coupled with the fact that Blaise made no secret of his girlfriend’s name. It would have been easy for a qualified person to add a code spell. Try it, Mr. Malfoy.”

He snorted, “But I don’t have a girlfriend,” casting a petulant glance at Ginny, who squirmed uncomfortably in her seat.

Shrugging, the old wizard prompted, “Say the name of any of the girls you’ve dated, preferably one who has a new boyfriend by now.”

“All right. Hannah,” he said. His own image remained in the mirror. “You’re right; it’s definitely a fake. That trollop wasn’t even faithful while we were dating.”

By now, Ginny was becoming extremely agitated by what she was hearing. She was beginning to think that the professors and the professors had made a grave error in judgment. Feeling empathy for Draco, she stood up and interjected, “Excuse me, sirs and madams, what could have been so bloody important that all this secrecy was necessary? Do you not know what pure anguish this boy has gone through for the past several days?” Her remarks made Draco feel strangely proud, and a slight smile graced his lips.

The other woman in the office, who had not said so much as one word, now rose and walked over to Ginny. A look of recognition in her eyes, she stared into the girl’s face and said, “I told them to.”

Ginny, who was at a complete loss as to who this woman was and why these educated men and women would listen to her, shrugged her shoulders and shook her head. “So?” blurted from her lips.

Then out of the clear blue, the woman spoke to her cryptically. “Guinevere, I forgive you. Now will both of you please forgive them?” Draco looked more confused than he had when he first learned of Blaise’s deception.

“Begging your pardon, ma’am, but who the hell are you?” Ginny lashed out.

“My name is Jane, but they call me Mrs. Norris.”

Ginny felt her knees practically give way as the day that had begun strangely became even more so. That was an answer she wasn’t expecting; in fact, it raised far more questions had already been answered. She exhaled, asking, “What did you say? You’re who?”

Mr. Filch arose and said proudly, “This here is my lovely Mrs. Norris, my Jane. Ain’t she beautiful?” Jane fairly glowed as she turned to look on him.

Ginny, obviously not wanting to appear insane, asked hesitantly, “Mrs. Norris, as in -- your pet cat . . ?” When Filch did not argue the point, Draco spoke up.

“Hang on, wait just a minute -- now, this is even wilder than the incredible tale she told me earlier today,” he said, pointing at Ginny. She merely glared at him in irritation.

Professor Dumbledore explained, “Yes, Mrs. Norris is indeed a cat -- most of the time. I’m afraid it was due to a spell gone badly that is not completely reversible.” He sighed heavily. “She had always been intrigued by Head Girl Minerva McGonagall and her ability to change into a cat. When Argus and Jane were younger, he had agreed to help her with her Animagus training. Unfortunately, neither of them was ready to take on this extremely difficult task. As they were both so young, the attempt was destined to fail.

“Since the accident, it has been Argus’s incredible guilt that has not allowed him to perform any magic. When it became apparent that to continue his magical training would be futile, he was added to the staff so that they could stay together.”

Draco shook his head and asked bluntly, “So are you . . is she . . . human now? Or does it have to do with the moon cycle, like for a werewolf?”

Professor Dumbledore said, “Not exactly, but something like that, as well as a few highly complex and specialized spells. Over the years, I have been able to temporarily restore her back to her human form for a short while, sometimes for as long as two hours. Given the unusual nature of her case, well -- naturally, we do not advertise who she is. And all of our students, and most of the staff, are blissfully unaware that Mr. Filch is not actually a squib. For all intents and purposes, he has a self-imposed magical block. Only he himself can remove it,” he said with a significant look to the caretaker, who glanced down at the floor uncomfortably.

Ginny interjected, “But Mrs. Norris, you said that you told them to fake Blaise’s suicide. And aren’t we here to learn why this had to be done?”

“That’s true, I did. I saw you and Mr. Malfoy that night, standing outside the room that houses the Mirror of Erised. I listened to the voices within the room, and that was when I overheard the other students’ plans. I knew Mr. Grant would stop at nothing to hurt Mr. Zabini. He said not to kill him, but I could sense that he didn’t mean it. He just didn’t want any witnesses who could testify against him.”

As an afterthought, she added cattily, “By the way, Mr. Malfoy, your feet smell atrocious.”

Ginny snickered then asked, “But -- but if you knew we were there, why didn’t you tell Mr. Filch when you were restored to your human form? Not that I want an extra detention, mind you,” she added quickly.

“Unlike the boys at the Mirror, you two appeared to be no threat. I could sense your fear; they had none, and I could see that one boy was already unconscious. I ignored you and led Argus to them instead. He certainly didn’t expect to be Stunned; that young boy, Nott, certainly has stones. Not much for brains, just like his father, but he has very little fear. Thus, the plot to save Blaise Zabini was devised. When he approached Professor Snape, we knew we had to act quickly.”

She turned to Draco and asked, “Mr. Malfoy, didn’t your friend reassure you several times that he would be all right? Professors Dumbledore and Snape insisted on that. He couldn’t come out and tell you, for his safety and your own, but he was told to emphasize it clearly so you would not worry so.”

Draco was ecstatic. It was far too much to hope for: Blaise, alive and well, living in America with his girlfriend and her family. He had to fight to keep his tears from falling again, and Ginny instinctively took him into her arms. He hugged her fiercely and wept with joy into her soft, ginger hair. She stroked his hair tenderly and cooed gentle words of comfort and reassurance.

After several minutes, he looked up and wiped his eyes. “So what happens now?”

“Now,” Professor Snape said, “comes the difficult part. This hurts me more than I can say. You both need to have your memories modified.”

“What?!!” Draco shouted. “You can’t take this from me! This is Blaise we’re talking about -- he’s the closest thing I have to a brother!”

Professor Snape argued, “Believe me when I say it’s for his safety. And yours. Your close friendship is exactly the reason you were not chosen to be his Secret Keeper.”

Ginny asked harshly, “So Draco and I will believe that Blaise is -- really dead?” The she sobbed quietly, “This is so wrong. How could you?”

“No, Miss Weasley,” Professor Dumbledore assured her. “You will both know in your hearts that he is all right, just as you know now. What you cannot have any memory of is the circumstances -- not until you see him again. When your eyes meet his, the memories will be restored to you.” Neither of the students said anything, and the aged wizard added, “We don’t want you to fall victim to these misguided individuals and thereby unintentionally compromise Blaise. These boys are obviously quite dangerous.”

“Then why don’t you do something about them?” Draco insisted.

“We are, Mr. Malfoy,” the Headmaster said, smiling reassuringly. “Trust me. In good time, you will see your friend again.” He held Draco’s gaze for a moment, twinkling blue eyes on steely gray. Then raising his wand, he uttered, “Obliviate.”

The two students looked slightly lost for a moment. Madam Pomfrey moved toward Draco and handed him a vial, saying almost kindly, “Here you are, Mr. Malfoy. Your headache potion. I hope this batch is more effective that the last one we tried. Oh, and please send this one to your mother,” she added, handing him a second one. He nodded mutely.

Ginny reached out to him and rubbed the back of his neck lovingly. She said, “Thank you for allowing us both to go, Professor Dumbledore. I’m sure it meant a lot to Draco.”

With a smile, he replied, “You’re quite welcome, Miss Weasley, Mr. Malfoy. It has been a most trying day. Now if you would both head back to your houses, we will see you tomorrow at breakfast.” They nodded and left the strangely furnished office, wondering vaguely why they had been there and who that strange woman was sitting next to Mr. Filch.

Once they had gone, Professor Dumbledore took Professor Snape aside. “Severus,” he said softly, “please begin Mr. Malfoy’s Occlumency training immediately. Work with him for an hour every other day; if need be, we will rearrange some of his lessons.”

“Is that -- healthy, sir? I mean, so often?” the Potions Master asked.

“It is necessary. He is in far more danger than I had ever suspected.”

~End of Chapter~

See, that wasn’t so bad now, was it? Blaise is fine; you can stop crying about him. Is all forgiven? :-( Sorry for the two-chapter delay -- (not) !

In the Credit Where it is Due Department (which seems to be growing rapidly): I paraphrased part of a line from George Lucas (Star Wars: A New Hope). After meeting Princess Leia, Han Solo says to Luke Skywalker, “Wonderful girl. Either I'm going to kill her or I'm beginning to like her.”

As always, thanks for reading and reviewing (I'm glad you like it, Vanessa)!

Author's Notes: Woohoo, new chapter! If you've gotten this far, I figure you're in this for the long haul. So you must like it, right? And if you have not submitted a reviewed yet, please take a few minutes to think about the chapter or part you liked best (or maybe hated or had a question about that hasn't been answered) and post one. While all authors love positive, glowing reviews :-D . . please help me make this story even better!! (Note Within a Note: I've even gotten a few ideas from some of your reviews, so sometimes feedback is good for the author and the story.) Thanks; you guys ROCK MY WORLD!

This chapter's title is from the Alanis Morrisette song from her Jagged Little Pill album. I call it that because someone learns a lot in this chapter.

CHAPTER 13 – You Learn

Several weeks after Blaise's funeral, Draco was still struggling to make it through a single Occlumency lesson without collapsing at least once. Not only were the sessions physically demanding, they nearly always gave him murderous headaches, in spite of Madame Pomfrey's latest remedy to combat them. The only positives were that Professor Snape proved to be an understanding, patient tutor and that the lessons were not very long. This was especially good tonight, as he still had a prefect meeting to attend and plans to see Ginny afterward.

"Again, Mr. Malfoy," Professor Snape said in his silky voice. “Legilimens!”

Draco concentrated fiercely on closing his mind from his instructor, but it was still to no avail. With each attempt, his will seemed to slip away from him, and every time, he would end up in a heap on the cool, dungeon floor, breathing rapidly and sweating like a kitchen house-elf. This time was no different.

As soon his teacher had broken through his resolve, the boy's thoughts flooding his mind, the man stopped and sighed softly. "Draco, you have to concentrate."

“I'm trying,” he insisted. "It's just so very difficult—"

The professor interrupted, "And it must be, in order to train you properly. Now let's try again."

Draco was feeling frustrated. He wasn't used to being completely unable to grasp a concept. No matter what his parents believed, he was clever, and he did want to be the best. And regardless of what his enemies thought, not everything just fell in his lap. Sure, one can buy his way onto a school Quidditch team, but gold can't buy a victory; that takes practice and skill.

I had to train hard in order to kick Cho Chang's arse like I did a few weeks back. He mused with satisfaction, Shortest match at Hogwarts in over 50 years. Even Ginny's oaf of a brother said so; between his Quidditch obsession and that know-it-all girlfriend of his, I'm sure he would know.

Before he could stop it, his mind turned to Ginny. He thought about the last time they'd been together. The steamy memories threatened to distract him, but he caught himself just in time. Not now -- later. He drew a deep breath as he gathered his strength for the next exercise. Control, he reminded himself sternly. If he were not fully focused on his task, not only could Professor Snape waltz right into his most secret thoughts, he would know straight away that he wasn't really trying.

"Legilimens!" Snape said once more. He rummaged around Draco's mind for a few seconds, when he suddenly felt himself being violently cast out. The impetus of it knocked the man over, and he very nearly laughed with pride. "Well done, Mr. Malfoy," he said with a faint grin.

"Sir?" his pupil asked, a mildly stunned look on his face. All the while, he was thinking, I don't think I did anything different that time. Could it be I'm finally getting the hang of this . . ? Is that all there is to it?

"Well, you only managed to knock me on my backside, that's all," Professor Snape said admiringly, practically chuckling with amusement. Rising to his feet, he patted Draco's shoulder and remarked proudly, "Now we're making some progress."

Pressing a bit further, he asked, "Tell me, were you able to see into my mind? Were there any random thoughts you were not sure where they came from? Anything at all you didn't recognize as a memory of yours?" he pressed.
Draco considered the question then replied, "No, sir. Sorry -- I didn't know I was supposed to."

"Do you feel as if you could try it one last time?" Professor Snape suggested hopefully. He was excited about the boy's breakthrough. "If you're not too tired, that is?"

Although he was feeling fatigued, Draco closed his eyes momentarily then lied, "No, no -- I can manage. I'm fine."

In the last attempt of the evening, he was once again moderately successful in blocking his instructor. Then, quite suddenly, he saw a small group of students hanging about in the library. It looked somehow different, with a few chairs in odd places and some of the books appearing to be slightly less worn. At one table, there was a quiet, young boy, sitting alone and working diligently, his hook nose mere centimeters from his parchment. His greasy, black hair hung down in his eyes, and he was being laughed at by four other boys. Draco thought one of the boy's tormenters looked remarkably like . . Potter?

Just then, a girl with green eyes and flowing red hair marched up to the practical jokers. She was clearly outraged, and she spoke harshly to them. The boy who could have passed for Potter's twin tried to calm her, saying, "Yes, but Lily, who on Earth would care about him, anyway?" She glowered at him and slapped him hard across the cheek. She turned to the black-haired lad, and, smiling gingerly at him, apologized for her housemates' rude behavior.

Draco very nearly felt sorry for the boy that the man before him had once been. He was right. Potter's dad was bloody arrogant -- just like his son, he thought.

The next thing Draco knew, he was the one being tossed out, and quite roughly. "Professor," he began, "who was that girl? The one who took up for you?"

"That," he replied coolly, "was Lily Evans. Nice girl. Don't know what she ever saw in that creep."

"Who? Potter?" Draco asked.

Professor Snape smirked at the name. "Recognized him, did you? Yes, that was the famous James Potter, arsehole extraordinaire. Along with his partners in crime, Lupin, Pettigrew, and your cousin, the late Sirius Black. Did you know they tried to kill me once -- just as a prank?" He looked as though the memories still chafed him, and Draco thought he heard him grinding his teeth.

The man broke into a tight smile and said, "Enough of all that. The important thing is we are getting somewhere. Your lessons seem to be paying off. Same time, day after tomorrow, right?"

"Yes, sir," Draco concurred. "Good night."

Although he ran nearly all the way there, he arrived at the prefect meeting a few minutes late, receiving glares from around the table. He glared back with contempt; inside, however, he was groaning irritably. Bugger! Those damned sessions with Snape are consuming the little bit that was left of my life. On top of that, his head was absolutely throbbing.

Once he was seated, he snuck a small swig of Madame Pomfrey's latest headache potion. He brought the bottle with him to every Occlumency lesson. While it helped to dull the pain somewhat, it also tended to make him lose focus and feel a bit groggy, especially if he was tired already. He took another swallow of the foul drink, pondering whether the woman was even capable of making a potion that didn't taste utterly repulsive.

A tedious, nondescript prefect meeting followed; to fight off boredom, he daydreamed about his first Quidditch victory of the season and what had followed. After his team had thoroughly trounced Ravenclaw, he and Ginny had spent some time together in the changing rooms. They had also done a fair bit of kissing and touching, but they'd mostly talked. It was one of the best visits they had ever had; it seemed like their meetings had been so sporadic and all too brief that snogging was often all they ever had time for -- that, an occasional bit of fluff. And since she was so obliging, who was he to complain? His reasoning had been, What's the point of really getting to know one another? I'm sure to get tired of her eventually, and it would all have been a waste of time. May as well spend it getting my jollies.

Yet the other day as they sat together in the changing rooms, it dawned on him that aside from their physical relationship, he was actually starting to like the girl. Her personality, her sense of humor, and even though it sounded so disgustingly Gryffindor -- her spirit, or rather, her spark. Could she be my new best friend? he wondered vaguely. Snorting to himself, he thought, That's just crazy. Besides, if I don't have a best friend, it's because I don't need one. Thinking he heard someone calling his surname, he remembered where he was and refocused on the meeting.

The seventh-year Hufflepuff prefect (I can never remember that girl's name) was looking at him expectantly. As if he were stupid, she repeated slowly, "Malfoy, I asked would you be able to take Michael's place?"

"Corner?" he asked, then he ruminated wittily, I thought I already had.

"Yes, who else?" she snapped. When that got no response from him, she groaned then clarified, "For the late-shift hall check next Tuesday and Thursday. Can you do it?"

Corner interrupted, offering generously, "I'll take your turn next weekend: Friday, Saturday, and Sunday."

Without really thinking about it, Draco accepted by nodding his head. Giving up two nights and gaining three looked good -- at first. But when he realized how tight that would make his schedule on those two days (Hell, those are the same nights as my Occlumency lessons!), he sighed in frustration.

These private classes with Snape, the intense homework schedule sixth-years endured, and regular Quidditch practices made it very difficult to find time to spend with Ginny. He found he couldn't get her off his mind. Unable to focus, he deliberately tuned out the rest of the meeting. He absently rubbed his knee as he thought, We have got to find a room with a couch or something. Cushioning Charms only make the floor feel softer; I still get those annoying bruises on both knees.

When the meeting finally adjourned, Granger magically changed the hall check schedule at the Head Girl's request then conjured copies for all who were present. She then reproduced minutes from the meeting, complete with who had made a particular motion, who had seconded it, and who had voted which way. Gods, she's anal. Weasley, you're a nutter for putting up with her; for your sake, I hope she's a really good lay.

The group disbanded, and he slowly rose from the table. He glanced over the minutes casually, not really having a clue what they had discussed or what else he had agreed to. When he began to study them, he gasped, Interhouse Cooperation Week; what the hell is that? He scoffed, thinking, Aww, fuck me! I've got to tutor younger students in Potions, and I'm working with -- Granger?! I've really got to stop thinking about Ginny during these bloody meetings and pay attention!

He read on, wondering, What else did I agree to? Escorting Ron Weasley to the Yule Ball? But when he saw that no other horrible fates awaited him, he put the minutes away and set off in search of his little fire sprite. At least the potions-tutoring shift was only one afternoon; of course, all Quidditch practices had been cancelled for the week, as well as any other group activities.

Clearing his mind of difficult lessons, boring meetings, and Granger's annoyingly fastidious habits, he focused on finding Ginny. He had looked forward to being with her all day and sincerely hoped that she was feeling as randy as he was. The note she had owled to him earlier today seemed to indicate that tonight would be very special indeed.

Driven by desire, he moved down the faintly-lit corridor, looking for the room she had asked him to meet her in. It was he who normally chose the time and place for their meetings, but her note was insistent and very specific. At first, he was a little surprised by her direct approach; although she was unafraid and definitely assertive, this was one area that she usually left to his discretion. But having had the entire day to mull over the idea, he decided he was flattered that she had asked to see him. Maybe, he hoped, she ached for his touch just as much as he did for hers. Filled with anticipation, his heartbeat quickened, as did his footsteps.

He soon recognized the various landmarks she had mentioned in her note and found himself gravitating toward one door. It was said to be a Charms classroom that had been abandoned decades ago. It was even rumored to have a couch of dark, velvety green; he sincerely hoped that it did, as her hair would look marvelous on it. He wondered briefly if it had been Granger who told Ginny about this particular room . . but then he decided that he didn't really want to know.

As seemed to be the case with so many doors throughout the castle, this one was locked. No matter, he thought, and pointing his wand at the doorknob, whispered, "Alohamora." Predictably, the latch turned, and the door eased open. He entered cautiously and said softly, "Ginny?"

He heard a voice shout, "Stupify!" and promptly fell to the floor.

His first thought on being revived was how badly he wanted to hex the wanker who had just Stunned him. But when he reached for his wand, he realized that he was in a full body bind. He blinked his eyes in the low torchlight, trying to ascertain who was there and what was going on. Still feeling a bit sluggish, he wondered, "Ginny?", realizing too late that he had made one fatal error: her name had actually slipped out. Did I just say her name? he thought, cringing, waiting for whatever came. Shite, I hope it's not Father.

When someone kicked him sharply in the side, he thought it might actually be his father. He cried out in pain and gasped for air. Longing to curl up in a ball and just to be able to breathe again, he thought bitterly, No, it couldn't be Father; he wouldn't have stopped at one. His eyes slowly adjusted to the near darkness, and when they did, he discovered it was not one of his relatives, but one of Ginny's. Or rather, two of them.

It was those obnoxious twins, the ugly, freckled, orange-haired prats who were unfortunate enough to look just like each other. One of them placed his foot directly on Draco's throat. Standing over him, he threatened him by applying slight pressure with the sole of his boot. With hatred in his eyes, he snarled, "Looks like we caught the bastard, Fred."

"So Hagrid's suspicions were right; he is seeing her. Or rather, he was seeing her; believe me, they are through."

The first one said with familial pride, "Excellent work, brothers."

Brothers? Draco started to feel panicked, his mind racing to recollect exactly how many she said she had. Are any of her brothers not here? But before he could recall whether she had six, seven, or nine, one of the twins had unbound him and stood him up forcibly. He turned to a third redhead, a slightly older, stockier man whom Draco didn't recognize, and prompted with exaggerated deference, "Charlie, if you would please do the honors?" Looking around, Draco saw that aside from the twins, this third one -- this Charlie -- appeared to be the only other Weasley there. He swallowed nervously as the man approached him.

"I'd love to," he muttered. He walked up to Draco with a look of utter loathing on his spotted face and roughly grabbed the collar of his robes, giving no thought to how expensive they were. Hey, these cost more Galleons than you make in two months, so hands off! Draco thought with superiority -- but he wisely held his tongue. After all, there were three of them, and he wasn't stupid.

Not even bothering to conceal his anger, Charlie growled, "Look here, you son of a bitch. We have it on good authority that you've been seeing our sister Ginny. You are pond scum, and you are not to go anywhere near her. Do you get that?!" Draco eyed him warily. "And if I ever find out that you've been in her knickers," Charlie warned in a deadly serious tone, "I'll cut off your stones, grind them to dust, and put them in a jar above the Weasley fireplace, right next to the Floo Powder. We'll label it 'Essence of Ferret." The boy said nothing to this, as he tried to disguise his fear as hatred.

"Oh, and by the way, Draco." Charlie said his name with an amused sneer on his face then added menacingly, "I am a dragon-handler by trade -- the real ones that breathe actual fire -- I'm sure that you will be no problem whatsoever." The Slytherin gulped nervously, and the man asked him slowly, "So do we have an understanding . . Malfoy?"

He knew he was in serious trouble. These guys were older, taller, bigger . . and not to mention, fully trained wizards. What were they going to do to him? What should he say to appease them?

Denial. It nearly worked with Mother, and surely these Weasleys are not nearly as bright as her.

And hopefully, they’re much more forgiving.

He said gruffly, "I don't know what the hell you're talking about! Me, date someone from your vile family? My mother would kill me!"

Attempting to bolster his case, he scoffed, "I wouldn't sleep with her if she were the last girl in this school. In fact, I'd shag Potter before I'd touch your disgusting little sister!" He asked himself, Was that good enough? He hoped so, but just for good measure, he added with finality, "And if I ever do start liking her, then ship me off to Saint Mungo's, because I've obviously gone completely around the bend!"

This wasn't exactly the reaction they had anticipated. They had rather expected him to confess -- no, to brag -- and then to defend his God-given right to deflower the only Weasley daughter. Pointing out a minute flaw in the boy's logic, Charlie stated, "But you're here, aren't you? You got the owl and came to meet . . her, didn't you?"

Fred prodded him, "Come on, Malfoy. Cough up. Why are you here if you're not boinking our sister? Or hoping to, anyway?"

Draco knew he'd been had. Bugger! The owl wasn't from her -- it was from them! Masking his surprise as he mustered his courage, he got right back in Fred's face, poking a finger in his chest and responding in the most authoritative voice he could manage. "I don't know what owl you're talking about! Anyway, that's not why I'm here, you imbecile! I am a prefect, and I was just checking up on a tip that some students had brought some harmful, not to mention illegal, substances into this school." Just then, Draco had a flash of inspiration; raising his eyebrows, he said snidely, "Funny that you're here. Some of them were reportedly from your little shop of horrors."

The twins were aghast. "What? You think that we would -- market contraband?" George asked in mild shock.

Charlie crossed his arms as he considered Draco's denial. The Slytherin's icy glare was unswerving, hoping that one, if not all three, of them might actually believe him. Fortunately for him, the Weasleys tended to hold to that rather foolish muggle notion that people are basically -- good and that everyone deserves a second chance.

"Well," the oldest one replied, "let's hope, for your sake, that you were just being a good little prefect. But if I ever find out otherwise, believe me, you are dead. We have a big back yard and shovels; I doubt anybody would miss you." He turned to the twins and motioned toward the door, all three of them staring at him coldly. As the last one walked out, he drew Draco's wand out of his robes and deliberately tossed it in the opposite direction.

Draco retrieved his wand and clenched it tightly, but on considering Charlie's parting words, he decided it would probably be a bit risky to hex any of them now. Sighing in relief that they were finally gone, he muttered, "Shit." He breathed deeply and left the room nervously, closing the door behind him. The moment he was in the hallway, he was attacked by another redhead, this one with a smaller frame. His lovely vixen ran and leapt into his arms. Wrapping herself around him, she kissed him soundly.

"Oh, thank the gods, you're all right! I was so worried," Ginny said, fear and concern apparent in her voice. Lowering herself to the floor, she took a step back and studied him intently. "What did they do to you? I know you think Fred and George are just brainless, harmless pranksters, but they can do some serious damage when they want to."

How . . how did she know what had just happened? "Who?" he asked in annoyance, pretending that nothing had.

Equally disgusted, she scoffed, "My older brothers, you ninny! I know they were with you, I saw them on the—" she started but then stopped herself.

He urged, "Saw them on what?"

"Ohhh," she hesitated, her worried tone one of a child who had just been caught with one hand in the cookie jar.

"Ginny, what is it? How did you know they were here?"

Closing her eyes, she looked down at her robes and stated flatly, "I can't tell you. It isn't mine. I just -- borrowed it."

"Tell me," he insisted.

Fidgeting, she confessed all that she could. "It's something of Harry's. His dad invented it. And if I tell you what it is, and anyone ever finds out that you know -- I probably won't be able to see you again."

Mildly insulted, he sniffed, "Very well, then. That's a bit . . melodramatic, but I guess lovers should have some secrets they keep from each other."

Utterly relieved, she said, "Thank you for understanding." He didn't really, but he didn't see how his need to know could possibly outweigh his need to be with her. "Really, it's better this way."

They walked along, hand in hand, discussing each of their days, talking comfortably about nothing, and occasionally bantering back and forth. They pointedly avoided his impromptu meeting with her brothers; they had both been expecting something like that to happen. She was only too glad that she hadn't received a howler yet from her mum. And given the odds, he managed to fare pretty well.

Arriving in the hallway where they had shared tea laced with Veritaserum over a month ago, Draco suggested casually, "Fancy a snack? We're right by the kitchens, near our favorite spot," he added, pointing to the small, partially secluded space they had sat in the last time they were here. He added with amused sarcasm, "Looks like our table is available, too."

"Yes, I'm starving," she consented. "Luna and I had to finish a joint project this evening, so I had a very early dinner."

He sighed. "Yes, I didn't see you down at the Great Hall. I had hoped you were getting ready for our late-night rendezvous . . . which apparently you knew nothing about," he sulked.

Ginny tutted, "Now, don't be too upset with my brothers. They mean well, and at least you still have all your body parts -- don't you?" She suddenly reached inside his robes, apparently to check for damages; she knew the twins and their warped sense of humor far too well to trust her eyes. She dipped her hand lower, the brazen act eliciting a moan from him, then she declared with assurity, "Well, everything seems to be in order." She stepped away then sidled into their semi-private nook and looked back, silently beckoning him to follow her. He did. Closing the distance between them, he leaned in and kissed her. He pulled away slightly then immersed his fingers into her magnificent hair, wrapping it around his face, inhaling its scent deeply, and relishing the silky feel of it.

Draco had always made fun of the Weasley hair because his parents had taught him it signified poverty. But hers was different; its texture, shade, and thickness were so very rich. He had adored it since the first time he laid eyes on her, even though he would never admit it to anyone, not even her. Still, she knew -- it was pretty obvious, since nearly every time he kissed her while weaving his hands through it, he ended up with a boner.

He thought back to that day at Flourish and Blott's years ago, and how even then, his fingers had itched to touch her exquisite coppery locks. Knowing that he would never be permitted to lay a hand on them and that Potter would -- it was so unfair. The very thought that Potter could get everything he wanted, even things he didn't want . . it made Draco sick, nearly as much as the idea that he himself actually craved to touch a Weasley's hair. So, in the book shop, and then again on Valentine's Day the following February, he did the only thing he could to justify it in his own mind: He used her admiration of The Boy Who Lived to belittle and embarrass her.

Since she was a Weasley, he'd always believed that the only emotion she had ever instilled in him was pure and intense hatred. Now he wondered if he had actually been feeling something else and was trying desperately to suppress it. If only he had known what feelings he would later stir in her heart, things might have been different in the ensuing years.

He soon put all that behind him and refocused on the present. She was here. She was real. She was his.

"I . . I . . . don't—" she stammered, as if his ministrations were all of a sudden bothering her.

Draco was puzzled. She seemed to be game for this a moment ago. Desperately wishing for her to carry this one step -- or perhaps two steps -- further, he said romantically, "What is it, darling? Is anything wrong?"

Looking past him, she withdrew her hand and pointed, whispering, "What's he doing here?"

"Who?" he asked, mildly irritated at whoever was interrupting what was bound to end up as something wonderful. Turning around to see who she was looking at, he asked, "That repulsive house-elf? The repugnant little bugger with the huge nose?"

"Yeah. It's Kreacher," Ginny said without thinking.

He replied slowly, "I think he was one of the Black family's house-elves. I wondered where their servants were now, with the entire family gone, in prison, or in hiding."

She rolled her eyes and laughed, "It's got to be part of Hermione's plan to improve the lives of house-elves everywhere. She calls it 'Second Chance for Displaced House-Elves.' Hogwarts got several over the summer when wizards were arrested for following You-Know-Who." The second the words were out of her mouth, she regretted it, thinking, Oh dear, that includes your father . . ! She murmured, "Sorry. I didn't mean—"

But he seemed not to notice her minor social faux pas or her apology, still focusing on the creepy-looking little fellow that was hanging about the door to the kitchens. "So how do you know Kreacher?" he asked Ginny, still confused. "Have you seen him around here?"

She nodded in reply, clarifying, "Your cousin Tonks pointed him out to me a few days ago."

"Ah, that's right. You know my cousin." He snarled bitterly, "She certainly has made a name for herself around here, hasn't she? Engaged to the school werewolf, of all things!" He shuddered, practically choking on the words. Then he added, "What could possibly be worse? Mother was simply revolted by the idea."

"You've spoken to your mother recently?" Ginny interjected.

"Yes, we exchanged letters. Brief letters, but letters all the same," he said.

"Did Madame Pomfrey's potion help her with . . . whatever it was she needed help with?"

He groaned, "Bloody hell -- I forgot to send it to her!"

"You what?! What if it was something important?"

"Crap, I think it's still in my trunk. I'll send it the moment I get back to my dorm . . " he began but stopped.

Ginny gasped softly, "Quiet! Someone's coming!"

"No one's coming—" he argued.

But she was right once again. Michael Grant and his comrades, Theodore Nott and Gregory Goyle, were coming up the hall, moving closer to their hiding spot. Draco and Ginny edged their way back so as not to be seen by the Death-Eaters-in-Training as they headed for the kitchens, apparently intent on late night snacks themselves. After all, one had to assume that preparing for a life of evil would make a young lad hungry.

Draco slumped against Ginny and muttered, "Not again . . "

~End of Chapter~

And there you have it. (I know, I'm a Drama Queen!) :-D

Once Again, Credit Where It's Due: This chapter includes a paraphrase from the movie Clueless. Dan Hedaya as Cher's father says, “Anything happens to my daughter, I got a .45 and a shovel, I doubt anybody would miss you.”

And *thank you,* smprsgrrl and kaerra, for reviewing!

Dear Reader,

Thank you for joining us once again. I have some good news -- I got myself a Beta reader! (I know, you’re saying “Finally!”) So a big hug and thank you to Fyrechild for helping make sure ‘the stuff is up to snuff’ - !

In this chapter, which is the longest one so far, we’ll shift the focus to include a bit more of Ginny. The poor girl hasn’t had much exposure since -- well, since a long time ago.

Signed,

Your Lovely Author,

Sue Bridehead (Proudly Serving Hundreds of Harry Potter Fanfic Addicts of the Draco/Ginny Persuasion the World Over!)

P.S. And as always, thanks for your encouraging, awesome reviews.

This chapter’s title is from Pink Floyd’s 1987 album.

CHAPTER 14 – A Momentary Lapse of Reason

Ginny and Draco watched cautiously as Gregory Goyle, Theodore Nott, and Michael Grant came up the hallway toward the kitchens. Perched in their hiding spot, she whispered to him, “Maybe we’ll find out why they’re here in the first place.” Thinking how utterly stupid that sounded, she added, “I mean, aside from the obvious goal of getting something to eat.” She cast a quick Silencing charm to help them remain undetected.

The three boys were unaware they had a small audience, and their discussion grew quite loud. As it did, Kreacher slunk out of sight. Fortunately for Draco and Ginny, eavesdropping was not difficult, and Grant started things off swimmingly. “So, Gregory,” he asked with a smirk, “how are things going with you and Susan Bones? Is she convinced that your way is the only way, or does she still need -- persuading?”

Goyle blushed at the mention of Susan’s name. Knowing he had yet to say more than three words to her, he confessed sheepishly, “I’m working on it. I’ve sat next to her at the library a couple of times, brushed up against her hand -- I almost kissed her once, but I lost my nerve at the last minute.” He mumbled the last part then blushed again, causing Grant to roll his eyes and give him a thoroughly disgusted look. The expression was so blatant that even the empty-headed thug caught its meaning and asked him testily, “What?”

“Gods, at this rate, she’ll be someone else’s wife before you even lay one of your fat fingers on her breast!” Michael laughed incredulously. Yet his tone made it clear that he was quite serious. He groused, “Can’t you do any better than that? You’ve had more than a month. She should be eating out of your hand by now, you stupid lout! Or are you just ignorant of how to get a girlfriend?” When he didn’t respond, Grant suggested, “Maybe you should ask Malfoy. I hear he can probably guide you in that department.”

He said nothing to this but tried changing the subject. Chuckling nervously, Goyle began, “Hey, Nott, I’ve been meaning to tell you something, but I keep forgetting to.”

Draco thought, Wow, I didn’t know Goyle could think of two things at once. I’m impressed.

Perplexed, Nott asked, “What?”

Goyle said admiringly, “Great job, sending that mirror to Zabini. That was classic; getting him to do himself in! A stroke of bloody genius.”

Draco forced himself not to cry out loud. He looked as though the wind had been knocked out of him, and Ginny’s face grew pale on hearing the thug’s caustic remarks. When the lovers’ eyes met, they both felt a calming sense of peace, something about Blaise that was -- well, odd, yet rather comforting. He was no longer angry and focused on hearing Nott’s response.

“What?! It wasn’t me. I wish it were.”

To say that Goyle was shocked was an understatement. Even Grant looked mildly surprised. “It wasn’t you?” he asked, dumbfounded. “Then who did it? That was an utterly brilliant move.”

“I don’t know,” Nott replied unapologetically. “I had something else in mind that involved his muggle slut; I was just waiting for her to send me a lock of her hair.”

Goyle wondered aloud, “Why would she send you some of her hair?”

“I wrote and told her I was a friend from Blaise’s school, and I wanted to make him a collage of her for his birthday.” He sighed, “Damn, the Polyjuice would have been ready any day now. I had it brewing under my bed with an Odor Removal charm.” Waggling his eyebrows, he said, “I even had Milicent all set on the idea; muggles call it ‘role-playing’. I was really looking forward to it.”

“Well, whoever sent that mirror has a real future in the business,” Grant observed proudly. “A very promising future indeed.” When the point of Kreacher’s unusually large ears appeared from behind the kitchen doorway, Michael turned around and quickly Stunned both boys. He spun on the ugly little elf and hissed sharply, “Well?! What is it? What do you need to tell me that demands I leave the comfort of my House to meet with you -- you little peckerhead? This had better be good!”

He stammered then said with respect, “Kreacher is terribly sorry to disturb you, Mr. Grant . . sir . . . but he has seen them again. They were here, but they left.”

“And you’re sure it was them? The both of them, together?” Grant asked suspiciously. Draco understood perfectly; he knew that while house-elves were fiercely loyal, they were also notoriously stupid.

“You -- you said to watch for red hair, right?” Kreacher asked. As if begging for confirmation, he rapidly waggled his head up and down, causing his floppy ears to droop even more. “Kreacher would know it anywhere.” Grant’s eyes narrowed and his lips pursed as he nodded slowly. His expression grew even tighter as he clenched his wand, clearly intent on aiming it at someone.

Ginny thought to herself, Oh, no! Had Kreacher seen my brothers while they were at the school?

“Yes, I did, you contemptible fool,” he sneered mockingly. Then brandishing his wand, he shouted, “Crucio!” Kreacher’s legs wobbled slightly, then he fell to his knees in front of the young wizard, whimpering in pain. When Grant ended the curse, his little victim eventually stood before him and tried to apologize for the error of his ways.

“Not to be . . presumptuous . . . sir, why did Mr. Grant do that? Kreacher must have deserved your wrath, but why?”

Grant explained irritably, “That was for not impeding them like I instructed you to! On the extremely likely chance that you’re still not perfectly clear about this, your job is to stop them and then Apparate to me immediately. Is that understood yet?” he asked, strongly emphasizing the last word. The poor house-elf nodded, horror and awe in his eyes.

Ginny had never witnessed anyone actually receive the Cruciatus curse before. Even though she despised Kreacher, she felt a twinge of sympathy for him, until she remembered that the devious little wart was after her brothers. In a hoarse whisper, he said, “Yes.” Then in an even lower voice, yet very certain of himself, he said: “If Kreacher sees them again, he will stop them.”

The young wizard glanced around then spoke in a very low voice that neither Draco nor Ginny could hear. Oh, what I wouldn’t give for a pair of Extendable Ears right now! she thought. The brute continued hissing at Kreacher and even smacked him a couple of times for good measure. He eventually finished, and the elf scurried away, scraping and bowing as he went.

Next, Grant pointed his wand to each of his partners in crime and said, “Enervate.” Putting up a good imitation of being slightly dazed as well, he explained that when they tried to enter the kitchens, the door had some sort of shocking spell on it. All three of them were thrown back by its force, and he suggested that they just leave for now. Surprised at his audacity, Ginny thought, That underhanded, lying bastard!

As they left the area, Goyle moaned, “Oh, damn, now all I have to eat is that crappy candy Malfoy traded with me ages ago. It’s this rotten mix his mum sends him . . sorry if he hates it, but I don’t really like it either; I was just hungry that day . . . Don’t know where she gets the shit from . . ,” droning on and on until they were well out of earshot.

Ginny stomped her foot in frustration and vocalized what she had been mulling over. “Oooh, I just want to kill that Grant!” She added, “And now those creeps are after my brothers. Why?”

But Draco wasn’t so sure. He just shook his head. “I don’t know,” was his empty reply.

Turning her attention back to him, she asked with concern, “Now are you sure you’re all right? Did my brothers hex or punch you? Kick you?” His eyes widened slightly, surprised that she knew exactly how ruthless they could be. “I’ll take that as a yes,” she smirked. Opening his robes in a no-nonsense, professional manner, she ordered him, “Lift your jumper.”

“Yes, Mummy,” he teased.

Then she saw it: a purplish bruise surrounded by a red mark that could have been no wider than three or four inches. “So one of them did kick you. Pretty hard, too. Does it still hurt?” she asked, as she touched it gingerly.

His sharp hiss was his affirmative response. She muttered a common Healing spell that eased his discomfort immediately, enabling him to take a full breath for the first time since feeling the toe of that boot strike him in the ribs. “All better now?” she asked, a caring look on her face.

He closed his eyes momentarily, nodded with gratitude, and whispered, ‘Thank you.’

“No problem. Hey, someone’s got to look after you, even if you are a Slytherin, and a Malfoy to boot,” she teased. “You really should go visit Madame Pomfrey, just to be sure there’s no permanent damage. She can probably give you a potion to help you rest through any discomfort.”

Draco raised his hands in protest, as if she had just crossed a line that she didn’t even know existed. “Oh, no,” he said vehemently. “I’ve had enough of her potions to last me a lifetime. When I can get them down without my throat constricting and my stomach trying to vomit them back up, they only do a minimal amount of what I would call actual ‘healing.’ Everyone says she’s wonderful, but I’ve certainly never seen it.”

She tutted irritably, “Fine, we’ll just see how it looks tomorrow.”

Draco’s eyes lit up. “You can meet me again tomorrow?” he asked excitedly.

Shrugging casually, she replied, “It’s the least I can do to make up for the disaster that was tonight. Don’t you agree?”

“Yes, I do. You owe me at least that much, you heartless wench.” He grabbed her tightly at the waist and kissed her soundly. After a few minutes of exploring her with his lips and tongue, he remembered that she had said something about being famished. Besides, hearing a girl’s stomach rumble during the throes of passion does make it rather hard to concentrate. He suggested, “So do you want something to eat? We’re right by the kitchens, and you know as well as I do that the door is not ‘hexed’.”

Ginny smiled and sighed. “No, thanks, I’m really not all that hungry anymore. Running into Hogwarts’ resident junior Death Eater squad sort of made me lose my appetite,” she grimaced. “I just want to go and get some sleep.” She kissed him lightly and murmured, “Good night, Draco.”

He was mildly disappointed, but then figured it was probably for the best, as he was pretty well knackered himself. He managed a light smile and said, “Good night, Gin. I’ll send you an owl before breakfast.” His sexy grin made her heart flutter, and she felt somewhat light-headed.

“All right.” Turning away from him before she changed her mind, she moved down the hallway rapidly. Curfew had once again come and gone. She knew she was taking far too many chances -- flirting with disaster, as it were. I need to start being more sensible, she chastised herself. This almost isn’t worth it.

Her brain was telling her to be reasonable; a relationship she had to hide was never going to work, with or without Morgaine’s visions of her future. Besides, why can’t I have a normal boyfriend, one of whom my brothers would approve? Then with stark revelation, she stopped in the middle of the corridor and asked aloud to no one, “Why do I need their bloody approval at all?”

She shook her head in frustration then began walking again. Working her way toward Gryffindor Tower, she chose the less-traveled paths whenever possible. She listened intently for any signs of life, but there were none. Just creepy, deafening silence. She found it to be somewhat unnerving, and it made her feel like she were being followed or watched.

But there was no one else there. She wondered, How much farther away is it? In her mild panic, she couldn’t exactly remember.

Suddenly struck by inspiration, she snapped her fingers and said in her head, What am I thinking? I’m so stupid! Harry’s map -- it’s still in my robes! I’ll just keep an eye on that, and everything will be fine. She pulled the Marauder’s Map out of her robes and spoke an oath, the one that she had memorized years ago, long before she came to Hogwarts. She had picked it up while the map’s previous owners were on their summer holidays from school . .
*****
Ginny bolted out the front door of the Burrow, throwing herself into the sticky August breeze that offered no respite from the heat. Frustrated, she said aloud, “I’m sick of those annoying twins constantly torturing me!” She had had enough of sporting feathers and pink hair for one day and was bound for her place of sanctuary, the old treehouse their dad had built for Bill and Charlie more than a decade before. Clutching her favorite book, she ascended the rickety ladder, intent on reading and just being alone for a while.

She relished these rare moments of solitude. After reading for an hour or so, she laid down for a bit of rest. Shortly after she started to dream, the front door of the house slammed shut, awakening her instantly. She peered out and saw Fred and George coming her way. Determined not to become their latest ‘case study’, her senses went into overdrive. Feigning sleep was no good; just because one of their siblings was sleeping was no insurance that the impish pair wouldn’t try one of their experiments on them anyway.

But this time, she was ready for them. Oh, was she ready. She reached into her pocket and withdrew Ron’s brand new wand -- he had just picked it up at Diagon Alley a few days ago, along with his other school supplies, in preparation for his first trip to Hogwarts. Turning over quietly onto her stomach to get a better aim at them, she peeked through a knothole in the floor, fascinated by what she saw and heard.

As it happened, the twins weren’t looking for her, nor did they know she was there. Instead, they were studying some sort of enchanted map. Images would appear then disappear as they repeatedly recited what must have been its activation spell and counterspell. Ginny was never sure how or where they learned them, but that day, they inadvertently taught them to her. Soon, both phrases were solidly etched in her mind: “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good,” and, more importantly, “Mischief managed.”

Ginny smiled to herself, thinking that feathers were a small price to pay for such valuable information.

*****
Truthfully, she didn’t know what she would have done with that wand, but having seen and heard countless spells cast by her various family members, she felt certain she could have done something if she’d had to. And as for the so-called restrictions on the use of underage magic, the Weasley children could thank Arthur’s paternal great-great-grandfather for having adequately dealt with those irritants.

Their clever ancestor had placed a few unique charms on the property nearly two centuries ago -- a time when the enforcement branch of the Ministry of Magic was young and had not taken much notice of wizarding families who lived beyond large cities like London or its sprouting suburbs. Aside from the normal security wards and protective spells, he had also cast a few charms that allowed his descendents to completely ignore the burgeoning restrictions on underage magic. He thought they were ‘utterly senseless and impeded young people’s imagination.’ Naturally, Fred and George sang his praises on a regular basis and even went so far as to celebrate the man’s birthday every year.

Although Molly had requested that Arthur remove these particular charms (“To avoid any inquiries at work,” she had said) on numerous occasions, he felt it was only fair that the other children be allowed to defend themselves, in particular, their poor, hapless Percy. Besides, Arthur thought it might be disrespectful to go against the wishes of an ancestor. It didn’t mean Molly liked the idea, but after seeing the twins in action, she learned to accept it. So the children only had their mum to fear; she didn’t look much like an imposing figure, but at times, she was more frightening than the Wizengamot itself.

Momentarily banishing all memories of the Burrow, Ginny returned her full concentration to her mission -- getting to Gryffindor Tower without being caught. She stepped into a darkened doorway and whispered, “Lumos.” Scrutinizing the magical parchment, she squinted her eyes and surveyed it for tiny dots representing Mr. Filch or any other school employees or prefects. She saw a few, including her own and that of her lover on his way down to the Slytherin dungeons. Again, her heart skipped a beat. Observing that he was about halfway there, she said a silent prayer that he would make it the rest of the way without being caught, or else tomorrow evening was definitely off. Fortunately, the caretaker and his cat were miles away, prowling about the Trophy Room. She breathed a sigh of relief.

Then she saw something that made her do a double-take -- a name that made her think the map had gone all wonky.

‘Lucius Malfoy?’ she read. But that’s . . . impossible.

She felt a deep, unsettling fear at seeing Draco’s father’s name on the map. As far as she knew, the Marauder’s Map was utterly infallible. Eyeing it suspiciously, she wondered whether the map could make a mistake. And who would know for sure? Her mind raced urgently for that information. Then it hit her.

Who, indeed?

She walked as quickly as she could toward her destination, all the while keeping her eyes on the map for any change in the dots. The only one shift in their positions was that Draco had arrived where his father stood. Knowing only a portion of the cruelty this man was capable of, she suspected that this father-son lecture could quite possibly turn deadly. Desperate for the truth about the map in her hands, she sprinted the remainder of the way, heedless of any possible obstacles she might encounter. She just had to speak with the one person on Earth who could still tell her . . .

When she arrived, her heart was thumping in her chest. She took her wand and whispered a Recovery charm, then straightened her robes and her hair, in an effort to look respectable rather than disheveled. She stole another glance at the map. Lucius’s dot was still there, but if it were to disappear, she wasn’t sure how she would explain what she’d seen without sounding utterly insane. If his name was gone, how could she prove that it had ever been there?

She hesitated but a moment at the entrance to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom; it was very late, but sensing the urgency of the situation, she called out, “Professor Lupin?”

She hoped against hope that he was there and that he was awake. It was simply imperative that she see him immediately! The situation was -- it was . . . well, at the very least, there was a dangerous, escaped convict on the grounds of Hogwarts! How had he managed to do it? Wasn’t that physically impossible? Surely, Mr. Malfoy isn’t an Animagus? she wondered. She could not comprehend it, nor could she still the fear that consumed her.

Emerging from his private quarters in casual evening robes, Professor Lupin looked mildly shocked. “Ginny! Isn’t it a bit late to be wandering the halls?” he asked.

She sighed with relief, “Thank the gods, you’re here.” At his confused expression, she cleared her throat nervously. She was so frightened, she hardly knew where to begin. “Professor, I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour,” she apologized. “But I had to speak with you . . Only you would know—”

She glanced once more at the map and felt her lungs constrict; Draco’s father’s name was nowhere to be seen.

The professor, who was watching her intently, prompted, “Ginny? What is it? You look as if you’ve seen a boggart.”

“No, sir, but I do have a rather – unusual situation that I need to discuss with you. A question, actually. You are the only one who would know for sure.”

She paused, thinking how bizarre this was going to sound. When she did not continue, he prompted, “Yes?”

She sighed again, this time embarrassed at how ridiculous this might all sound. “Er, I, er, borrowed the Marauder’s Map from Harry and—”

He interrupted, “You have Harry’s map?”, his eyebrows raised in curiosity. “Do you know how it works? What it does?”

“Well, yes. Fred and George are my brothers.” He nodded in understanding and bit back a grin. He was beginning to wish that had never been involved in creating this blasted map; it had caused far more trouble than it was ever intended to. Reminding her of her mission, he asked, “Ginny? You had a question?”

She cleared her throat nervously. There was no other way to say it but to . . just say it. She blurted out rapidly, “Professor Lupin, can the Marauder’s Map make a mistake or tell a blatant lie? I mean, can it show someone who isn’t actually there, yet say they are?”

He shook his head at her unusual question and sighed heavily with an ironic laugh. “Not as far as I know, but Sirius was the one who added the bit about showing the names. He and James discussed the possibility of letting an Animagus slip by undetected, or allowing someone who was Polyjuiced to show up as that person instead. It was sort of their way of giving the person ‘bonus points’ for being clever and resourceful. But eventually, we all decided it would be best if the name of the actual person appeared.”

“Like Barty Crouch, Jr., pretending to be Professor Moody,” she said without feeling. At least her question was answered. But should she tell him why she had to know? What would his reaction be to that?

“Exactly. So Harry told you all about that, did he?” he asked dryly.

She shook her head and smiled faintly, “No, Ron did. We talk quite a bit during the summer. I know they sometimes left me out during my earlier school years, but during the summer hols -- I’m all he’s got.”

“And whose name did you see on the map that alarmed you? What made you want so badly to verify its truthfulness, that you would risk a detention by coming down here to see me, when you should be in your room?” he asked testily. He sounded almost . . Snape-ish.

Urgh, she groaned internally. The professor in him is coming out. Well, here goes nothing.

Waving the map in front of him, she informed him boldly, “I saw Lucius Malfoy’s name on this map not ten minutes ago.”

“What?!” he asked incredulously. “That doesn’t sound right. Let me have a look.” Intrigued, he studied the map and muttered to himself, “Malfoy’s in Azkaban, he’s . . but how could he have gotten here?” Then looking up at Ginny, he asked, “Are you quite sure it didn’t say ‘Draco Malfoy’ and you possibly misread it? I see he’s just slipped out of the hallway and into Slytherin House. The map doesn’t extend into any of the four houses.”

“I’m positive, Professor Lupin. Mr. Malfoy and his son were together in one of the corridors not far from the Potions classroom. Lucius was pacing the floor around his son. If I’m not mistaken,” she ventured, “he may well have been threatening him.” The fear hit her once again. What had he suffered during his father’s visit?

Suddenly, a lilting female voice called from the adjoining rooms, “Remus . . are you coming back to bed, you sexy, hairy beast? I can only stay a little while longer, you know.”

“Give me another minute, dear,” he replied toward the open door that lead to his office and behind that, his sleeping quarters.

Utterly mortified, Ginny could feel her face turning as red as her hair. Oh, Merlin -- he wasn’t alone! I never thought that Tonks would be with him. Seems like she’s here all the time anymore - ! Gritting her teeth and squinting her eyes, she apologized profusely, “Professor Lupin, I am so sorry to have interrupted your private time. We can discuss this later, of course. Please forgive me.” Taking the map from his open hands, she bolted for the door.

He laughed and gave his student an understanding smile. “Wait, Ginny. At least let me give you a pass to keep you from getting a detention,” he suggested kindly.

“All right.” Grateful, she nodded and sighed nervously. She fidgeted all the while, thinking, Be quick about it! She grabbed the note hastily then murmured, “Thank you, sir. Good night.” Then she darted out of the classroom.

Returning to his bedroom, Remus walked over to where Tonks was lying, sat down beside her, and kissed her temple. She asked, “Who was it?”

His face puzzled, he replied distantly, “Oh, Ginny Weasley. She just had a rather odd question.” Tonks raised her eyebrows, to which he replied, “She said she saw Lucius Malfoy’s name on the Marauder’s Map.”

Tonks snickered, “That old, unreliable piece of trash? Lying again, is it? Sirius once told me he charmed it to reveal the name of the actual person, but he made sure it didn’t always work right. You know, sometimes it would, sometimes it wouldn’t. He thought it would be a right good joke on you lot,” she grinned.

Her fiancee looked at her and said seriously, “Well, he might have. But after a few close calls and a couple of detentions, I saw to that personally. It can’t lie or be charmed to hide anyone; the name of a person is the real one, regardless of what guise he or she may take.” He glanced away and muttered, “And that’s what scares me.”

He went to his fireplace, grabbed a handful of Floo Powder, and tossed it in, shouting, “Albus Dumbledore!”
*****
Remus Lupin’s concerns were justified. While Ginny sought desperately to reach her professor in time, Lucius Malfoy stood before his son. Only mildly surprised to see him, the boy responded to his arrival in an appropriate, even deferential, manner. “Father,” he said, his voice far more serene than what he actually felt. “And to what dubious honor do I owe this visit?”

With bitter malice in his beautiful, cold eyes, the Malfoy patriarch snarled threateningly. His lip was twitching, his nostrils flaring ever so slightly, yet he spoke very calmly to his only child: “You know goddamn well why I’m here. Your behavior is out of control. Someone has to stop you. Your mother has been unsuccessful, so I am taking over, as of right now.”

He was clearly in no mood to be toyed with. Draco did not know how to respond, or what his father expected, but he knew better than to remain totally silent. Doing so would risk the man’s wrath -- which was known to really, really hurt. Instead he asked blithely, “And what behavior are you referring to?”

Lucius sighed as if he were at the end of his tether. After a moment of heavy silence, he laughed scathingly, “Merlin, you are thick! Sometimes I find it incredible that you are actually my child.” More time elapsed; again, the boy said nothing. “What behavior, he asks? How shall I begin?”

He paused once more then enumerated his son’s faults, one by one. “Your grades are abysmal. Still. You only win at Quidditch when your opponent is a thin, frail girl.” At this remark, Draco’s fingers started to draw into a fist, which was promptly released. “And I would imagine that you have no clue why Severus is training you in Occlumency.” His son’s eyes, which were so like his father’s, drew wide. The man hissed in barely a whisper, “Let me say this once: I do not approve of these so-called ‘lessons’, and they will cease this instant.”

Draco was stunned. How had Father known about that? And honestly, he wasn’t sure what was he was so upset about. His grades were higher than they were last year. Slytherin was in first place, due in large part to his Quidditch victory, and he had finally mastered his first steps in the difficult art of Occlumency. So what was the problem again? he wondered but didn’t dare ask.

His silence only served to aggravate Lucius further, and in a clipped, and slightly more threatening, tone, he clarified, “I will conduct your Occlumency training. It is something all Malfoy men learn from their fathers. Severus does not have the required skills to impart the knowledge you will need. You are to stop this foolishness of studying with him at once. If need be, I will have your mother send an owl to the Headmaster,” he paused briefly for emphasis, “tonight. Will that be necessary?”

“No, sir,” Draco murmured.

“Good.” Lucius sneered then added coldly, “By the way, my boy, did you know that the Dark Lord's faith in Severus is . . how shall we say, hanging by a very thin thread? If he continues to displease him, it will snap. And Hogwarts will find itself one Potions Master short of a full teaching staff.”

His son swallowed nervously and replied, “No, Father, I was unaware of that.” He tried desperately to hide his fear and replace it with a distinctively Malfoy attribute that Lucius might recognize and perhaps even approve of: haughtiness.

But his disguise would falter with what his father would insist upon next.

“And as for your choice in -- female companionship,” he drawled derisively, “I believe your mother made it clear that you are to end your association with that . . Weasley slut. Did she not specify that it was my express wish,” he corrected himself, “no, my demand, that you stop seeing her? Normally, I could care less who you screw -- go screw Marcus Flint, if you like. But I do not give you permission to sleep with muggle-loving scum like her!”

Although Draco knew better than to argue, he couldn’t keep himself from asking, “Why?” Lucius was clearly taken aback. He straightened himself up, lifting his head and eyeing his son with contempt, yet he remained silent as if he were considering something.

Seeing him raise an incredulous eyebrow, Draco cringed inwardly, wondering if his father would hex him so that it would be . . physically impossible . . . for him to make love to Ginny. He knew that Lucius had done that sort of thing in the past to the husband of one of his own lovers, a striking witch whom he had become extremely possessive of. Fortunately, the hex had been temporary.

In an attempt to save himself from a similar fate, he scoffed and lied callously, “It’s only for fun, anyway. You think I actually care for a Weasley? She’s just good in bed, that’s all. Not to mention -- eager and very willing.”

“I’m not talking about your bloody feelings,” his father growled. “Or how ‘good’ she is. This goes far beyond any of that.”

“Then what?” he asked rather indignantly, regretting the words the moment they escaped his lips.

Lucius sneered with disgust, “You stupid boy. How plain do I have to make this for you? If she were to become pregnant with your child—”

He gasped in disbelief, “Is that all? And you think we don’t know how to prevent that?”

“. . the repercussions would be unimaginable,” the man said slowly, as if finishing his last thought.

Draco groaned internally; he wished this day would just fucking end. Besides, he wondered, how can I not be with Ginny? For him, it was out of the question, and he thought -- well, he hoped -- that it was for her as well.

What would Father do if . . . I refused?

He wondered distractedly how many more cracked ribs would he have to endure tonight and whether he would feel the sting of Cruciatus seep through his skin once more. Becoming more apprehensive, his breathing and heart rate seemed to increase exponentially, yet he was not willing to give in to the bastard. Feelings of powerlessness and frustration were making his head feel as though someone were pounding on it with a sledgehammer.

When his sullen expression became defiant, Lucius read its meaning at once. He was not accustomed to his word being ignored or disobeyed, least of all by his own child. His fingers twitched to reach for his wand, and he snarled, “You can’t be serious. She is slovenly, low, poor -- in a word, beneath you. Have you already forgotten that that bitch and her friends put me in prison?!”

Serves you right for getting caught, you stupid bugger.

When Draco didn’t respond straight away, he knew he would be punished. He’d all but said no -- everything but the word itself. Making the rather rash decision that the shock on his father’s face would be well worth a few moments of excruciating pain, which he was sure to receive anyway, he said with a smirk, “Yes, Father, she is beneath me. But sometimes, she gets on top. Either way, she’s a cunning stunt who really knows how to work me over.”

The man was not amused in the least. His lips thinned even more, and he was seething with thinly-veiled anger. Trying to maintain an illusion of calm, he muttered, “You know perfectly well what I mean. She is not . . suitable for you. You are a Malfoy; you deserve a better class of woman. You will have better.”

Draco thought angrily, It’s so bloody unfair! Why do I get the world’s two most mentally unbalanced parents? He thought of Ginny’s mum and dad; they seemed to love and support her. Even if they disagreed with something she did, he couldn’t see her backing down, not if she truly believed in it. Not my Ginny, he thought with pride. Then with a pang of jealousy, he reminded himself, Of course, her parents don’t go about throwing Unforgivables whenever they feel like it, either.

He suddenly had a momentary lapse of reason, and he didn't care what his father thought just then. The pain was inevitable anyway. Attempting to call on an inner strength he didn’t know he had, he did the unthinkable: He lashed out at Lucius Malfoy.

“Why are you and Mother suddenly so fucking interested about whom I choose to spend my time with? You never once gave a shit about me before, you bloody bastard! Never!”

The man’s ire was seeping through his normally icy, calm mask; his son knew that he was furious. Lucius drew in a deep breath, and exhaling slowly, he uttered, “Of course, I care about you. That’s why I’m here. Believe me, anything she could give you is nothing compared to the power you will have, if you will but reach out and grasp it. Be patient; you will have everything you want, any girl you desire.”

Steeling his courage, he looked his father in the eye without flinching and said, “I already have, Father. And I want Ginny.” He was far more nervous than he appeared to be.

Lucius struggled to preserve what remained of his composure. In a tone that did not reveal half the frustration he was feeling toward his son, he said, “Think, Draco. If she were to conceive the next . . Malfoy heir . . . I assure you, both of you would be killed before the child was ever born. And since I do -- care for you, very deeply, my son . . .” Grasping his wand, he raised it and said, “I am going to instill some reinforcement to ensure that that will never happen.”

Draco awoke a bit later, feeling somewhat recovered from the intense pain that had racked his body earlier. He lifted himself up off the floor and looked around. Naturally, his father was gone. He breathed a sigh of relief then slunk back to his dorm room, falling asleep the second his exhausted, aching body hit the mattress.

~End of Chapter~

Should you think this is going to be your run-of-the-mill, Romeo-and-Juliet-type D/G fic, think again! It just seemed realistic to me for Ginny’s brothers to defend her honor and that Mr. Malfoy would also insist that Draco not see her again. Besides, they haven’t had any little ‘father-son’ chats in quite a while, and I was starting to miss Azkaban’s most devastatingly handsome, wicked inmate - ! ;-)

And I finally got to use one of my favorite slang phrases (cunning stunt) in this chapter! Go to http://www.peevish.co.uk/slang/c.htm for that and more slang phrases. For any non-Brits who are not easily offended (such as myself), this site may prove to be quite entertaining and informative. I refer to it fairly often for ideas. Thank you, “peevish”!

Now, shoo -- review! (please?) Thanks, smprsgrrl, for reviewing Chapter 13!

Note #2 (Added Aug 2005): I was just reminded by Animagus, a reviewer at another site, that Ron's first wand was actually Charlie's old one. Sorry, that completely slipped my mind. :-(

Author's Notes: Thanks for reading and for all your splendiferous reviews! Sorry it took me so long to update this time, but since my kids are out of school, I've been spending more time with them and less time writing. Thank you, fyrechild, my Beta Reader, for your marvelous assistance!!

This chapter's title is from the British comedy show. As always, I would love it if you would write a review. :-)

CHAPTER 15 – Keeping Up Appearances

"Hey, Malfoy! Get your lazy bum out of bed!" an angry voice bellowed, its owner utterly oblivious to whom else it might awaken. A large, calloused hand jostled Draco's bed covers roughly, pulling him abruptly out of his dream-filled sleep.

Shite, it's Warrington. And he would be here about our . . 6 a.m. Quidditch practice. And I'd hoped I was only having a nightmare when Crabbe told me that last night.

Word about Interhouse Cooperation Week and the cancellation of next week's practices must have spread quickly. Unfortunately for the Slytherin team, their captain was driven, so they could expect to double up on practices this week to make up for the three they would miss the next.

"Gimme a few minutes," the Seeker croaked groggily as he rubbed his eyes in a vain attempt to focus. Goyle and Crabbe stood at either side of the team's leader, arms crossed over their chests and looking thoroughly disgusted with their one-time idol, who still lay flat on his back. With the painful reminders of his father's visit the night before still fresh in his mind and his body, Draco felt as sore as if he had already practiced all night. He wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep and rest his aching muscles.

He propped himself up on his elbows wearily, looking back at the three burly players who were staring down at him. They were already in full Quidditch dress down to their gloves and holding onto their broomsticks. Draco seemed to recall Crabbe telling him that their captain was intent on getting in at least two hours of practice before morning lessons. He suppressed the urge to groan aloud.

Warrington groused, "Malfoy, you look like utter shit. What do you do all night instead of sleep, wank yourself off for hours on end?" The Beaters (Now there's an appropriate name, Draco thought) were obviously amused, as they made a half-hearted attempt to keep their snickers to themselves. Their leader sneered, "Well, Sleeping Beauty, we're going out to run through our plays. Rest up -- can't afford you dozing off out there -- and then you can make up at tonight's practice by staying after we all leave." Pointing a finger at him, he threatened, "You've got one hour to get your arse out to that pitch, you lazy blighter. If you're even one minute late, you'll sit out the next game."

As Warrington reached for the door, he turned back and said nonchalantly, "I hear Grant's a rather good Seeker himself. He's been on his house team ever since he was a first-year," adding cruelly, "just like Potter.” The captain turned and left the room abruptly, Crabbe and Goyle following him so closely that each of their thick heads seemed to be vying for the position of whose would be stuck further up his arse.

Draco exhaled and sank back into his pillow. Figuring he would benefit more from getting up and moving around, he tossed the covers off roughly, dressed, and wrote a rather cryptic note to Ginny.

Seeking time alone tonight after 8:00. If you can go, sit facing my table this morning.

Yours always

It was pretty vague, but he figured she'd catch his meaning. He had to be secretive; with the ever-increasing pressure from his parents to give up this so-called 'doomed relationship', he was getting nervous about his owls being intercepted by the wrong person. Whoever that was, he wondered once again. But his mother and father's reactions were not all that surprising; he knew a few purebloods himself who would want to kill him for falling head over heels for the youngest member of the foremost blood traitor family in the school, perhaps in all of England.

And yet he just couldn't help himself. His skin tingled at the thought of her. She made him feel so loved, so warm; he was only human, and like anyone else, he craved that. She was great fun to be with, to talk with . . to love. Being with her just felt right.

He grumbled in frustration. Certain that both Lucius and Narcissa had someone watching him, he speculated for the thousandth time who it could possibly be. But once more, the answer eluded him. Was there more than one person, and would they notice him going to the Owlery with his early morning delivery? Or worse, did half of Slytherin already know, and were they gossiping behind his back?

Regardless, he doused his concern for the moment and convinced himself that it was probably safe, as not that many people were up at this hour. He sealed the brief note and made the final preparations for the practice he was already missing.

As he fumbled around in his trunk distractedly for his practice gloves, his hand grazed over a sealed bottle. He knew without seeing it that it was the one he was supposed to have sent to his mother weeks ago. Bloody hell. Extracting his soft leather gloves from their hiding spot, he tried to shove aside his promise to Ginny that he would send it immediately . . but he just couldn't shake that annoying twinge of guilt for not having done so. I had planned to just discard it and tell Madame Pomfrey that it hadn't helped. But he couldn't lie to Ginny; she would see right through him.

This is all her fault. Damn Gryffindor. She's ruining me.

Stewing silently, he finally relented; he rolled his eyes and thought, Guilt sucks.

He lifted the amber bottle up to eye level and analyzed the liquid inside carefully. Tipping the bottle to its side, he wondered about its viscosity, exactly what color it was, whether it was gritty, chalky, or smooth -- and the most maddening question of all, what it could possibly be for. Hmm, this doesn't look like any potion I've ever seen. Knowing as much as he did about potions, and aggravated that he couldn't name this one, he set it down and thought complacently, Probably just some 'female' thing.

Retrieving his letter-writing supplies, he plopped back down onto his bed. He stared at the bottle then at the blank parchment as he tried to think of exactly what to say to his mother, a challenge in and of itself. Time was of the essence, and he still had to get over to the Owlery before going the pitch. Merlin, I hate writing home, he thought sourly.

He glanced up at the mirror and gave his hair one final touch-up, procrastinating to avoid his chore. The mirror said that he looked absolutely delicious in his Quidditch robes. While drinking in the compliment, he came up with a rather ingenious plan. He decided to make this letter an opportunity to invent some plausible, perhaps an even admirable, reason why he should actually continue his relationship with Ginny. Might as well get some good out of this, he told himself. Newly inspired, he inked his quill and wrote:

Dearest Mother,

Thank you for your last letter. I am fine and hope you are as well. School is good -- lessons are challenging, but nothing I can't handle. I wish you could have seen my Quidditch victory, but I know you have had a very busy social schedule as of late. Naturally, the win would have been much sweeter if it had been against Potter. Rest assured, that day is near, perhaps even before the Slytherin-Gryffindor match in January.

Strangely, this brings me to the matter of the 'company I keep', as you so eloquently put it. It's perfect, really; as fate would have it, she is his latest crush. When he sees that she chose me over him -- it will absolutely eat him alive. The shocked looks on the smug little faces of the nightmare trio from hell will be so satisfying, I can hardly wait.

But that is not the only reason I do not wish to give her up. However gratifying that promises to be, please try to understand that--

He paused in mid-sentence and raised his quill momentarily. Maybe that bit about Potter will be enough to convince her, he thought, mulling over what to write next. Then he murmured to himself, "Might as well go for broke here, with all the damage I've done so far." He continued writing, heedless of the warning bells that were clanging loudly in his head.

I need her. I can't explain it, but somehow she's comforting to be around, and I know she cares for me. Our relationship is oddly fulfilling in many ways, and with Blaise gone, I really have no one else who appreciates me for who I am instead of the Malfoy name, money, or reputation. None of that matters to her, nor does the plain and simple truth that, in certain circles, our name means somewhat less than it once did. As bizarre as it sounds, I think that somehow plays in my favor, given her house's strange tendency to 'sympathize with the underdog'.

I am including a potion from Madame Pomfrey. She seems to think it will help you; please let me know if it does. The directions are on the note affixed to the bottle.

One more thing: As you may know, I had a visitor last night, someone who shares your opinion of what to do about my best friend. I all but refused and was summarily punished for my impertinence. Just thought you ought to know. It seems we will never be free of it.

Your loving son,

Draco

Just before sealing it, he surveyed the note once more. He carefully reconsidered the last paragraph; it wasn't really important -- he was basically just complaining -- and it would probably reinforce, in his mother's mind, that Ginny was not 'worthy of him'. Besides, it was so vaguely written, it meant almost nothing; he wasn't even sure what he was trying to express. Deciding it did nothing to further his case, he pointed his wand at it and muttered, "Obliterate."

With just fifteen minutes left to get out to the pitch, he walked briskly to the Owlery. As he did, he wondered sardonically if he would have been pressing his luck by asking if Ginny could visit for Christmas. He thought wryly, I'd probably find my own nuts in my stocking.

He entered the owls' resting station and chose a bird to deliver Ginny's message. It was rather small and drably colored, but most eager to work. The name on its perch said "Pig". He gave "Pig" an especially tasty treat to help ensure that Ginny would get the note before breakfast, then shooed it on its way.

The other was Narcissa's personal owl, Dionysus. At first, Draco thought it odd that her pet was there, but then he figured it must have delivered her 'cease and desist' order for his Occlumency lessons. He secured his mother's letter and package to Dionysus's leg. The majestic creature spread its wings and flew gracefully out into the bleak morning sky. Draco watched it for a moment or two, wishing he could feel such freedom. He sighed heavily. Fatigue was making his head pound; he felt utterly exhausted, and it wasn't even 7 a.m. yet. There, he thought as he closed his eyes briefly and leaned against the wall. I've done my duty.

The pre-dawn practice was in full swing and quite intense. He grimaced; being the Seeker, he had never liked playing Quidditch in anything less than full sunlight. But he knew that Warrington would have his arse in a sling if he didn't rise to the occasion. So despite a distracting migraine and the slight nausea that accompanied it, he joined his teammates in the air.

He regretted it almost immediately. Bludgers were flying about madly, and they seemed to have his name written all over them. His head swimming, he was finding it difficult to dodge them all; eventually, one of the growling, shifty buggers actually hit him at the top of his right shoulder. "SHIT!!!" he cursed loudly at whichever brainless oaf had knocked it his way. Fortunately, his Seeker's reflexes had enabled him to swerve at the last possible second, so the damn thing barely grazed him. It was just so bloody embarrassing. If he couldn't see a ball that large when it was coming right for him, how the hell was he supposed to find the Golden Snitch?

Speaking of the Snitch, it was nowhere in sight. Draco was positive that Warrington had locked it up inside the box, a silent jab to get back at him for waking up late. All the while, the captain kept threatening to replace him on a permanent basis, finally yelling belligerently, "Malfoy, we've more than paid your father back for these stinking brooms! Now get out there and show me why I should keep you on this team, with so many more talented guys bucking to take your spot!!"

He shot back, "Maybe I can't find the Snitch because you forgot to release it, Captain Warrington!" But his snide remark went unheeded, and the others continued practicing as if he hadn't said a word.

When Draco dodged what seemed like the hundredth Bludger that morning, he hollered, "You know, if we didn't have fucking idiots for Beaters, maybe I could concentrate on my role instead of trying not to get my arse killed!" Warrington waved his hand unconcernedly, as if to say their pampered Seeker was only sniveling . . again. Crabbe and Goyle both looked a bit confused, shrugging as if unsure what he was on about. Draco grunted to himself, grinding his teeth as he continued his fruitless search.

Following the overlong practice session, the team members remained in their robes while they ate breakfast together at the Great Hall. They got a lot of attention: most of it from admiring females, some of it from jealous players from the other houses, primarily Gryffindor. The most obvious was Ginny's brother, who couldn't keep the angry flush out of his freckle-pocked cheeks. Draco rolled his eyes and mouthed across the tables to him: "Fuck off, Weasley."

Apparently, Goyle noticed too. He nudged him in the ribs and mumbled thickly through his porridge, "Hey, Malfoy. Weasel's lookin' at you like you're good enough to eat."

Draco smirked as they snickered conspiratorially; laughing at Ron's expense was always fun. "King Weasel?" he scoffed. "Please -- not now; I'm trying to eat."

Goyle shook his head and pointed in Ginny's direction. "Not him -- her." Draco felt the blood leave his pale cheeks and then return a moment later, praying the slight blush wouldn't betray his thoughts. But the fat oaf sitting at his side paid no mind, shoveled more porridge into his mouth than it could actually hold, and said, "I mean, look at her. She looks like she's sort of -- hungry for it. Wouldn't mind having a go with her, myself." He munched on his food some more then slopped a large swig of orange juice. "If things don't work out for me and Su, who knows? Hot little number, that one. I bet she's a right good fuck," he remarked crassly, wiping the sticky drool from his stubble-covered chin.

Draco remained calm on the outside, but just under the surface, he was absolutely livid, burning with rage. In an effort to restrain the urge to literally choke his teammate, he looked down at his plate, attempting to quell his anger. He composed himself quickly, eyed Ginny as he licked his lips, then looked back at Goyle. With a wicked laugh, he suggested nonchalantly, "Why don't I take her out for a test drive and get back to you on that?" Goyle eyes lit up as if he liked that idea a bit too much; Draco felt like hurling.

Having lost most of his appetite, he picked at his remaining breakfast. He caught Ginny staring at him a number of times, giving him those little tempting looks that always hit him . . right there. Gods, she was making him crazy. Returning his attention to his eggs, which were stone cold by now, he focused on how little time he had left before his first class.

When he was not far from the Advanced Potions classroom, he felt a light tap on the back of his head. Someone had thrown something and struck him. He spun around quickly, catching Ginny's silhouette and distinctive hair as she slid into a dark recess. He surveyed the area; the halls were not very full, but he cast a Silencing Charm for good measure then cautiously slipped in beside her.

"Ginny? What are you . . ?" he asked, stopping abruptly when he saw the worry in her eyes as they searched his intently. He hissed, "Look, this really isn't a good time. I'll see you down at the pitch after 8:00 tonight." When she said nothing, he grew irritable and chastised her, "What are you doing down here, anyway? Shouldn't you be in Charms now? If either of us is late for class, then our meeting tonight is off."

Her lower lip trembled as a few scant tears spilled over her ginger lashes. "Oh, I was so worried about you, I barely slept a wink last night!" At his puzzled expression, she touched his face tenderly and whispered with trepidation, "Are you all right? Your visitor . . . did he . . hurt you?" Suddenly filled with raw emotion, she flung her arms around his neck and sobbed quietly onto his shoulder.

He backed away slightly, pulling her arms down and replied with a bitter chuckle, "So you know about that?" Then eyeing her with distrust, he added, "You didn't tell anyone, did you?"

Biting her quivering lip, she breathed, "Yes."

He moaned, "You didn't!" After a brief pause, he demanded tersely, "And who, in your infinite wisdom, did you think you had to tell?"

"I told . . Professor Lupin," she confessed in a low voice, the tears still evident.

He snorted then asked, "Why?" He was clearly upset with her; it was the last reaction she had expected, and she was rather taken aback.

She replied angrily, "What do you mean, why? I care about you, you nit! And your father is a dangerous individual; he didn't go to prison for organizing a knicker raid at a Girlguide camp, you know!" The muggle reference was completely lost on Draco, but he was too perturbed to ask what she meant.

He snarled, "No, I meant why did you run to Lupin?"

"Because—" she began in a hoarse undertone. "I can't explain it just now." When he only glared at her, she promised hastily, "Look, we can talk about that later; I just had to see if you were okay. Are you?"

He shrugged and replied distantly, "I'll live."

"Well, I should hope so," she said with what he felt was unnecessary brusqueness. "We'd best both get to our classes now."

Annoyed that she had betrayed a confidence (Granted, she didn't know it was one), he muttered disgustedly, "Can't believe you told Lupin. Why him?"

"I did it to protect you -- you ungrateful prat!" she argued. Then she muttered, mostly to herself, "Don't think he believed me, anyway."

Feeling guilty for snapping at him, she apologized, "Sorry I was edgy with you. I could tell in the Great Hall that you're not feeling very well." Then she gave him a quick kiss and started to rush off for the Charms classroom. She turned back suddenly and whispered, "Did you send your mum the potion?"

"Yes, I did -- thanks to you and your little guilt trip," he replied with what she would call a rather cute little smirk. She smiled her appreciation and turned away. He swatted her bum as she walked away, eliciting a soft giggle. They left separately -- Draco going the rest of the way to Advanced Potions, Ginny running off to Charms.

Professor Flitwick was by no means the toughest teacher on campus, but he didn't appreciate it when students arrived more than a few minutes late for his class. Ginny was well within the known boundaries when she sat down by Luna and dropped her knapsack, receiving only a warning glance from the spry little professor.

"Morning, Luna," she chirped to her rather odd friend. "How are you today?"

Luna set her quill down and looked up at Ginny as if she had only just realized that they had a class together. "Oh, hello, Ginny. I'm quite fine," she answered, sporting her usual slightly-dazed expression. "And you?"

Ginny marveled at how someone who could give Hermione a run for her money in sheer intelligence could behave as if she were absolutely nutters. Her odd looks, her strange beliefs, the vague mystery surrounding her life -- it all served to give her an undeserved reputation for being weirder than she actually was. After all, Ginny wouldn't befriend a barmy loon, would she?

The Ravenclaw observed her and said with a faint smile, "You look a bit more chipper than you did down in the Great Hall this morning."

"Really?" Ginny said, a bit startled that she had been so obvious. So certain she always kept her feelings for Draco under wraps, she wondered anxiously, If Luna noticed, then who else did? She withdrew her book slowly and absently turned to page 154.

Glancing over the text in her own book, Luna replied, "My goodness, yes. You looked quite distracted. You barely ate two bites." She paused, then, looking up at her with concern, asked, "Are you sure you're feeling all right today, Ginny?"

"Of course, I am!" she laughed, a bit too quickly.

"If there's anything you need to talk about, you know you can tell me. I've been your friend forever." It was true; Luna had been her confidante ever since the year the Dementors were at Hogwarts.

Professor Flitwick began instructing his fifth-year students on the more complex levitation charms to prepare them for their upcoming O.W.L.s. Ginny and Luna continued to converse quietly. As long as they were actually attempting to absorb the new material, this never seemed to bother the tiny instructor.

Then Luna said out of the blue, "Frankly, I haven't seen you that worried since the Quidditch match a few weeks ago. You seemed awfully concerned about the outcome. It was sweet of you to root for my team to win." Looking at Ginny with a whimsical smile, she added, "Too bad they didn't, though."

Ginny blushed slightly, praying it wasn't too noticeable, but looked away just in case it was. "Yeah," she concurred, "it was a shame that Slytherin played such a shut-out." She practiced the charm a few more times then attempted to change the subject, but Luna spoke first.

"So what were you so absorbed in at breakfast? Or should I say . . whom? Perhaps—" she considered as she waved her wand, balancing the massive, four-inch-thick Quidditch stats book in the air in front of her effortlessly, "a new boyfriend you don't want your brother Ronald to find out about?" Ginny swallowed nervously, trying desperately to focus on her own levitation task while remaining as inconspicuous as possible.

Meanwhile, Luna went on casually, "I mean, you didn't even bat an eye when Ron took three sausages right off your plate. Normally, you'd belt him a good one for that." Waiting for her friend's response, she carefully lowered the heavy tome to the dusty floor. It touched down with a soft thud. She repeated the difficult charm again, acing it in just a few tries.

Ginny was unable to think of a quick response, so she pretended not to have heard. After about a half-minute of feigned concentration, she said, "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

Luna swished-and-flicked her wand, muttered the O.W.L.-level charm with ease, and then said, "I was just wondering why you were so focused on the Slytherin Quidditch team. Not that a couple of them don't look stupendous in those robes, but who would you be looking at at their table?" Luna repeated the charm once more, so effectively that even Professor Flitwick took notice. The little man tottered over to their table, animated with delight.

"Well done, Miss Lovegood!" he said enthusiastically. He scooted in between the two girls' chairs, congratulating the young Ravenclaw heartily for her 'spectacular and prompt achievement'. Ginny could have nearly kissed the professor, as he had saved her the awkwardness of making up an embarrassingly bad lie. Not that she couldn't worm her way out of a tight spot; she just wasn't comfortable lying to a close friend -- Ron excluded, of course.

Instead, the professor dragged Luna away, asking if she would mind helping Mr. Creevey with his charm, as he seemed to be having a spot of trouble with it. She agreed, immediately hopping out of her chair as if she and Ginny had not been visiting at all, and headed toward Gryffindor's amateur photographer. Ginny smiled to herself. It was rare that Luna was the center of attention. At least, not any good attention, she thought as she concentrated on her work.

She continued practicing the difficult charm for another half-hour. Finally mastering it, she raised her hand to show Professor Flitwick that she was ready to move on to the next one listed in the book. While waiting for him to stop by, she checked on Luna's progress with Colin. She was still with him, only now, she was holding onto his hand to guide his movements as they said the charm together. He looked utterly besotted with the girl. Ginny thought, Help Mr. Creevey with his charm, indeed. Looks like he's quite charmed by you, Luna. She bit her lip and grinned, and then catching Luna's eye, she raised her eyebrows and smirked.

The lesson soon drew to a close, but before Luna returned to gather her things, Colin could be overhead asking her if she would mind terribly going with him on the next Hogsmeade visit. Looking at him with her enormous eyes, she blushed furiously and said she would love to go with him. Colin practically skipped out of the room, smiling broadly and waving madly. "Thanks for everything, Luna! I'll see you later!"

Leaving the classroom, Ginny gasped as if shocked by what she had just witnessed. "Why, Miss Lovegood," she teased, "and you have the nerve to quiz me about a new boyfriend? I'm not looking for one. But it seems that our Mr. Creevey is quite smitten with you." Luna blushed again, grinning from ear to ear.

Ginny reasoned silently, Takes her mind off of my complicated love life for the moment. It seemed to work. Luna tried to suppress her giggles (without much success), so Ginny pressed on. "So have you always fancied Colin, or did this just take you by surprise?"

Luna replied shyly, "He sat with me on the train." She promptly clarified, "Not alone; there were others there, of course. He's been flirting with me ever since but hasn't had the nerve to ask me out yet."

Ginny smiled supportively, saying, "Well, I'm glad he has. He's very nice." Their paths soon diverged, sending Luna on her way to Divination, while Ginny went downstairs for Potions with the Slytherins (Ugh, she groaned to herself. Fifth-year Slytherins are the vilest creatures at this school. Not to mention their god, Professor Snape.) She felt a sudden chill of apprehension, as she wondered vaguely whether any of them had noticed her sneaking glances at their table during breakfast -- and if so, what they might say.

She spied Colin ahead of her on the stairs. Forgetting her worries for the moment, she caught up with him and slugged him lightly on the shoulder. "So, you're suddenly having trouble with Charms, Mr. Creevey?" she mocked. "I happen to know that you're quite adept at that subject."

He winked slyly and held an index finger to his lips. She winked back and whispered conspiratorially, "Your secret is safe with me." Then she giggled and ran along to class, not wishing to incur Snape's wrath for being tardy. She simply could not afford another detention, as she had to meet Draco after his Quidditch practice tonight.

*****
Later that day, when the Slytherin's evening practice was finished, Draco's teammates went back to the changing rooms, leaving him to finish up. Warrington released the Snitch once more and told him he would have to catch it four more times before coming in. And he assured him he would know if he hadn't.

For nighttime practices and games, the pitch was well-lit, and Draco was grateful for that. It made Seeking much easier, and the time whisked by rapidly. As he wrapped his fingers around the speeding little ball for the third time in an hour, he told himself, Just one more catch, that's all I need.

It wasn't so easy this time. He searched doggedly from one end of the pitch to the other, flying high and low, circling the entire arena. After an interminable amount of time, he thought he saw a minute glimmer of gold in the distance. He went into a fierce dive. He zoomed toward his goal, all the while imagining that Potter was just inches behind him; Draco gave it one last burst of speed, easily outstripping his rival. As he drew closer to the shiny object, he could see its fluttering wings. "Gotcha!" he said, quite pleased with himself.

However, when he reached it, the wings were slowing down as if it had already been caught. In the dim light at that end of he pitch, he realized why. Ginny Weasley was sitting astride her broom, grinning impishly at him and holding his prize in her hand. She said to him confidently, "Ginny Weasley, Gryffindor Seeker, Spring 1996."

Her hair was done up in a loose bun, and her robes, clearly a size too small, hugged her every curve. Miffed at her audacity, as well as the fact that she looked quite attractive despite the way she was straddling that broom (or maybe because of it), he reprimanded her dispassionately, "Hand it over, wench. I was supposed to catch that."

With mock scorn, she said, "Then you should have been faster, shouldn't you? I saw it at least five minutes ago. I got tired of waiting for you, so I grabbed it."

Draco was not amused. "Very funny. Now give it back." She handed it to him for another go, but the humming movement of its wings had stopped altogether. Apparently, it had been charmed to go exactly four more rounds, meaning his solo practice was over. He took the Snitch from Ginny's open hand; when his fingers grazed hers, a spark rushed through his body. "Thanks," he muttered, not sounding terribly appreciative. Walking together toward the Slytherin changing rooms, he added, "Just hope my team captain doesn't chew me out for this."

"You'll be fine." She chided, "You're just paranoid because you're a Slytherin -- it's in your nature."

Walking toward the changing rooms, he remarked, "Miss Weasley, I do wonder sometimes if your indomitable Gryffindor spirit will be your undoing. When I think of you and me, for example -- well, let's just say that it has been most rewarding that you are so very brave." But when they reached the dark green doors, symbolizing that only Slytherins would be allowed to step through them, she paused.

He pushed the door in and stood aside so that she could enter first. When she didn't, Draco teased her, "Not so brave now, eh? Come on . . it's just us. The others left ages ago." She looked up at him but hesitated once more. Exasperated, he finally grumbled, "Woman, I've been sweating, and now it's starting to freeze up on me! Now get your cute little arse indoors!"

She edged her way through the entrance. Realizing she was just being silly, she smiled in spite of herself. It felt no different from the Gryffindor changing rooms -- it just wore different colors. And the rooms were completely deserted, so they were all alone. He wouldn't invite me in if we weren't, right?

He bolted the doors with an Imperturbable Locking Charm (something he had picked up at Blaise's house) then started the shower with his wand, rapidly achieving the perfect temperature. Billows of steam soon rose overhead. He loosened various articles of clothing, dropping them lazily as he moved along. Wearing nothing but a wickedly sexy smile, he looked over his shoulder at her and said, "Well? Come on. I'll need you to wash my back."

"If that's all you want," she said with a casual shrug, fully aware that it wasn't. She sauntered toward him, licking her lips, taunting him, yet not removing so much as her shoes.

Narrowing his eyes at her, he shook his head and rescinded the statement. "I think not." Tucking a few of her stray hairs back in place, he appealed, "And this is the perfect spot, really. Privacy, hot soapy water, you and me, naked--"

When her tongue abruptly invaded his mouth, he decided she needed no further tempting. Her agreement was quite clear. "Yes," she whispered breathily, "brilliant place." She nibbled softly on his lips as she gently placed her hands on the back of his thighs. He quivered slightly in response. She was in charge now, and she was driving him out of his mind with desire. Her hands roamed a few inches higher, causing his pulse to pound madly, heightening his senses as every nerve in his body came alive. As she gave his bum a tight squeeze, she murmured, "Mmm, the perfect spot."

Within seconds, it became a contest of who would be the one to get her down to her last garment. He longed to drink her in, devour her completely. Holding her at the waist, he nudged her toward the shower. The sensations were heavenly: the warm water as it gently flowed over them, the soapy lather each one spread lovingly over the other's skin, the kisses that were wetter and hotter than ever before. They were drowning in each other. Softly touching the gentle beads of water that dotted the crown of her ginger hair, he took a nervous swallow and solemnly announced, "I love you, Ginny Weasley."

"I love you, too, Draco Malfoy. You're all I ever want." And she set about proving that very statement.

*****

They left the changing rooms and walked toward the castle together, holding hands and talking, their broomsticks floating next to them. When they were about 200 feet from the front doors, he pulled her close, kissed her once more, and reluctantly said goodnight. She went on ahead alone as he stayed back and watched, strolling casually across the field as he did. She reached the doors unimpeded and looked back to give him a small wave. Good, he thought. Now he could relax, get back to his house, and finish up that Defense Against the Dark Arts essay that was due first thing the next morning.

Finding his room too confining, he chose to work next to the fire in the Common Room. While he worked, he began to realize that something was a bit off, something that didn't quite fit. It was bothering him, nagging at him . . . but what was it? Somebody had said it this morning at breakfast, or at practice -- or perhaps earlier? Was it Crabbe? Who else did I see before practice? It was an odd statement about . . . What the hell was it? Or did I just imagine the whole thing?

In the midst of his last edit to his essay, a handful of younger boys paraded noisily past the fireplace in front of his chair. He sneered at them in disgust. A few minutes after they left, he looked up suddenly. His mouth fell open, and he shut it just as promptly. It hit him squarely in the face; he had remembered.

Grant said he was home schooled until he was thirteen.

~End of Chapter~

Notes: And if you're asking yourself what that has to do with anything, reread the first few paragraphs of this chapter. ;-)

My, those Hogwarts romances continue to blossom! I just thought that Luna and Colin probably belonged together. They're both a bit goony, don't you think? :-D

One more thing, then you can review. Fresh and piping-hot from the oven -- and only because I love you . . .

COOKIE FROM CHAPTER 16:

Ron breathed deeply to calm himself then ordered her curtly, "Ginny, give me your wand."

"My wand? Why?!"

He snarled, "Because I want to know what my innocent, darling little sister has been up to. Hand it over. Now.”

She bolted, trying to sidestep him, but he was the team's Keeper for a reason. He was also faster, and his longer legs allowing him to cover more area. He stopped her dead in her tracks, reached into the pocket he knew she always kept it in, and swiped it victoriously. At first, he laughed crazily, as if getting his hands on it was an obsession -- then he stopped suddenly and whispered, "Priori Incantato."

~End of Cookie~

Hmmm . . . what has Ginny been up to? If you don't know, please stop reading this fic; you're too young for it! :-D

Author's Notes: It's been a few weeks since I posted, so just a reminder of where we are . . . Draco and Ginny recently left the Slytherin Changing Rooms, where they had some startling revelations and a marvelous time. ;-)

This chapter's title comes from the song by The Police. A big Thank you!! to my super-cool beta, fyrechild, for all her help.

CHAPTER 16 – Message in a Bottle

Ginny was softly humming the chorus of the upbeat tune 'Equilibrium', the latest hit by the group Nimue, as she ascended the last staircase that led to Gryffindor Tower. When she arrived in front of the portrait, she bobbed her head to the beat as she whispered the words to herself. The Fat Lady arched her eyebrows and remarked with interest, "Well, someone's looking quite pleased with herself. Password?"

"Pumpkin Pasties," she replied correctly, thinking, What a ridiculous password! Sounds like something a stripper would use to cover her nipples -- had to be Ron's dumb idea.

The painting swung open wide to admit her. The lady within cautioned her in a low voice, "Watch out, dearie . . I believe your brother and Harry Potter were looking for you earlier." Then she whispered with a sly wink, "It may have been nothing, but you know what they say -- 'Forewarned is forearmed'."

She crawled through the portrait hole leisurely, her thoughts miles away from Gryffindor Tower and its residents. She was in a state of euphoria, blissfully happy that Draco had actually said he loved her. I love you, Ginny Weasley, he had said. She repeated the words over and over in her mind.

It slowly dawned on her that the Fat Lady had tried to warn her about some impending doom. "Huh?" Ginny asked dazedly.

But it was too late; the portrait had already snapped shut, and her brother charged at her like a mad bull. She could swear he was snorting like one, too. Hoping to throw him off, she spoke first, saying, "Good evening to you, too, Ronald." She added with a smirk, "And what brings you over from the comfort of the fire, Hermione in your lap and all, just to greet me?"

"I need to speak with you. Privately."

Crossing her arms, she blurted out, "Oh, I see -- privately, at the entryway of the Common Room? Want to consider less crowded venue?" Then she noticed that the room was nearly deserted. Aside from Ron and Hermione, only Colin remained, sitting in an oversized, wingback chair near the stairs, absorbed in the Quibbler magazine he was holding upside down while he gallantly pretended not to eavesdrop. She asked, "Do I have a say in the matter?"

"No," Ron said coldly, "tramps like you don't deserve one."

She gasped, shocked at his accusation. But before she crucified him -- denying it all fervently, of course -- she wanted to know what he thought he knew. "What are you on about, anyway?" His silent stare was beginning to make her feel rather uncomfortable, and she snapped, "Out with it, you -- you -- troll! If you have nothing to back up such accusations, then I'm going. I have a Potions essay to finish!"

Ron breathed deeply to calm himself then ordered her curtly, "Ginny, give me your wand."

"My wand? Why?!"

He snarled, "Because I want to know what my innocent, darling little sister has been up to. Hand it over. Now.”

She bolted, trying to sidestep him, but he was the team's Keeper for a reason. He was also faster, and his longer legs allowing him to cover more area. He stopped her dead in her tracks, reached into the pocket he knew she always kept it in, and swiped it victoriously. At first, he laughed crazily, as if getting his hands on it was an obsession -- then he stopped suddenly and whispered, "Priori Incantato."

Ginny bit her lip and cringed inwardly, suddenly regretting that she had not used her own wand to levitate her broomstick after they left the Changing Rooms. No, she reminded herself fretfully, Draco levitated both his and mine. Oh, why hadn't she cast another spell since then . . . any spell, just so the last one she'd cast wasn't—

"The Pregnancy Prevention Spell?!" Ron gasped as quietly as he could manage. To say he was furious would have been a gross understatement. His sister tried to back away from him, but he got right in her face, raised his voice, and barked threateningly, "Why in blazes do you need that, and where did you learn it?"

A half-second later, two voices called from across the room, "Tranquillus!" With the force of the spell doubled and Ron completely off his guard, he lost his balance. He grabbed onto a nearby couch on the way down and landed on his bum with a mild thump. Staring up at Ginny, he blinked wordlessly. Hermione rushed to his aid and held his head tenderly in her hands, cooing her apologies.

Ginny let out a sigh of relief as her other friend approached her. "Thanks, Colin, Hermione. No telling what he'd do next."

Her classmate stated the obvious. "Well, he looked pretty upset. What's his problem, anyway?"

"Who knows?" she shrugged.

Ron leaned back against to the couch, breathing more slowly and muttering to himself, "It can't . . it just can't be true." He looked to be having trouble staying focused, but he was still cognizant. His blue eyes looked glazed over and started to roll back in his head.

Hermione shushed Ron soothingly, attempting to alleviate part, but not all, of the dual Charm. She had never seen him so angry with Ginny before. Placing his head gently against the couch, she stood up quickly and assumed her 'Head-Girl-in-Training'stance. She suggested rather firmly that Colin go up to his room. "This is between Ginny and her brother," she explained.

Colin looked a bit peeved, but Ginny intervened, saying, "She's right, Colin, you'd better go. Ron and I need to have a talk of a -- rather private nature. Thanks, again." She gave him a demure smile. He nodded, walked back to his chair to collect his belongings, and trod upstairs.

"Now, Ronald Weasley," Hermione chided coldly, "that was completely uncalled for! Might I ask what the hell is bothering you?" Ginny blinked, a bit surprised to hear her curse.

Ron's words were quiet yet steady and sure. "I had a vision. Last night."

His sister rolled her eyes, and Hermione scoffed, "Not that Divination crap again. Really, Ron, there's no such thing. You should know that."

Clearly annoyed, he countered, "No, it's not. Well, I know Professor Trelawney seems like a fraud, but her predictions about Harry were apparently both true." He stopped to think then added, "At least, Dumbledore believes her."

"All right, Ron," his girlfriend sighed, her voice laced with sarcasm. "Tell us about this 'vision' of yours."

He closed his eyes for a few seconds, as if to help him recall it more clearly. He swallowed hard, composing himself. What he said next would literally knock the breath out of Ginny's body.

"It was Lucius Malfoy. He stood over my bed and told me that my sister was sleeping with his son. He said it was up to me to stop it, and if I didn't . . ." He paused then looked Ginny directly in the eye. "If I didn't, he said that you would die."

Ginny did the only thing she could do: she laughed, low at first, then hysterically. Soon, she was chortling uncontrollably. "That's preposterous! Me and Draco Malfoy? Can you imagine?" She couldn't stop laughing.

When a tear rolled down Ginny's cheek, Hermione took over. "What utter rubbish!" She sneered at Ron, "See? I told you, Divination is pure hogwash." Ginny nodded in agreement; her laughter had finally stopped, and she sniffed and wiped her cheeks.

Still under the influence of the Calming Charm, Ron insisted serenely, "But it seemed so real." He turned to his sister and asked her point-blank, "Then who are you seeing?"

Ginny replied snidely, "That's none of your freaking business. I'll see who I want to." Playing her trump card, she turned the tables, asking him smoothly, "And how, might I ask, did you happen to know the Pregnancy Prevention Spell? I can't imagine that Dad taught it to you. Does Mum know that you not only know it, Hermione uses it on a regular basis?"

Her implication caused Hermione to turn almost as red as her boyfriend's hair. Ron glowered at his sister, who went on, "Didn't think so. Tell you what, you toad; I won't tell Mum your dirty little secret if you won't tell her mine." Knowing she had him where she wanted him, she turned around and left him staring after, his mouth hanging open, as she marched off to the stairs to her room.

That felt good, she told herself. But it didn't -- not really.

She collapsed onto her bed. She sobbed quietly to herself for a while, her emotions fluctuating wildly between joy, fear, anger, despair, hope.

No one understands me. No one but him. No one—

"Ginny?" Hermione whispered from the hallway, rapping lightly on the fifth-year girls' dorm room. "Ginny, are you awake?"

She gasped and sat up quickly. Swiping at her tears, she reminded herself, Hermione once told me that if I ever needed to talk, she would about always be there for me, no matter what . . .

She magically refreshed her reddened face, removing all traces of her tears. "Yes," was all she trusted herself to say at the moment. Her friend opened the door and quietly stepped inside.

Hermione cast a Silencing Charm, cautiously opened the bed curtains, and slipped inside. "Ginny," she said flatly, "I know." When Ginny acted as if she were confused, her friend touched her gently on the shoulder, the disappointment apparent in her face. "I know who you're seeing. What I can't fathom, is why."

Ginny was rather taken aback. She bit her lip as she hedged, "It -- it's complicated, Hermione." After a brief silence, she asked curiously, "But how could you know? We've been so careful."

Sitting down on the bed, the older girl shrugged. "A few simple deductions, really. You two, running around the castle together at night, long after curfew. Him spying on you at Quidditch practice with Harry, and then not one hour later, arguing with you in Hogsmeade. And I heard a rumor you went to Blaise Zabini's funeral with him. Did you?"

"Blaise was his best friend! He needed someone!" Ginny insisted. As if justifying her actions, she whispered, "He begged me to go."

Hermione snorted softly, "I mean, for God's sake, even Hagrid suspected. Funny, your brother, the 'diviner', had nary a clue." When Ginny said nothing, the older girl rolled her eyes, muttering in a low voice, "Helping him with a research project, indeed."

"But I was—"

"Then what are you doing with him now?" Hermione snapped. "And of all the mean, low-down, Slytherin bastards in this school, why did you choose him? You know Ron's going to have a sheer heart attack when he finds out that he was right -- not to mention, he'll think he really is a diviner. And think what this will do to Harry!” She gasped suddenly, "That's probably why Malfoy's doing this, don't you think? He's sure to dump you the second Harry finds out."

"No!!" Ginny exclaimed. "He isn't -- Draco's not like that at all. Look, I know you think he's an arse, and I must be insane, but I can't explain it." She stated insistently, "It's fate."

Hermione closed her eyes. She tried to stay calm, to be understanding. But she couldn't abide another minute of the utterly archaic beliefs some pureblood families clung to, even in this day and age. She groaned with disdain, "Urggh, the both of you! First, Ron believes he's a seer, and now you trust your heart to fate! I suppose you think you're going to marry that smarmy ferret someday."

Ginny didn't respond, nor did she need to; her bright eyes said it all. Hermione knew she had struck a chord. The girl was obviously quite serious about this.

She sighed heavily then said concernedly, "Look -- I don't pretend to understand it, but . . if you feel certain that this is your 'destiny', just promise me that you'll be very, very careful. Honestly, I think you're crazy, but what can I do? It's your life."

She looked at her intently and warned, "Please, watch out for your heart, Ginny. If that prat breaks it, I'll Avada Kedavra him myself . . if there's any point, once Ron's through with him."

Ginny tried to reassure her. "I -- that is, we love each other." Then as if it were almost an afterthought, she asked nervously, "Does Ron really believe it? I mean, all that 'vision' nonsense . . I can't have him just go haring off, trying to kill my boyfriend."

With a conspiratorial smirk, Hermione replied, "Oh, don't worry about Ron; I can keep him in line. I'll just convince him it was just a bad dream. Had to have been, right? I don't imagine Lucius Malfoy can just waltz out of Azkaban anytime he likes." Ginny smiled weakly as her friend grasped her hands, her tone serious once more. "If you're sure you know what you're doing . . and know that this goes against everything I've ever believed about Malfoy—" She paused and muttered to herself, "I can't believe I'm even thinking this . . . " After hesitating a moment longer, she promised resolutely, "Then I'll support you in any way I can."

Ginny beamed and gave her an assured nod. "I've never been more certain of anything. We're in love; it's what we both want."

Hermione smiled wistfully and commented with frankness, "Well, I must say that he doesn't seem to be quite as nasty now that his father's away in prison; he's even been somewhat bearable in Advanced Potions. I wonder if he's having second thoughts about his loyalties, or perhaps actual thoughts of his own?" She paused, observing casually, "Maybe he isn't just like his father."

Ginny smiled. "He's definitely not. He's so much more."

Her friend laughed weakly, saying, "Well, obviously, if he's managed to win your heart -- something even Harry couldn't do -- then he must deserve it." She thought for a moment then asked, "And you're sure that's not what this is all about? Beating Harry at something?"

"Of course, it isn't," Ginny said, fighting back a yawn. Then she asked earnestly, "Hermione, you will keep this just between us, won't you? And would you please remind that stubborn arse you're dating that he will never be Head Boy if he kills a fellow student?"

When the older girl gave her an uneasy smile, Ginny took that to mean 'yes'. She hugged her and whispered gratefully, "Thanks, Hermione -- you're the best."

That night, Ginny's heart felt a thousand times lighter; her friend's, a thousand times heavier.

*****
Owl Post arrived during breakfast as usual the next morning. Extremely relieved that there was no Howler from home, Ginny relaxed a bit. And while she would have loved to have received something from one person in particular requesting a private meeting, it was probably just as well that she didn't. She had Quidditch practice before dinner, and Hermione had made her promise that she would catch up on her studies afterward.

Still, Ginny couldn't keep from sneaking little looks across the noise-filled room. She fought the temptation to gawk at Draco openly, and for the most part, she succeeded.

For the most part.

On one of the many random glimpses she shot his way, she caught him staring back at her with intensity. His eyes held their usual hint of cool steel, but this morning, she could sense the fire in them. Desire was stirring just under the surface -- tempting her, only her, making her skin tingle.

Draco watched her thoughtfully, silently appreciating the radiance of her copper hair as the morning sunlight danced in it. Her eyes shone warmer and brighter than ever before, and her face was fairly glowing. He watched her converse cheerily with the people around her, one of whom was Potter. Yet instead of feeling jealous, Draco felt an odd sense of pride; it was he who did this to her. He was the one who had made her so happy, not some ruddy Gryffindor.

Each time one of their surreptitious glances accidentally met, sparks would fly. Secret smirks were exchanged, grins suppressed, and silent laughter shared. And unbeknownst to the other, each one had much the same thought.

How will I ever get through the day without you?

Ron eyed them both warily, recalling the vision he'd had. Was it just a dream, like Hermione had said? Or was Ginny just very, very sly? Perhaps she really was seeing another boy, but whom? After all, when she was dating Michael Corner, Hermione had had to tell him about it. Still, he told himself, It just couldn't be Malfoy. Ginny would never stoop so low. So for the moment at least, Ron decided to let it go.

For the moment.

Soon, the house tables started to vacate as the rowdy students began shuffling off to their classes. The infernal racket grated on Professor Snape's nerves; he bolted through the nearest door, seeking to bypass the hordes of boisterous children.

Professor Dumbledore observed the hubbub calmly from his chair at the Head table. Surmising that the sunny skies and excellent food had put many of the young men and women in a good mood, he smiled to himself. Seeing the students this way, happy and at ease, was his job's greatest reward.

In the midst of the clamor, one last owl arrived. A few people around the room heard its faint screech and looked up. The bird was heading toward the Slytherin table.

Draco soon recognized it as Dionysus, Narcissa's pet, but it looked like it was flying a bit off kilter. Crabbe guffawed, making some insipid remark as he nudged Draco and pointed toward the ceiling. The bird was flying straight for its mistress's son, who put his hands up in front of his face, just in case it had a flying mishap or misjudged its landing. At the last possible second, Goyle threw his large hands over his plate, jealously guarding his fourth helping of French toast from any wayward feathers or talons.

Dionysus collapsed in front of Draco, causing the Slytherins who remained to back away from the table, even Goyle. Most of them laughed nervously. Michael Grant couldn't resist and sneered, "What the hell happened to your bird, Malfoy? Looks like it got totally pissed and lost a duel with the Whomping Willow!" His supporters laughed riotously, but Draco was in no mood to be toyed with. His harsh glare told his housemates to bugger off, and most of them scampered away like frightened mice. Grant was not one of them. He just smirked at Draco and sauntered away, his entourage of Crabbe, Goyle, and Pucey at his side.

Draco returned his attention to the wretched creature on the table before him. It looked to be on its last leg, most likely suffering from sheer exhaustion. At first, he assumed that the bird had drunk too much wine and had given itself a massive hangover. But on closer examination, he saw that the normally beautiful bird must have been whipped around by the most vicious weather or perhaps even beaten. The few students that remained in the Hall peeked over cautiously, and he barked at them, "Scram!"

Turning the bird over, he noticed something that he hadn't before. His letter for Mother had been removed, but the package with her potion remained. Baffled, he wondered silently, Did you get caught in a storm? But that didn't seem plausible, since the skies had been clear. Was this elegant bird -- attacked? He felt some pity for the creature as he speculated, Who could have done this to you? And why?

And where the hell was the letter? It made no sense.

Lifting the potion bottle carefully, he examined it with a jaundiced eye. He pulled the stopper, sniffed at its contents, and prepared to take a sip. Professor Dumbledore, who had been seated moments before, stood next to the Slytherin table, looking at Draco with a bemused twinkle in his eyes. He stared at the young man intently and asked in a bold voice, "Are you sure you want to do that, Mr. Malfoy?"

Draco shook his head as if coming out of a stupor. "Sir?"

The Headmaster's eyes narrowed slightly as a faint smile graced his thin lips. He inquired shrewdly, "Is there something you wish to tell me, Draco?"

The young Slytherin stood alone. Unsure as ever, he set down the bottle and stated plainly, "No, sir. Nothing." Dumbledore's bushy gray eyebrows rose to the edge of his pointed hat, prompting Draco to take advantage of his second opportunity to speak. "Well, sir, what could have happened to my mum's bird? And what is this -- this potion? Is it . . dangerous?"

He studied it briefly then replied, "It looks like one of Madam Pomfrey's bottles. So if she made it, then no, I can't imagine it being 'dangerous', as you say. But indiscriminately taking something you know nothing about can sometimes be hazardous. Surely, you remember the Weasley twins."

Draco remarked, "Madam Pomfrey gave it to me to send home to my mother. I'd like to know what it is; is the Healer here?"

"No, I'm sorry, she and Professor Sprout are both out of the country for a few days. Little side trip to the United States. Michigan, to be specific."

Who cares? If she's not here, I don't give a damn where she is! was the boy's first thought. Then he snapped impatiently, "Then what's to be done about this? Does Professor Snape know what it is?"

"He might, but he has already gone down for his first class. Speaking of which, shouldn't you be going there yourself, Mr. Malfoy?" the Headmaster prompted firmly. "Come, now. Hagrid can look after your bird." He turned around and asked casually, "Hagrid? Would you please take care of this creature?"

"Of course, Professor Dumbledore, sir," the half-giant replied courteously. "I'd be happy to fix the little feller right up." Neither of them saw Draco's appalled expression.

"Not so fast," the young man interrupted. He had never trusted Hagrid, especially not since his third year when that vicious hippogriff had brutally attacked him. "I don't want you touching him," he scoffed rudely.

"Sir," a girl's voice spoke up from the middle of the room. "I'll look after Mr. Malfoy's bird."

"Ginny," Draco couldn't keep himself from saying. His relaxed smile said it all; of course, she could help. He was just surprised she was still there and had witnessed everything. Watching her walk toward his table, he mused, I wonder what she thinks happened to Dionysus?

She explained, "I have Care of Magical Creatures for first period, so I was going to his class anyway." Then she added diplomatically, "And since, strictly speaking, Hagrid cannot perform magic, I would be happy examine and treat the owl."

Professor Dumbledore smiled at her. "That's very kind of you." Turning back to Draco, he asked, "What do you say, Mr. Malfoy? Would it be acceptable if Miss Weasley were to look after your bird? I would do it myself, but I am expecting the Minister of Magic and some other guests within the hour."

Draco knew he could trust Ginny and believed that her skills were at least O.W.L. level when it came to magical creatures. "All right," he agreed at emotionlessly as he could manage.

Professor Dumbledore waved his hand and created a comfortable, light-weight carrying cage around Dionysus so he wouldn't have to be physically handled to be moved to Hagrid's hut. Draco sighed heavily, but Ginny's smile seemed to reassure him, her eyes saying, It'll be all right. She murmured, "Wingardium Liviosa," and left the room with Hagrid, carefully floating the cage a few inches in front of her to avoid jarring the bird and possibly injuring it further.

"Thank you, sir," Draco said. The few remaining students and professors departed to their assigned classes. Now, he thought as he headed toward the dungeons, to see what's in this accursed bottle.

He arrived in the Advanced Potions classroom a few minutes late. Luckily, Professor Snape had gone into his office to collect some notes, thus allowing Draco's tardiness to go undetected and unpunished. None of this was lost on Granger, who gave him a cold stare. Contemplating what Ginny could possibly see in him, and expecting at least some sort of nonverbal exchange, she was frankly surprised when he ignored her completely. Instead, he just kept staring at the bottle in his hand. Then setting it aside, he focused on today's assignment.

Truthfully, Draco didn't have the time to trifle with picking on Gryffindors or mudbloods anymore just for the sake of it, and such activities had been steadily losing their appeal over the past few months. He had more important things to think of now -- primarily, Ginny. Being involved in an actual relationship took a lot more time and effort than just shagging someone. It meant that he had to think of someone other than himself. It meant—

"Psst!" a girl hissed from behind him. But he paid her no heed, his thoughts alternating between Ginny and the potion they were brewing this morning. He opened Mastering of the World's Most Powerful Potions to page 406, skimmed the first three paragraphs, and scribbled some notes on his parchment.

"Pssssst! Malfoy!" the voice whispered persistently.

"What?" he growled irritably, turning around to find himself face to face with Granger. "What is it, you know-it-all? Am I on the wrong page?"

"I can tell you what's in that bottle," she said under her breath. She had to act quickly and discretely, as Parvati Patil was already on her way back to their table with this morning's supplies. Using her book, Hermione nudged a small slip of parchment off the front edge of the table. She kept her eye on it as it floated to the floor, landing face-down. A few seconds later, Draco deliberately dropped his quill; he bent down to get it, swiping it and her note up in one swift, nonchalant movement. The parchment read:

UCD-I

He murmured, "Yes, I've heard of UCD-I somewhere." Then he asked abruptly, "What is it? What's its purpose?"

"Not 'I', like the letter -- it's a one. It—"

"Class," Professor Snape interrupted their conversation, "today will be your first attempt at concocting Dreamless Sleep Potion. It is a complex variation of the simplest sleeping draught that most of you no doubt mastered when you were a first-year." As he strolled around the classroom, his deceptively smooth voice commanded everyone's full attention. "The four best batches will be sent to Madam Pomfrey for final testing. Those she approves, if any, will be used by her patients. Anyone whose potion meets her strict standards will be excused from the next essay assigned to this class. Understood?" Heads nodded around the room.

"Perhaps a few of you could manage to brew a decent batch of it, while I expect others of you may miss its more subtle aspects, as do many fully-trained wizards. Due to its complexity, you will work in your assigned teams. As this task is quite demanding, it will take all your skills and attention, as well as those of your partner. Wouldn't want to give anyone . . " He paused momentarily then sneered at Hermione, "Nightmares."

He concluded by saying, "As your cauldron will need to heat and cool several times, it will take you at least an hour to brew this potion properly -- so I suggest you get straight to work."

Once he had finished speaking, Parvati returned to the table, carefully cradling her and Hermione's supplies. She lowered them gently to the surface and sighed, "Well, that's just about everything. Would you please grab the last few items, Hermione?"

"Sure, no problem," Hermione said. "We still need . . " She stopped, glancing up at the directions, then read, "the pewter spoon, the dry ice, and a shatterproof thermometer?"

"Yes. If you don't mind?"

"Not at all." She proceeded to the supply cabinet where Professor Snape stored his specialized utensils and his magically-enhanced Absolute Zero Freezer. Draco took his cue and followed her to gather the supplies that his partner had not.

As each one pretended to search the shelves for their remaining items, she whispered cautiously, "UCD-I is what the Advanced Herbology students have been trying to achieve all term. All of its properties are not fully known, but now that the beta testing is finished—"

Draco was losing patience with her incessant rambling. "Never mind all that -- just get to the point! Why did Madam Pomfrey think my mother needs it?! And furthermore, why did the bottle come back to Hogwarts, unopened?"

Before Hermione could reply, Professor Snape turned around sharply and faced his charges. When he saw her, he barked, "Miss Granger, why are you not yet in your seat? Ten points from Gryffindor for blatant disregard of my punctuality rules!"

"Uh, sir—" she began, motioning toward Draco.

But Snape had his own brand of justice. Seeming not to notice his protégé, he leaned forward. He placed his hands on the nearest chair, eyed her sternly, and threatened in a soft hiss, "Perhaps you would like to make it twenty?"

Draco, who wanted to talk with her a bit longer, spoke up, insisting, "Sir, it's just prefect business. You know, Interhouse Cooperation Week and all that."

The Potions Master chuckled, "That's even better. Thank you for the suggestion, Mr. Malfoy. Five points for Slytherin." Looking at Hermione, he asked, "Miss Granger, how would you like it if I swapped partners for you?" Narrowing his eyes, he looked around the room to find the two students whose partners were presently missing. "Miss Patil can work with Mr. Pucey; you, Miss Granger, will work with Mr. Malfoy, since you two obviously have so much to talk about." Hermione gasped softly, and Draco's mouth fell open.

"Yes, capital idea," Snape drawled thoughtfully, adding with a cool sneer, "an excellent test of one of Dumbledore's more . . . erratic theories." He considered the possibilities a few seconds longer then concluded abruptly, "Let's watch this hair-brained scheme of 'Interhouse Cooperation' blow up before it even begins, shall we? Go on, you two; switch places!"

Several of the students, most of them Slytherins, found Professor Snape's suggestion to be highly amusing. They snickered at the oddly-paired students, unaware that Draco was secretly grateful for the opportunity to pick his new partner's brain. Yet he covered up his delight by silently glaring at his mentor and housemates as he returned to his seat, supplies in hand. Hermione sat back down next to Parvati, hoping the man wasn't actually serious.

When the professor saw that none of the students had yet moved, he growled, "Well? Did you think I was joking? What are you waiting for? The clock is ticking."

Hermione packed up her things and moved forward one table. She snorted and blushed furiously, thinking, That biased creep! He's probably still punishing me to make up for that Order of Merlin he lost in our third year! Of course, we did knock him out . . and change time . . . all highly illegal . . . .

But as it happened, there simply wasn't time to discuss Draco's mysterious potion at all; the one they were brewing would require their undivided attention. It turned out to be quite complex and draining. When the team was finished and their potion sample bottled, the double-class period was over. Pucey walked out with Draco, who could be heard to say that he almost had a newfound respect for Madam Pomfrey. Hermione watched the two housemates as they rounded the corner, heading for their next lessons. She sighed then turned to make her way to Ancient Runes.

Well, she told herself, it wasn't exactly dreadful working with him . . . Ginny certainly believes he means her no harm.

But what if she's dead wrong?

Trusting him was an awfully big risk -- one she decided not to take just now.

*****
Ginny worked feverishly to mend Dionysus's injuries, trying her best to set him to right. A few of his bones were definitely out of joint, so she magically manipulated them back into place and secured them with a few gentle Binding Charms. The more difficult task, however, was to figure out what had caused the damage in the first place.

She spent most of the morning at Hagrid's hut, yet despite her efforts, she actually achieved very little. By lunch time, she was sorely tempted to just Floo her brother Charlie and ask for his advice. Instead, she gave up for now and started to go to the Great Hall for lunch, mostly on the off-chance of getting to see Draco. Besides, she reasoned with herself, how else can I decline whatever so-called 'food' Hagrid might offer me?

She forcefully pushed the large, heavy door of the hut open, nearly knocking Sophia Bellucci off the front porch in the process. "Oooh!" the young witch exclaimed. Wobbling to regain her balance, she said, "Hallooo, Miss Weeeeasley."

Ginny, slightly embarrassed and still frustrated by her lack of progress this morning, was not terribly polite to the young girl. Brushing her off rather tersely, she snipped, "Miss Bellucci. What brings you out to Hagrid's hut? Shouldn't you be going to the Great Hall for lunch?"

Moving inside, she replied, "No, no, I have lunch," indicating a rather large, deep purple velveteen bag slung over her shoulder. "I came arrrly for Care of Magicule Crea-toores -- eat here and watch Hagrid's aneeemals." Then as if it were an afterthought, she held out her bag and offered kindly, "You need lunch? We could . . eat togezzzer?"

Now she felt like an absolute arse for having been so short with the poor girl. "That's very kind of you." She apologized, "I'm sorry, Sophia. It's just that -- well," she indicated the bird, "I've been working with this little guy since breakfast, and I still have nothing concrete to show for it!"

"Con - crete?" The young lady seemed confused by the word.

"Solid. Something I can grab a hold of and say, 'Eureka! That's it!' Know what I mean?" No, Ginny thought, you don't, do you? She explained, "I'm trying to figure out what happened to this owl. Looks like it went through a violent wind storm, but I checked the Wizard Wireless Network radio, and there haven't been any in England since he sent it 24 hours ago."

Sophia touched the poor creature and observed, "Maybe Signore Grant was right. Perhaps it was . . the Wau-Whomping Willow?"

"I don't know," Ginny answered distractedly. "I don't think a bird could survive a punch like that can deliver. Besides, surely all of the owls know to stay clear of it."

Sophia petted the bird very gently. As she continued, the creature seemed to respond more to her touch than to anything Ginny had tried thus far. She was impressed. "See how he reacts to your strokes? You have a gift, Sophia. A healing touch, perhaps?"

The younger girl shrugged shyly and dipped her head as she continued to caress the animal, which seemed to grow stronger by the moment. Intrigued, Ginny asked, "Is that . . . wandless magic? How did you manage to keep your ability? Most kids outgrow that long before they come to Hogwarts. Then they need to 'retrained' all over again to use their natural talent when they're older—"

She looked up suddenly, peering at Sophia intently and asked, "Aren't you a second-year? Care of Magical Creatures is only for third-years and above. Did you get a special exception to get in?"

Sophia sighed and closed her eyes. Losing all traces of her Italian accent, she admitted, "Ginny, I'm not who you think I am."

~End of Chapter~

Nimue (pronounced Nim'-a-way) was Merlin's girlfriend, according to some King Arthur legends. Thanks a lot for reading, and please review! :-)

P.S. And if you think you know who Sophia may be, please be a considerate reviewer and e-mail me instead of posting it in your review -- because spoilers are definitely uncool. (When "The Empire Strikes Back" came out, an overzealous friend of mine told me who Luke's father was before I had the chance to see it; practically ruined the movie for me, and it sure didn't help our friendship...!)

Author Notes: Thank you all for reading! As always, a big round of applause for my beta-reader, fyrechild. Thank you for keeping me out of trouble with the die-hard fans who know the canon, inside and out.

This chapter is named for the song by Heart. The action resumes the same morning that Dionysus returns with the potion. Cue Draco!

CHAPTER 17 – Magic Man

By lunch time, Draco was fully convinced that this qualified as his new ‘Worst Day Ever’ for several reasons. His mother’s beloved bird had been beaten savagely, quite possibly sustaining permanent injuries, and the potion it had been carrying was returned unopened. Said potion was, for the moment anyway, still largely unidentifiable. And as if all that weren’t bad enough, he’d had to endure the unfortunate task of brewing Dreamless Sleep Potion with Granger as his partner. He still shuddered at the thought.

Yet as it turned out, although he was loath to admit it, she was actually fairly . . good at it. Once she even managed to keep him from singing his brows and eyelashes clean off his face by tossing in a few well-aimed chunks of dry ice, at what appeared to have been a most crucial moment.

Oh, well -- I always knew the silly bint had to be good at something, aside from annoying the entire staff and student body.

At three minutes of noon, he could be found pacing about outside the doors to the Great Hall. He was practically starving, a fact accentuated by the fierce pounding behind his eyes. But he dared not leave; he anxiously waiting to see Ginny. Part of him wanted to see if she could shed any light on what had befallen Dionysus, and the other part -- well, it just wanted to see her.

Soon, two of Ginny’s friends came into view. As if on cue, Draco’s mask went up.

“Well,” he sneered rudely, “if it isn’t Colin Creepy and Loony Lovegood.”

Colin stopped in mid-step and turned to face him, keeping Luna close to his side. With as much courage as he could muster, he said, “Stuff it, Malfoy.” His heart practically in his throat, he asked, “What do you want, you Slytherin?”, saying the last word as if it were poison in his mouth.

“Nothing from you, you low-life, Potter-worshipping Gryffindor. I wanted a word with your . . your girlfriend, is it?” he said with a malicious smirk.

Colin scowled in reply, whereas Luna glanced up at Draco as if she were barely aware of him. Completely unafraid and unconcerned about so little a thing as Draco Malfoy, she asked, “Yes, what is it?”

At first, he hesitated. “I -- I was just wondering . . . something,” he murmured weakly.

Creevey practically sang, “Oh, so Draco Malfoy, the great ‘Cassanova of Hogwarts’, actually gets nervous talking to girls.” Luna’s shoulder was already under his arm, and he tightened his grip on the other possessively, pulling her even closer into his side. He snarled, “Well, you can forget about this one, playboy -- she’s mine!”

It was an action that he regretted almost immediately, but not because of anything Malfoy did or said, or the disgusted look on his pale face.

Luna physically loosened Colin’s grip and took a step back from him. Boring into him with her large, expressive eyes, she said slowly and clearly, “Colin, I’m surprised at you -- Mr. Malfoy deserves a chance to be heard. Listen, would you please go and find us a seat? Somewhere at the Gryffindor table, all right?”

He nodded to her then scowled at his enemy. Luna touched Colin’s arm and whispered, “Thank you. I’ll be right there.”

Turning to face Draco, she said sweetly, “Now, Mr. Malfoy. What were you wondering?”

It was difficult to find the words; they were right there, on the tip of his tongue. But he hadn’t told anyone about his thing for Ginny, not even Blaise had known that—

“I’m looking for Ginny Weasley,” he blurted out. “I mean, you two do have lessons together, don’t you?” She nodded blithely, so he rambled on. “Have you seen her since breakfast? Has she been to any of her lessons today? Do you know where she is?”

Luna grinned softly and said, “No, I’m sorry, I don’t. We haven’t had any lessons with the Gryffindors since yesterday.” Seeing the distress on his face, she offered helpfully, “But don’t worry, Draco. I’m sure she’ll turn up for lunch. She always does.”

She started to leave, when out of the clear blue, she asked him, “By the way, have you written any new verses to Weasley is our King? I thought it was a very peculiar song. I didn’t really know what it meant, but it did have a nice tune.”

“No, not lately,” he said as snidely as possible. He furrowed his brow and attempted a scowl or some other hateful sign that said she absolutely disgusted him. He abhorred that he had to ask her in the first place, when it was obvious she was a nutter. Who else but a loon would actually like a song that was supposed to be an insult aimed at one of Hogwarts’s golden trio?

Finally able to produce at least one syllable -- an almost inaudible “Thanks” -- he turned tail and practically ran away from her.

“You’re welcome.” Luna chuckled to herself. As he bolted toward the distant front doors, his opened robes billowed behind him, exposing his retreating form. Luna casually observed, Hmm, nice buns. She sauntered toward the entrance to the Great Hall where her boyfriend was saving her a seat.

When she placed a hand on the door, she glanced over her shoulder once more and thought, So you’re Ginny’s new love. Most interesting, Miss Weasley.

And she went inside.

*****
“I see. You’re not who I think you are,” Ginny repeated. “Then who are you? And why would a 12-year-old be involved in such pretense and secrecy?”

“Because . . . I’m not really 12 . . ?” Sophia began weakly. This did not appease Ginny, whose temper was starting to flare, something Sophia had not been looking forward to. “Well,” the girl hesitated, “perhaps this will help.”

She exhaled deeply and closed her eyes in concentration. A minute later, her arms extended a bit farther down the side of her robes, which drew up a slightly on her calves as she literally grew three to four inches. Her eyes rounded out slightly, her skin tone lightened a shade or two, and her nose widened, just the teeniest bit, giving her a more mature look. The faintest hint of laugh lines appeared on her nearly-perfect adolescent complexion, and when her shiny black tresses were replaced with several short, pink spikes, Ginny’s mouth fell open in shock as a single word escaped her.

“Tonks!!”

She couldn’t think what else to say. Excited and confused at the same time, she stammered, “What -- what the bloody hell is this all about, then? What have you been doing? It was you all the time?!” Then she had another thought, an almost horrid one; her eyes drew wide as she gasped, “Does Professor Lupin know?”

The young woman looked down and sighed. “Yes. He knows. And a few other staff members, including Professor Dumbledore, Professor Snape, and Madam Pomfrey. But if anyone else finds out, I’m done for, so please, Ginny, this must be our—”

There was a loud thump against the front door, causing Ginny to panic. “Oh, Merlin -- Hagrid’s back! Does he know about any of this?”

The door of the hut abruptly swung wide open. Whoever it was didn’t bother to knock or stop the door from falling shut with a loud bang.

Draco, breathless from sprinting across the grounds, panted, “Nymphadora! What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Hello, Draco. How’s your mother? I was—”

Ginny butted in, “Wait till you hear this, Draco -- she’s Sophia Bellucci. Or rather, Sophia is actually your cousin. A right laugh, huh? She had us all going, didn’t she? Actually, you’re just in time; she was just about to tell me why.”

He could tell by her voice that she was exasperated about something, but what she’d just said didn’t make any sense. “What are you babbling on about, Weasley?” he asked irritably in between gasps for breath.

Tonks interjected, “She’s right. I . . I’ve been pretending to be your housemate, second-year transfer student from Italy, Sophia Maria Bellucci.” When both students glared at her, she cried, “But I did it for a good reason! I never meant to hurt or deceive anyone.”

He snorted, “Well, this day is just full of bloody surprises, I must say. And what, might I ask, was so sodding important and ‘secretive’ that you had to deceive everyone in Slytherin, including our Head of House?”

“No, actually, Severus knows,” she corrected him. “I’m on a mission from Dumbledore. It has to do with . . . Michael Grant. Or rather, the not Michael Grant.”

“I knew it!” Draco roared. “He’s Polyjuiced, isn’t he -- or is it some form of Glamour?”

But Ginny wasn’t clued in yet. She asked them, “What are you two talking about?”

He explained his suspicions about the enigmatic student from New Zealand: the strange behavior, the fact that Michael had lied to either Warrington or Draco about his education, and for Tonks’s benefit, the bizarre ritual in front of the Mirror of Erised.

“Yes,” she replied, “Mrs. Norris told me about that.”

At their dumbfounded expressions, she quickly recanted, “I mean, Madam Pomfrey, of course.” Then she muttered to herself in an attempt to cover her faux pas, “Mrs. Norris, indeed -- what am I saying?”

Draco just shook his head; even though she was a Black, the witch was absolutely bonkers. “I have no idea, but -- say, what’s that on the table? Is it . . edible? I mean, Hagrid’s culinary skills are legendary, but not in a good way—”

His cousin snapped, “Yes, it’s ‘edible’. I brought it from the kitchens, you prig; I figured your girlfriend would be hungry.”

Once more, their mouths were agog. “What did you say?” Draco snarled threateningly, “Ginny and I are not . . . ”

Crossing her arms over her chest, Tonks smirked and cocked an eyebrow as her nose started to extend like Pinnochio’s. “Hmmm, of course not. And I’m just a wooden little puppet who wants to be a real boy.”

Draco flushed slightly, and Ginny cringed as she shut her eyes. They knew they’d been caught. Turning to Ginny, he laughed sarcastically and murmured, “Does anyone at this school not know about our alleged ‘secret relationship’?”

Ginny returned to the subject at hand. “So, Tonks, tell us. Why are you at Hogwarts, pretending to be a 12-year-old Italian girl?”

Tonks’s nose was now restored to normal, and she said, “I’ll explain the ‘why’ to both of you during lunch.” The three of them sat together at Hagrid’s large table to eat, as she divulged the details of her mission, which her friends at the Ministry had jokingly nicknamed, ‘Will the Real Michael Grant Please Stand Up?’

Tearing a cheese roll apart, she said, “See, it’s like this. I used to know Michael’s family. I spent part of one term on their lovely island, going to school with his oldest brother.” She nibbled at the roll, took a sip of her pumpkin juice, and went on.

“The Grants have four boys, and the family’s Quidditch skills are legendary. In fact, they’re so well-known that each time a new one arrived as a first-year, he was immediately placed on his House team, sometimes bumping a current team member into alternate status. They were even sorted into different houses -- mostly so one of them wouldn’t have to compete with his brother for the same position.”

“Then why didn’t he go out for our house team?” Draco asked just before polishing off the last bite of his first sandwich.

“No posts, remember? Slytherin’s team was full up. And, lucky for you, England isn’t like New Zealand -- over there, Quidditch is more popular than air. Besides, Warrington didn’t know about his reputation until after the season had begun, so apparently, your position was safe.

“But your captain’s no idiot; he reads up on his sport,” she added confidently. “One of his favorite titles is Up and Coming Quidditch Stars: The Hope of the Future for the Sport. I’d seen him curled up by the fireplace, devouring it night after night. And Grant’s name and picture are in there.” She finally stopped to take a breath and dig into her lunch in earnest.

Her cousin spoke next. “So this not-Michael-Grant -- this imposter -- does he look like the real thing?”

“Oh, he’s the spitting image,” Tonks confirmed. “You couldn’t tell them apart. But it’s not him.” She paused for emphasis. “I saw him fly once. His style -- it’s all wrong. He’s no Grant,” she attested, then stopped again, this time to gather her thoughts and take another drink of her juice. “The real questions are . . . who is he really, how is he pulling this off, and most of all, if he’s not here to play Quidditch -- then why is he?”

Draco, aggravated that Tonks had figured something out that he hadn’t, grasped at his last straw to try and disprove at least part of her theory. “What about Grant’s mum? Is she an educator?”

She looked at him warily and said, “Michael’s mother is dead, Draco. She died when he was about six.”

Filling her glass, Ginny interrupted them, “There’s just one thing I’m not following. Why did you get called in for this assignment?”

“Simple. New Zealand, not to mention his family -- they want him back. He’s one of the country’s most promising Quidditch players . . perhaps their best shot at the World Cup for three decades. And that’s the extent of my mission at Hogwarts.”

Draco snorted. “That’s what this is about? Fucking Quidditch? Meanwhile, he’s here, recruiting Death Eaters, scaring innocents, commanding those known to be in league with You-Know-Who . . .” Laughing at the irony of it, he speculated, “I wonder if whoever it is that’s pretending to be him knows who they’ve gotten a hold of?”

“Yeah, I was sort of wondering that myself,” Tonks said.

After a few moments of silence, Draco suddenly had an alarming notion. He eyed his cousin with suspicion. “Wait a second -- you’re not going to Oblivate us after this, are you?” he asked distrustfully. “’Cause I hate that; it ruins my focus for the rest of the day.” Ginny nodded in agreement, her expression anxious. She desperately wanted to know all that Tonks had to say, but she had Transfiguration that afternoon, and she had to be sharp for it.

The woman rolled her eyes and said with a laugh, “Oh, gods, no.”

“Good,” he said with a sigh.

“Because I stink at Memory Charms. I’d probably fry your brains.”

The looks on their faces were priceless.

She stuttered faintly, “I . . I was going to ask Charlie to do it.”

Ginny wrinkled her nose. “Charlie? My brother Charlie?”

Draco nearly choked on his drink.

The girls looked at him then Tonks said, “Yeah, well, I was going to ask him to come here anyway. You know, to look at the bird. He has this rare sort of . . touch with magical creatures. Suppose that’s why he’s so gifted at dealing with dragons.”

“I’m outta here,” Draco muttered as he rose quickly and forced the oversized chair back away from the table, scraping the floor loudly as it went.

“What?” Tonks asked, shocked that there could actually be someone who didn’t like Charlie.

Heading for the door, he shot back, “If he’s here, then I’m not.”

“Impedimenta!”

“Ginny,” Tonks said with mild awe, “you continually surprise me.”

“Well, he can’t run away from my brothers forever. Besides, it’s become rather apparent that our relationship isn’t as secret as we would like it to be.” She helped him back over to the table then replaced the spell with a Restraining Charm.

He glowered at the both of them. “You two,” he growled, “I’ve just about had enough of this. I want to leave. Now!”

Ginny sympathized, but she tried to convince him to stay. “Don’t you want to know what happened to Dionysus? And what Michael Grant is up to? Aren’t you the least bit curious?” He stewed in his spot like a cornered animal, fidgeting and wishing he could just go, and becoming even more agitated because he couldn’t.

She sighed, “I promise, Charlie’s not going to ‘get’ you. Nothing will happen.” She whispered, “And trust me, he won’t Memory Charm us.”

“It’s not that. I just don’t fancy my stones being ground to dust and put in a jar above anyone’s fireplace -- say, where’d she go?” They looked around for Tonks, finding her just in time to see her grab a pinch of glittery powder from her pocket and toss it into the flames.

Ginny looked a bit surprised. “I didn’t know Hagrid was on the Floo Network.”

“He’s not,” Tonks replied. “We’re using a connection path. We start at Fred and George’s place over in Hogsmeade, and they ‘patch us through’ so we can get to Charlie in Romania. Via the continental gateway, of course.”

“Amazing what they don’t tell you at this place!” Ginny marveled. “That fireplaces not on the Floo Network can be interconnected to reach the continent. Rather like the muggle internet, isn’t it? A truly fascinating concept. Why, I learned in Muggle Studies that—”

Seeing the confused expressions on both of their faces, she said sheepishly, “Never mind.”

“Well, Ginny,” Tonks said encouragingly, “Dumbledore will tell you almost anything you ask -- you just have to know to ask it first.” She turned her face to the flames and shouted, “Charlie! Are you there?!” At first, she got no response, so she yelled louder and more shrilly, “CHARLIE WEASLEY!!”

A red-haired man with a ruddy complexion appeared in Hagrid’s fireplace. Draco paled slightly. He hadn’t forgotten what happened the last time he’d met Charlie; he only hoped that the dragon handler had. When Charlie began to speak, Draco shuddered nervously.

“Yo, Tonks! So you wised up and decided to dump the werewolf and take me back, did ya, love?”

“No, silly, I need your help. It’s my aunt’s bird -- he’s badly hurt. Your sister and I have been tending to his injuries, but would you mind taking a look at him?”

The man peered in through the fireplace and asked suspiciously, “That depends. Which aunt?”

She laughed, “Cissy, of course. I never have anything to do with Trixie. Please, give me some credit.”

Draco scrunched up his nose. “Cissy and Trixie?” he whispered to Ginny, looking over his shoulder to be sure he was staying clear from Charlie’s view. “That’s hilarious; I never heard them called that.”

“Yes, Bellatrix definitely fits her better. It sounds more . . . demented, don’t you think?”

He looked at her defiantly, saying, “She’s always been good to me. Maybe she just doesn’t like you—”

He stopped short when the burly man rolled out of the fireplace and onto the floor, covered lightly in dust and sputtering. Draco panicked. Shit, he’s here! He tried to bolt, but the Restraining Charm still held him firmly at Ginny’s side. Instead, he ducked behind Hagrid’s massive bed, grabbing her hand and pulling her down with him.

“What are you doing?” she hissed. “Let go! He knows I’m here, so he’ll be looking for me!”

“Well, he’s not expecting to find me!! He wants to pummel me! And didn’t you hear what just I said about some particular body parts of mine ending up in a specific jar above the fireplace in your home?”

“Ginny? Draco?” Tonks called out.

Bloody hell. I’m dead.

Both students stood up slowly. “She fell down. I was helping her get her bearings,” he lied smoothly.

Charlie raised an eyebrow and smirked. “So it is true. You two are seeing one another.” Eyeing their surroundings, he added sarcastically, “And in some most unusual places, it would appear.”

Ginny groaned, “Oh, Charlie, you big lug! It’s wonderful to see you again!” She walked over to him. Draco, still under the Charm, followed along reluctantly. After she hugged her brother, she said, “I expect you know Draco Malfoy.”

Charlie grimaced and shook the boy’s hand, practically crushing his bones in the process.

“Yes. We must get to know each other, Draco. But for now, since you are Ginny’s . . friend, as well as Dora’s cousin -- then I suppose you deserve at least one chance.”

Draco wasn’t sure if the man was serious or not, but he certainly looked to be. Charlie smiled tightly as he slapped the boy’s shoulder. Then pulling him in for a loose hug, he whispered in a threatening tone, “This is your one chance, boy. Don’t fuck it up.” He finally released his grip and spun around to Tonks. “So, where’s the bird, sweetheart?”

She directed him to where Dionysus lay. The owl was resting peacefully and breathing evenly, thanks to the girls’ efforts thus far.

Charlie held his wand over the creature and muttered a few unintelligible words that sounded either Russian or Czech in origin. He gently laid his fingers on its feathers. Closing his eyes, he spoke intermittently. “Oh. Oh, dear. The poor thing. He . . you pitiful creature. But you’re her pet -- how could they?”

“What?” Tonks asked anxiously. “What is it, Charlie?”

“Yes, what?” Draco echoed.

Soon, Charlie’s eyes fluttered open, as if he were pulling himself out of a trance. He began rather vaguely, “It seems that your home has some sort of . . . long-standing protection Charm in place.”

“So?” Draco snapped. “It has several, but why do we need protection from our own bird?”

“Not the bird, you idiot; what he was carrying. It seems it had the magical signature of a person who is on some sort of ‘forbidden’ list. Someone whose magic is not permitted to enter your property. The shield around the home—”

He paused then sighed. “It would have beaten this poor bird to bloody, unrecognizable pulp; fortunately for him, he is either more intelligent, or less determined, than some other owls.” Stroking the bird again, he concluded grimly, “Good thing he gave up when he did, or he would have eventually died, on the grounds just outside your home.”

“But all I sent was a letter from myself and a potion from—”

“Madam Pomfrey!” Ginny chimed in. “At least, I think she made it -- but why would your home have a spell to keep her magic out? She’s harmless!” she insisted. They all sat there quietly, thinking, taking all this new information in.

Draco spoke next. “Then how did the letter get removed? As far as I know, she got that.”

Charlie concentrated for a moment then asked, “Did she? It might have been removed by someone else or maybe even lost while the owl was being knocked about. Did you contact your mother, just to be sure?”

“No,” he said sullenly. “We rarely speak.”

“Can’t you just Floo her now?” Tonks suggested. “They are on the network, aren’t they?”

“Errr, not really. You can only Floo out from Malfoy Manor -- no incoming calls are allowed that aren’t scheduled a week in advance.”

The four of them sat in silence once more when Dionysus perked up and fluttered his wings. He appeared to be ready to go home. Ginny told Draco, “Quick, write your mum a note and send it with him!” He did, asking that she stop by in the next day or two and see him. He wrote that he had something very important to tell her that could affect his future.

“There. That should get her attention,” he concluded firmly. He sealed the envelope and tied it to Dionysus’s leg. “Off you go, then.” The bird flapped its wings proudly and flew out the nearest window, taking off for home.

Turning to the others, Draco smiled weakly and said, “Thank you, Charlie, Dora. And you too, Ginny. Couldn’t have set him to rights with you.”

His girlfriend said, “Finite Incantatum,” removing the Charm that held him there. Then she reminded them, “We’ve got to get to our classes.” She paused then added, “Thanks a million, you two. I know Narcissa will be very grateful when she hears what you’ve done for her favorite bird.”

As they turned to go, Charlie commanded abruptly, “Not so fast, Ginny. Dora said she needs me to Memory Charm the both of you about her mission. She can’t be found out.”

“But Charlie,” Ginny insisted, “we have lessons this afternoon. I have a test with Professor McGonagall; I can’t be the least bit off, or I could cause some serious damage.”

“She’s right,” Draco agreed then added slyly, “and I have Quidditch practice in a few hours. I can’t risk falling off my broom, or I’ll end up in hospital, needing repairs myself.”

Charlie sighed then reconsidered. “All right, then -- just a little one, so the after effects won’t be so bad. I am sorry, but I have to do this.”

Draco and Ginny both nodded quickly, urging him to hurry up before he had the chance to regret his decision. Meanwhile, Tonks morphed back into a 12-year-old girl girl from Italy.

When Charlie muttered, “Obliviate,” Ginny turned to Draco and kissed him fervently, wrapping her arms around his neck. His arms went instinctively around her waist; his eyes fell shut as he responded enthusiastically, heedless of his girlfriend’s brother who had been threatening him just minutes before. The passion the couple felt was written all over their flushed faces.

Seconds later, they both let go and Ginny blinked as if slightly confused. “Oh, Charlie, thanks again for helping with the bird. And Sophia, thank you so much for lunch.” Then she took Draco’s hand, and they exited the hut. As they walked along, she fought to keep from giggling aloud. Soon she couldn’t contain herself as she burst into peals of laughter.

Draco asked with a grin, “What is so funny?” She just kept laughing at her own private joke. “Did . . did your Memory Charm . . not work either? I mean, you do still know she’s Dora, right?”

Snickering at her own cleverness, she said, “Yes. That’s what I meant: I knew he’d cast a Memory Charm, but I also knew that it might not work properly.” She elaborated, “If a person is feeling a strong emotion while placed under that particular spell, the emotion will sometimes partially override it.” Then she added, “Emotions are a funny thing when it comes to magic, especially when it comes to Memory Charms and . . . well, love.”

They stopped walking. He looked at her curiously, but no words came to mind -- at least, no meaningful ones. “Huh?” was all he could manage.

She looked at him and sighed. “Let’s just say that you can thank Miss Granger for her hours of painstaking research on the subject. And her obsession with my closest brother. See, it was that same obsession which caused her to carelessly leave her notes for an extra credit Advanced Charms essay she was working on, just lying about on the Common Room table, while she snuck off with him for a quick midnight shag in the Prefects Bathroom.”

“You little devil, you. No wonder I’m nuts about you,” he murmured. Standing on the edge of the Forbidden Forest, he kissed her with intensity. The sunshine that filtered through the sparse trees was glorious. It only enhanced what they were feeling, making him rue the fact that they both had classes to attend this afternoon. Leaving her side was sure to be difficult; in fact, it was becoming even more so every time they were together.

They wisely decided to stop before they found they absolutely couldn’t. Breathless, he stroked her cheek tenderly and implored, “Meet me after practice again tonight -- please? I love the way you wash my back.”

“I can’t tonight,” she whispered as she kissed him, less fiercely but somehow more passionately than before. “I wish I could. But after this morning, I’m sure I’ll have so much homework, I’ll probably spend the entire evening in the library.”

They let go of one another and walked on, hand in hand. When they were in view of the front doors of the castle, she released her grip -- just in case there was someone on campus who didn’t know about their relationship yet. Don’t want to give Ron a coronary, she thought as she took a slight step away.

But he reached out and took her hand once more; he didn’t care who knew. At least, he thought he didn’t. Charlie accepted him -- for now, anway -- so maybe there was some hope. He trusted her emphatically and was dying to ask her something, a question about the potion.

“So, Ginny—”

“What’s in that bottle?” she asked, accidentally cutting him off.

“That’s funny -- that’s what I was about to ask you. Hermione told me it was UCD-I—”

“Since when do you talk to Hermione?” she interrupted him again. “I mean, other than to insult her.”

He rolled his eyes. “She was my partner in Advanced Potions this morning. We were brewing Dreamless Sleep Potion, which, believe me, is not easy, and Professor Snape forced us to be partners.” When she just looked at him with her mouth slightly open, he added, “Yes. We actually worked together -- but it certainly wasn’t my idea.” He didn’t elaborate on how it had happened, and Ginny knew better than to ask.

Instead, she settled for laughing inside at the mental image of them working side by side. It was a funny sight, one she could barely imagine: Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger working in concert -- cooperating even. They’d had to, since neither one of them would ever turn in a less than perfect potion, even if it meant giving the ‘filthy little mudblood’ half the credit and an equal number of points.

Letting go of Ginny’s hand, he returned to the topic he’d wanted to discuss. “Anyway, she only told me its name. But you . . ” He pointed a finger at her and said, “You see her notes, from time to time . . . Do you know what UCD-I is?”

“No, I’m afraid I don’t,” she replied with a frown.

“Can you find out?” Then with a wicked grin, he said, “I promise, I’ll wash your back next time.”

She smiled. “Of course, I will. Besides, Hermione isn’t my only housemate who’s in Advanced Herbology, you know. Plenty of them take the class. And I am in Professor Sprout’s fifth-year class tomorrow afternoon, so maybe we’re in luck.”

As he reached out for the door, he thought of the possibility, however unlikely, that Ron Weasley and Harry Potter could be standing just on the other side of it. He cleared his throat and gave Ginny the harshest look he could manage. Well, maybe I do care who knows about us.

Just a little.

He opened the door for her to enter ahead of him and said briskly, “Thanks for looking after my mum’s owl, Weasley. He seemed to feel better.”

“No problem, Malfoy,” she replied carelessly, and the pair parted company.

He looked at the nearest clock and saw that he had about fifteen minutes left before he was due in Professor Binn’s class. Heading toward Granger’s favorite room in the castle, his lip curled as he schemed: Perfect. Just enough time to check out a book.

~End of Chapter~

Post-Chapter Notes: So did Sophia’s true identity come as a surprise to anyone? If you knew, thank you for not spoiling it in your reviews - ! I tried to leave a few clues, so here’s a review:

(1) After Blaise’s funeral (in Chapter 11), when Ginny sees her, Sophia is so happy that she’s practically skipping. This happens right after Tonks receives Remus’s proposal.

(2) In the same scene, Sophia says she's been watching Hagrid's animals. Given that she's so young and some of his creatures are on the dangerous side, I don't think she would be allowed to be alone with them without supervision. Remember, Hagrid had just escorted Draco and Ginny back inside the school grounds and said he had to the greenhouses, so Sophia probably wasn't at Hagrid's. Also, she stammers a bit when Ginny asks her, as if she's searching for a good excuse (Ginny thinks she's struggling with her English).

(3) In the detention scene (in Chapter 9), Sophia shows a couple of Tonks’s trademark features: she’s a bonafide klutz (she drops several dishes), and she can alter her appearance at will. (Her skin color seems a bit off; Draco thinks it’s a Tanning Charm gone awry.)

(4) The mere fact that Tonks is at Hogwarts all the time. Where would she find so much time to visit if she worked at the Ministry?

So were the hints too subtle? Too obvious? Either way, please let me know. I’m practicing my mystery-writing skills here . . . :-D

Bonus ‘Trivia’: “Nice buns” – This is one of our family’s personal jokes. One of my daughter’s friends (also a girl) made the remark to her teasingly at the pool one day. It shocked me at first, but when we had a good laugh about it, she got rather embarrassed. They were only nine years old, and the phrase has become a source of a lot of laughter in our family. We quote her often, sometimes in different accents and voices (Yoda is a favorite). The poor girl will never live it down; if we see her again when she’s 65, one of is sure to bring it up. Yeah, we’re just mean. ;-)

Okay, enough rambling. There is good news, however; the next chapter is already one-third of the way done! :-) It was supposed to be part of this one, but it just got waaaaaay too long, as in 7000+ words, so I just sliced it into sections. In order to motivate, inspire, and perhaps help me get the next chapter out more quickly, please review and recommend!!! Thanks! Sue B.

Author’s Notes: Thank you for reading and reviewing! There’s a lot of action in this chapter, so let’s get right to it. The first scene begins just after dinner on the same day (perhaps the absolute longest in fandom, although I wouldn’t swear to it - !).

This chapter’s title comes from the song by Evanescence.

CHAPTER 18 – Bring Me to Life

“Urgghhh,” Draco groaned as he collapsed heavily onto a couch in the Slytherin Common Room shortly after dinner. He rubbed his stomach as his face contorted in pain. “I don’t feel so well. I think I ate something that didn’t agree with me,” he gasped. He swallowed air, trying desperately to keep his meal down. Heedless of Crabbe and Goyle’s infantile giggles, he sprinted for the loo.

He emerged ten minutes later, looking quite pale and sweating bullets. Most of the Quidditch team was already suited up and ready to head down for the pitch for practice.

“Gods, Malfoy,” Warrington remarked with disgust. “Tell me you’re not planning on coming down to Quidditch practice looking like that.”

Draco agreed, “No, I don’t think I’d better . . . I think . .” He burped loudly, causing his teammates to cringe. “I think I need to go lie down.”

The captain begrudgingly relieved him from his practice commitment. “Yeah -- I think you should.” Suddenly, he whirled around and shouted excitedly, “Say, Grant! Can you fill in for Malfoy tonight? I’ve read that your flying skills are bloody amazing! What do you say?”

Most of the other team members were mildly surprised, except for Adrian Pucey. Grant, take Malfoy’s place? Was it just for tonight, or would it be a more . . permanent arrangement? Was he really that good, and more importantly, could he cheat as well as the rest of the team? Not to mention, what would Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy think if their precious son were actually dropped from the Slytherin roster?

Crabbe jabbed his fellow Beater in the ribs and mumbled thickly, “Warrington reads?”

Michael raked his fingers through his sandy hair as the team looked at him expectantly. Surely, he would say yes; after all, it was just a practice session. Nothing at stake, and besides, he would get a chance to show off his skills. Instead, the normally-confident boy hesitated, as if the prospect made him feel inexplicably nervous. Eventually, he relented.

“Sure. Why not? Nothing stirs my blood like a good, rousing game of Quidditch. Can I borrow your broom, Malfoy?”

“What? You mean you don’t have your own?” Draco chuckled as he wiped the sweat off his brow. “You’re joking. What self-respecting member of the world-famous New Zealander Grant family would come to school without his own broom?”

Michael smiled and attempted politeness. Unfortunately, he wasn’t terribly good at it. “Right. Of course. My broom is much better than yours,” he boasted shamelessly. “It’s just that, I thought -- well, surely your broom is Charmed to follow your team’s regular playing patterns, and I hoped you wouldn’t mind if I . . borrowed it, just for tonight?”, his tone implying that Draco would naturally want to hand over his high-Galleon racing broom to him, simply because he had asked.

Draco nodded and said flatly, “Sure. Let me go get it for you.”

Michael offered, “I’ll go with you.” Turning to the other team members, he said, “I’ll join the rest of you lot down at the pitch in a few minutes, all right? I should be there shortly.”

A few of them murmured their acceptance, and the group shuffled toward the door. Warrington was beside himself; he would finally get to see the famous player in action!

All the way to the sixth-year boys’ dorm, Michael scowled at the back of Draco’s head. Sick, my arse, he thought. He followed close behind him, grinding his teeth, the intense anger glowing in his eyes.

Once they were inside the room, Grant grabbed the older boy’s arm, spun him around, and whispered hatefully in his face. “Look here, Malfoy. What is wrong with you? I don’t know what the hell you’re playing at, but this is going too far.”

Draco snapped back, “Nothing. I’ve an upset stomach, and I can’t play tonight. Besides, Warrington’s been dying to see you at your best. So go on, impress him -- maybe you can fill my spot permanently. It’s what you want, isn’t it?” He knelt before his trunk, reaching inside to retrieve his broom.

Seeing that he was apparently quite serious, Grant laughed nervously in an attempt to deny the accusation. “No, it bloody well isn’t! I abhor flying; I Apparate everywhere.”

“Oh, so what you’re saying,” Malfoy drawled as he withdrew a book from his trunk, “is that this book is chock full of lies?” Rising to his feet, he paused and looked him squarely in the eye. “Or maybe you are?”

Grant snatched the book from his hands. “What?! Up and Coming Quidditch Stars: The Hope of the Future for the Sport? What does this have to do with me?”

Malfoy pursed his lips tightly, seething as he inhaled and exhaled evenly through his nose. His fingers curled into a fist, and he muttered in a low voice, “Apparently nothing.” He stared at him then asked, “Who are you really?”

There was a sharp knock at the door, and an instant later, it burst open.

It was Warrington, a pleading look on his face as he stamped his foot impatiently. Completely ignoring Draco, he begged, “Come on, Grant! We need you! Can’t release the Snitch till you’re there.”

The regular Seeker and his substitute eyed one another, both boys narrowing their eyes suspiciously. Draco shoved his broom toward Michael and said gruffly, “Take care nothing happens to it.”

Grant winked at Draco and gave him an arrogant smirk. He spun around so quickly that the back end of the expensive broomstick hit the wall with a ‘thwack’. Then he obediently followed the burly captain. Draco shouted, “Careful, you!”

He angrily slammed the door shut after him then yelled, “And good riddance!”

He flung himself onto the bed and threw, more than dropped, the Quidditch book onto his lap. He sat there, flipping through the pages absently, growing more and more frustrated by the enigma that was -- or rather, clearly was not -- Michael Grant. Soon, he tossed the book aside and soundly kicked it off the bed, sullenly crossing his arms in aggravation.

The book landed on its spine, opened and facing up. On its pages were a number of young wizards and witches who were all smiling and waving at him. As Draco looked down to see if any of the girls were pretty, he noticed something in the crease between the two exposed pages.

It was a slender piece of parchment, about the size of one of those quaint, old-fashioned calling cards, only it was smaller. In fact, the little bugger was so thin, that he almost didn't see it at all. It couldn’t have been left to mark someone’s place, because if it had, they would never have found it again.

He dove for the parchment, surprising a few of the witches and causing their hands to fly up toward their faces. He stood up, parchment in hand, and the nervous witches in the photographs breathed a sigh of relief. One of them shook an angry fist at him, and Draco sneered at her in response.

He unfolded the thin note very carefully. On it were neat letters written in scarlet ink, four of which were very dark, emphasizing their importance. Scripted in handwriting that was vaguely familiar to him but not instantly recognizable, it simply read:

Unforgivable Curse Detection Potion, Phase I

“Of course,” he voiced slowly, although no one was there. “U, C, D -- One.”

He dismissed it at first glance, theorizing quickly, That’s stupid, really. Someone who’s heard ‘Avada Kedavra’ is dead -- and sadly, dead people can’t take potions, the poor saps. And when you’ve been hit by ‘Crucio’, you know it -- at least, I always have -- it’s not something you easily forget, unless you’re ‘Obliviated’.

Snorting to himself, he muttered, “UCD-I, indeed. Just another idiotic idea some Ministry employee conjured up to waste—”

Another thought occurred to him, causing his mouth to clamp shut in mid-sentence.

Wait -- what about the Imperius? He sat there, silently pondering the sheer magnitude of such a discovery. Can it really detect it? And if it can -- wouldn’t it be just bloody amazing -- if it could tell other things, like . . . who cast it?

If this potion actually worked . . well, he couldn’t begin to fathom its impact on the Wizarding World. The very idea boggled his mind. He thought of all the times the Imperius had been used, and its use had been questioned. They may have been able to help Mr. Crouch, possibly even have stopped his son, before the old man was killed. The boy may have never gotten the Kiss . . . And as for people who say, “But I was under the Imperius Curse!”, they would actually have to be—

He laughed wryly, saying aloud, “There goes Father’s defense.”

Now that the note writer had his attention, Draco suddenly found himself extremely interested in Advanced Herbology. How can I get my hands on Pansy’s notes? If I try and go to the girls’ dorms, the staircase will melt under my feet, and then I’ll be flat on my arse! He knew this from a personal, not to mention, painful, experience in his fourth year.

Instead, his thoughts returned to the anonymous message and why it happened to be in the precise library book he had chosen on this particular day. Frankly, he was shocked at his incredible stroke of luck. Then remembering who this particular bottle was meant for, he scoffed to himself, saying, “Now, that is ridiculous. Mother’s not under an Unforgivable Curse -- she never has been! Why would that old bat Pomfrey think she needed—”

He flew off his mattress and opened his trunk, searching desperately for the potion bottle. All of a sudden, there was another knock on the door, causing him to look up as his breath caught in his throat. He stood up quickly and pocketed the bottle he had just located. After clearing his throat and checking his appearance in the mirror, he opened the door to see who it was.

“Mother! What are you doing here?”

“You said it was urgent, so I came straight away. What is it?” she asked. At the same time, she hugged him with minimal affection, placing a hand on each shoulder as if to distance herself from him.

He remained silent for a moment, trying to think of a way to bring up the matter of this . . . potion, especially considering this newfound information. “Err . . . ,” he began weakly.

As he stood there, hesitating, a slight scowl came to his mother’s face. “Wait a minute. I just saw your captain and some of the other boys all suited up in their uniforms.” She snapped, “Why aren’t you at Quidditch practice? Don’t tell me you got yourself booted off the team -- those broomsticks set your father back quite a bit!”

He shrugged, “I skived off.” The expression was lost on her. Naturally, he thought to himself. “I faked sick,” he said slowly. “I have other things to do. And now that you’re here, it’s a good thing I did.”

His mother rolled her eyes and sighed nonchalantly. “Well, maybe so, but what is this ‘very important matter’ you needed to discuss with me?” She paused, then venturing a guess or two, she asked excitedly, “I know; you have a new girlfriend and you want to plan an engagement. Are you and Lydia back together? Or is it that Parkinson girl? She’s so delightful. Oooh, or maybe your father has talked to you about . . . You-Know-Who?” Her eyes were alight with expectation, and Draco thought she looked slightly mental.

“No, no, and . . . no -- in that order,” he replied dully. His lack of enthusiasm was evidently not to her liking. Her face fell, giving her a cold sneer that Potter once described as looking as though she had something foul under her nose.

Blimey, he’s right. That is rather frightening.

He shrugged it off and pressed on to more urgent matters. “Mother, how was Dionysus when he returned?”

Visibly disappointed at his response, she raised one shoulder as the sneer on her face deepened slightly. She said very matter-of-factly, “A bit tired, perhaps, but otherwise, fine. Why?”

Her son explained, “I sent you a letter a few days ago, along with a small package.” Her sneer disappearing completely, she raised an eyebrow, obviously surprised; he went on. “Did you get . . either one?”

She thought for a moment. “No, I only got your letter from this morning. I did receive a smattering of owls wishing me a happy birthday, but no, nothing from you,” she answered, clearly despondent that her son had forgotten her special day.

Shit, I blew it again, he chided himself. “I’m sorry, Mother. I’ve been awfully with school—”

Ever the drama queen, Narcissa sniffed and pressed her monogrammed silk handkerchief delicately to her nearly-perfect nose. Her son groaned internally and then continued. “So Dionysus didn’t bring another letter or . . . anything from me?”

She snipped, “No, I already told you, he didn’t.” Then in a wistful manner that made her seem almost charming, she asked sweetly, “What did you send, dear? Was it a present for me?”

Looking at her with unabashed admiration, he observed silently, Her smile always could light up a room; why doesn’t she do it more often?

“Yes. A -- a present,” he faltered. Convinced that the potion was not at all necessary and would have absolutely no effect on her, he relaxed and gave her his most winning smile. “Yes, you could say that.”

He withdrew the bottle from the front pocket of his trousers. “Happy belated birthday, Mother.”

“What is it?” she asked, grasping the bottle from him hungrily.

All hesitation gone, he lied to her as smooth as silk, “It’s an anti-aging potion. Makes you look younger by easing your lines.” He backpedaled for a moment, saying, “Not that you have any, Mother, but when you do start to get them, this will lessen their appearance.”

She stared at the bottle, mesmerized. Not really caring what he replied, she inquired, “Did Severus brew it?”

“I think so. Either him or Madame Pomfrey.” Smiling confidently, he added, “I hope you like it.”

Narcissa looked at him tenderly and said, “Thank you, Draco. It’s perfect and so very thoughtful of you.” She ripped out the cap and drank the bottle’s entire contents without stopping.

Once it was gone, she gazed into the mirror, hoping for at least some results against those little annoying creases she had recently noticed around her eyes, but nothing happened.

Her son suggested, “I guess it behaves -- subtly, more slowly than most potions. I’m sure the results will be gradual, just as wrinkles themselves are.”

She nodded her head toward him, not looking directly at him, never taking her eyes off her own reflection. “But . . . but why isn’t it working yet?” she fretted.

Mrs. Malfoy’s eyes suddenly drew wide as a stab of pain shot through her chest and abdomen. She began to breathe very rapidly, and Draco thought she may hyperventilate. “Mother?” he said, swallowing nervously. The pace of his breathing increased, too, from seeing his mother so distressed and knowing he was the cause of it.

Feeling he had made a horrible mistake, his voice quaked as he asked her in a panic, “Oh, Mother, are you all right?”

Her eyes filled with fright, she looked at him and shook her head rapidly, gasping, “No!” and scaring the hell out of him. She clutched at her stomach and squeezed her eyes shut as tears flowed freely. “Poppy!” she screamed. “What have you done to me?!!”

Then she collapsed.

#####
Narcissa Malfoy was whisked away to the hospital wing by two of Hogwarts’ most repugnant house-elves, Kreacher and Sossy. Once there, she was swiftly tended to by Madame Pomfrey herself. The mediwitch examined her, trying to determine what effect the potion had had on her. Draco sat in a nearby chair, fidgeting uneasily and chewing on his manicured nails. Each time he caught himself, he would remove his fingers from his lips, only to resume the nervous habit again a few minutes later.

From time to time, he would stand up, pace around her bed, and pester Madame Pomfrey for a status update. “Please, Mr. Malfoy,” she assured him, “do sit down. I assure you, she’ll be fine. She just took too much at one time.”

Still reeling from the shock of it all, he fell back into the chair and put his head in his hands. Why didn’t I just go to practice? he asked himself for the thousandth time.

Madame Pomfrey completely ignored the dramatics coming from the occupant of the chair next to Mrs. Malfoys’ bed. Oblivious to his anguish -- and thinking he deserved a fair lot of it, anyway -- she continued checking on the woman and making notes on her chart. When she had finished writing, she looked up at Draco and criticized, “You really should have told her to follow the directions; they were on the note attached to the bottle, for Merlin’s sake.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, once again feeling like kicking himself for making such a serious blunder. He felt like he really would be ill; this time, it wasn’t fake at all. He darted for the loo.

When he returned to his mother’s bedside, the mediwitch appeared to have finished. She said to him with a sigh, “She’s going to be all right, Draco. She’s in no pain, and she’s resting now. A slight overdose, but no permanent or serious damage.” Walking away, she mused quietly, almost to herself, “Why would she have taken it all at once, I wonder?”

Unfortunately, Draco hadn’t even glanced at the label. He took for granted that she would do that. I mean, what idiot drinks a potion without reading the directions first? Biting his lower lip fretfully, he called after her, “How was it supposed to be taken, then?”

She turned around to face him and replied, “Well, the label says to take half of it now, then the other half within two hours, and in the presence of a qualified mediwitch or mediwizard.”

“And you’re sure of that?”

She laughed humorlessly. “Well, I should hope so. I made them myself.” At his questioning look, she clarified, “The instructions and the potion.”

Still, Draco couldn’t bring himself to confess his sins; instead, he murmured a word of thanks as he turned to go. Stopping at the doorway, he finally managed to say something to her. “Madame Pomfrey . . . you will keep me informed, won’t you? Let me know something the minute her condition changes?”

“Of course, I will.” She gave him a sweet smile, perhaps the kindest look she had ever given him. “You can rely on it,” she assured him. Draco managed a tight smile and a weak nod in Madame Pomfrey’s direction. Then giving his mother’s motionless form one last regretful glance, he left.

He returned to his dorm room in an attempt to at least do some of his homework before the two gorillas got back. He went inside, massively relieved that his roommates had not yet returned from Quidditch practice. They’re probably in the changing rooms playing sticky biscuit. Sodding poofs.

But even sarcasm didn’t begin to relieve the incredible guilt he felt about what had happened to his mother. Despite his best efforts to contain them, slender tears escaped his eyes as he leaned back against the wall. He exhaled heavily and hung his head. Looking down at his robes through bleary eyes, he blinked purposefully, as if doing so would shut out the memories of seeing her, lying there on the cold floor, screaming in agony.

True, they didn’t have the best mother-son relationship. But he did have feelings for her, in some almost compulsory way. Did they love each other? He didn’t know. He only knew that a dull ache had risen in his forehead, which he began to massage as he continued to stare at the floor. That was when he noticed a small, shiny, very out-of-place object, lying next to the trunk that was closest to the door.

It was a small mirror, rather like the one his mother used for touch-ups to her face. Its frame was silver; her favorite color. Must be hers, he surmised. I’ll take it to her in hospital later. He swooped it up and started to put it away. Yet when he touched it, something made him not want to put it away, but to stop and study it. He could easily feel its desperate pull, the magnetism -- the magic -- it most certainly contained.

No, this was no ordinary mirror. It didn’t feel exactly right, and then when he moved it one way or the other, the glass within seemed to . . . ripple slightly, like a still pond suddenly disturbed by a pebble breaching its tranquility. He tapped it with his wand; it rippled again, but in a way that was not the least bit soothing. Quite the opposite, really. The mirror’s movement made his skin crawl.

His homework forgotten, he set off to see if he could find out more about this strange mirror and what powers it possessed. He knew exactly where to go; no one knew more about the Dark Arts at this school than he.

#####
Professor Snape was in his office when Draco arrived, but someone else was already in there with him. Recognizing her voice, he felt a small thrill building inside, and he peered around the doorway to gaze at her. Ginny Weasley was getting a make-up assignment for the work she had missed as a result of caring for his mother’s bird this morning.

Gods, was that only this morning? he marveled. It seems ages ago by now, all that happened with Tonks . . and Charlie . . . Grant, and Mother . . . His mind continued to wander, nearly forgetting his reason for being there. He found it hard not to stare at her. Soon he gave up trying and gaped at her openly.

“There, Miss Weasley,” Professor Snape concluded as he handed her three books, “you should be able to find enough in these volumes to fill at least ten feet of parchment. But fortunately for you, I only require five,” his lip curling as he added the last remark. “You are to write about the properties of the three most dangerous and illegal potions, and then make valid, feasible suggestions of how you think the Ministry could better control them.”

She fought the urge to groan, simply saying politely, “Thank you, Professor Snape. I will turn it in at the start of my next Potions class, the day after tomorrow.”

“Oh, no,” he corrected her. “No, I expect it first thing after breakfast. Tomorrow,” he clarified. “You’ve got it easy -- you should be grateful you didn’t have to brew anything as difficult as the other fifth-years did this morning.”

“Yes, sir,” she said respectfully. All the while, her mind was muttering, Do wash your hair, you slimy git. It’s utterly repulsive.

She spun around quickly, anxious to just go and be on her way to the Library. When she glanced up, she startled slightly on seeing who was waiting just outside the doorway.

“Draco!” she exclaimed, pleasantly surprised. It was hard to keep it from her voice, and the intonation was not lost on the Potions Master.

“Miss Weasley,” Draco answered in a rather clipped tone. Turning to face his Head of House, he greeted him, “Good evening, sir. I was wondering if I might have a word.”

Professor Snape eyed Ginny, saying, “You may go, Miss Weasley. Looks like you have a full night ahead of you.”

“Good night, sir,” she replied, nodding modestly.

“No, wait—” Draco started, touching her arm to hold her there. “This concerns her, too.” Ginny raised her brows slightly and gave him a goofy grin; he winked in reply.

“Fine, Mr. Malfoy. Do make it snappy,” he added with a leer in Ginny’s direction, “Miss Weasley has a five-foot essay to write by tomorrow morning.” After a brief pause, he asked snootily, “So. What do . . the both of you need to discuss with me?”

Draco withdrew the mysterious mirror from his robes and handed it to Professor Snape. “See, Ginny and me, we found this. Earlier today. It looks enchanted, and I suspect -- no, I feel certain that it’s dangerous.”

While his mentor examined the looking glass intently, Draco went on. “Actually, I’ve seen one of these before. One of my uncles had one when I was very young -- my father’s brother, I believe. But I definitely remember one thing about it. I was forbidden to touch it by everyone, even my uncle, who normally indulged me,” he said plainly.

Professor Snape’s black eyes narrowed gradually as he scrutinized the item. He said to them, “I see. And where did you find it? How did it come to be in your possession?”

Draco looked over at Ginny for a split second then lied without hesitation, filling in the missing pieces as he went along. “I believe Michael Grant may have dropped it. Between late afternoon classes, he was just ahead of Ginny, and I was a few feet behind. She sidestepped it, so as not to break the glass, and I bent down and picked it up.”

Professor Snape turned it over and studied the sides and back, touching it gingerly with his wand. He tested a few of its magical properties with his broad range of skills. Ginny marveled, watching him with fascination as he worked his way toward a solution that neither she nor Draco could have possibly foreseen.

When both of the students thought he had given up, he finally spoke. “I thought so,” was his monotone announcement.

“Sir?” Draco asked. Ginny continued to look on, not saying a word, barely even breathing, hoping that Snape would forget she was standing there and therefore share his conclusions with his protégé.

Instead, he set the glass on the floor and stepped away. Poising himself, he flicked his wand and said in a strong, clear voice, “Vita Memorai!”

Soon the glass in the silver frame undulated, rippling relentlessly, as tiny wave-like patterns washed up to meet an invisible shoreline. Then the mirror actually bent, yet did not break, protruding upward as if the drops within were seeking release from their prison. But it wasn’t the dry water -- or whatever the substance was -- that sought its escape from the glass.

Shortly after the mirror flexed, a sandy-haired boy of about 15 had materialized in Professor Snape’s office, just as though he had Apparated. The confused, frightened boy shook his head, probably trying to clear out some of the cobwebs inside. Professor Snape spoke in a gentle, soothing tone. “Hello, Mr. Grant. Welcome to Hogwarts.”

“Wh-where am I?” was his breathless reply, his face one of complete bewilderment. “Who are you, and . . . where have I been? Oh, my poor father, my brothers -- they must all be worried sick!” He swallowed then asked, “Wherever I’ve been, how long was I there?”

Draco thought this was the most bizarre line of questioning he had ever heard. Then he wondered briefly how he himself could ever have been so stupid -- this boy’s accent was completely different than that of the imposter. The not-Michael-Grant, as Tonks had called him.

Professor Snape woke Draco from his reverie, introducing himself and the others to Michael and explaining where they were. “You, my friend, have been gone a long time. You have been at our school, since the beginning of term, but,” he added regretfully as he pointed to the bent glass on the floor, “your spirit has been here, locked inside. Someone has used you against your will.”

“What . . ?” Grant asked, his head still swimming. “What are you talking about?”

“What’s the last thing you remember, Mr. Grant?” the Potions Master quizzed him.

Gathering his thoughts, he blinked his eyes deliberately and then spoke. “Well . . I was walking way home one night from my oldest brother’s Quidditch match. It was around mid-August. I’d just left off some of my friends who had gone with me, and I was alone.” He paused then looking into the man’s sallow face, he said, “That’s the last memory I have.”

A brief silence followed. Then voicing what everyone was thinking, Michael asked, “But who would do such a horrible thing? And why?”

The professor eyed him cautiously, taking in his appearance and manner, and if Draco’s assumptions were correct, reading his thoughts. “That, we’re not sure of. Yet. But I feel you may have been the victim of a very rare spell done with a mirror called a Soul Window.” Moving over to his fireplace, he said, “Excuse me for a moment. ” Then grabbing a pinch of Floo powder, he tossed it in and said, “Albus Dumbledore!”

The students looked on as the Headmaster’s weathered face appeared in the fire. “Yes, Severus? How may I help?”

“Professor, I have found the real Michael Grant,” he announced with pride. Holding up the Soul Window, he added, “He was in here. Would you please notify the proper authorities so they can arrest the perpetrator? Whoever it is, I will hold him here until they arrive.”

“Of course, without question,” came the kindly response. “I will also ask Remus and Tonks to join you; surely, she will be delighted to have finished her mission here and to take her suspect back to Ministry headquarters. I will send them both to you as soon as I can.” Professor Snape reluctantly agreed and bit back a grimace.

Before he disappeared, the elderly man added, “Oh, and congratulations, Severus. I'm sure New Zealand will be very supportive of your receiving The Order of Merlin, First Class, as will I.”

At this, Severus Snape actually smiled.

Returning to the teens and their lost expressions, he told them what he knew about Soul Windows. “As I’m sure you have already guessed, the Soul Window is a mirror that is nearly impossible to get one’s hands on. They’re generally passed from generation to generation, never leaving a wizarding family and rarely being used. It takes a great deal of energy and concentration to cast the spell. House-elves, given their blind allegiance and misunderstood yet very powerful magic, have often aided wizards in casting and maintaining this complex spell.”

As he spoke, he strode to his locked supply cabinet and opened its doors with a command spell that only responded to his voice. He withdrew a vial of clear liquid which Ginny and Draco knew immediately to be Veritaserum.

“A Soul Window works rather like Polyjuice Potion, only you don’t need to take anything every hour to maintain the outer appearance. It acts more like a ‘soul displacement’ spell for the victim; the caster looks like the person, but he acts completely like his own self. To keep the spell intact requires a complicated daily maintenance procedure. It can even fool enchanted maps— ”

This remark garnered Ginny a glare of his beady eyes then he continued, “In fact, some of the most clever witches and wizards in the world have been fooled by it, making it extremely dangerous. If it weren’t for its relative obscurity, I’m certain it would be labeled an Unforgivable Curse.”

At his comment, Draco felt yet another twinge of guilt, followed by a dull ache between his eyes. The Potions Master concluded, “For some reason, Mr. Grant, someone wanted to be you. Or at least, look like a student who was a stranger to the rest of us. Whoever it was could absolutely not afford to be found out.”

“But who would do such a thing?” Draco chimed in.

Professor Snape looked around the room, ensuring every eye was on him, just as he did with all of his classes. “That, Mr. Malfoy, is what we’re about to find out.” He stood over the mirror once more, chanting an entirely differently spell this time. “Coniverea Exvelum!”

In a flash, the real Michael Grant simply evaporated, as if he had never been standing there. Draco conceded, Merlin knows where he went; probably home in New Zealand by now. In the transfer student’s place stood -- someone else, someone completely different . . someone Draco recognized instantly. I should have known! Crossing his arms over his chest, he stepped closer and smirked wickedly.

“Hello, Aunt Bella. Anything you wish to share with your favorite nephew?”

~End of Chapter~

Notes: My, this is just a Black family reunion, isn’t it? And I ask you, was it any big surprise?

Speaking of the Blacks, I know you probably don’t really like Narcissa in this fic, but I didn’t hurt her, and she will live -- for now, anyway. Besides, a little guilt mixed with humility might actually be good for Draco . . . ;-)

Sossy (the house-elf who helped Kreacher take Narcissa to the hospital) is one of my daughter’s nicknames for me. One of the weird ones that don’t make any sense. It was all I could come up with at the moment. Say, does anyone have any good ways to make up names for house-elves? They stump me every time.

Once again, I must thank peevish for providing some of the slang; in case you’re a non-Brit (like me), go there for the definition of sticky biscuit. It’s kind of gross . . , but considering this story’s rating, I figured I’d better not explain and instead have you go look it up yourself -- if you’re that curious. (There's a link to their site in one of my other chapters.)

Here’s a little review of my phony Latin. I just make these up, based on those little italicized phrases in the dictionary that show a word’s origin -- hence my sometimes squirrely conjugation (which means, in a word, ‘Idon’tknowshitaboutLatin’):

“Vita Memorai” – Remember (your) life, thus the chapter title.

“Coniverea Exvelum” – Unveil the conspirator. I used it as a way to reveal who cast of this particular spell.

Thanks again for reading. Please review!

Author's Notes: I know the wait between chapters is getting longer. I'm sorry, but it's just that we've come so far, I don't want to screw it up now! Also, my family and I have been moving into our new home (yippee skippee!!), which means a lot of hard work during my off-duty hours.

Okay, enough excuses! Moving right along, there is no shortage of action in this chapter -- so as Marvin Gaye once said, 'Let's get it on'. Fyrechild, thank you for the beta-read :-D , and thanks to all who have read and reviewed. I hope this fic is continuing to meet your expectations.

Watch for the Willy Wonka reference. This chapter is named for the CD by Jimmy Eat World, one of the newer bands I really love. :-D

CHAPTER 19 – Clarity

To say that Bellatrix Lestrange was surprised would have been a gross understatement. One minute, she was faking that she could actually play Quidditch -- and was darned good at it, too -- and the next, she found herself standing in Professor Snape's office, staring into the face of her 16-year-old nephew, Draco Malfoy.

She was very surprised indeed; so much that, for once in her life, she couldn't think of a single thing to say.

She just stood there, absolutely still, her face expressionless and her mouth hanging slightly open as she stared into his silver-grey eyes. Those piercing orbs that were so uncannily like Lucius's. The similarity was slightly unnerving, except that the eyes before her now seemed to hold something that his father's never did: a bit of . . . mirth. It seemed so out of place that she wasn't sure quite what to make of it. For a time, no one moved or spoke.

Then a deep, rich voice sliced through the thick silence that draped the room. The sound of it alarmed Bellatrix, causing her to spin around so sharply that she nearly lost her balance. With a slight curve on his lip and his voice like silk, Professor Snape greeted her, "Good evening, Mrs. Lestrange. Welcome back to Hogwarts, old friend."

She gaped wordlessly at Severus as she worked to deduce how she had come to be in his office and why he was training his wand on her. She figured that she must have somehow inadvertently lost her mirror, and someone with the ability to break the spell had found it.

But Snape? she wondered vaguely. How would he have found it? It was in my robes . . wait a second; when I left the sixth-years' boys' dorm . . . was it then? She recalled hearing something smack against the wall, presumably the end of Draco's broomstick. Was it possibly the mirror, hitting the floor?

As both she and Michael Grant had obviously been restored to their own respective bodies, she rationalized, That had to have been what happened. But how? Then her eyes and mouth drew open wide, not in fear, but in complete shock.

She simply wasn't used to that level of failure.

Ginny, her wand at the ready as her fingers clutched tightly around it, watched as the two adults exchanged looks. Snape revealed little of what he was thinking, and Bellatrix simply looked lost. Ginny almost felt sorry for the woman, who, at the moment, looked more like a small, helpless creature than a devoted servant of You-Know-Who.

But she soon found herself reliving poignant memories of visiting Saint Mungo's and of seeing Neville Longbottom's parents, both of whom were in permanent residence there. When Neville's mother had smiled at him then handed him that worthless, empty wrapper which he devotedly slipped into his pocket as if it were something very precious . . . Ginny's heart literally ached for him. She'd had to turn her face away so that no one would see her cry.

Then she remembered that their family's tragedy had occurred at the hands of this 'small, helpless creature'. Why would Ginny ever have pitied her? Had it been some of Bellatrix's dark, subtle magic, or had it been her own vague imaginings?

She focused on the horrid woman who stood before them now and thought about her innumerable crimes. Knowing that she was the cause of the Longbottom's terrible fate, a renewed hatred stirred within Ginny's Gryffindor heart. She gripped her wand, this time so tightly that her knuckles turned white, as she glared at the cruel witch.

To Draco's eyes, his Aunt Bellatrix suddenly didn't look anything like the woman he had always been so fond of. She looked more like a wild animal, caged, ensnared by her own evil; arrogantly expecting to escape, yet somehow fearful that she might not. He nearly felt like laughing out loud as he watched her try to worm her way out of this tight spot, yet he resisted the temptation and resolutely told himself to be ready for anything.

Then he had a moment of clarity.

Of course. It wasn't my father's brother, Uncle Hadrian, who had showed me that odd little mirror that I was forbidden to touch. It was Aunt Bella's husband, Uncle Rodolphus.

Bellatrix, who had not yet uttered a word, eyed Severus suspiciously. He was still looking at her with a raised brow and a hint of a . . smirk, as if he were actually expecting some sort of reply. The odd expression on his face almost looked to Bella as if he actually thought he was going to make her confess to something. Seeing the vial in his hand, she wondered for a second or two, Gods, does he intend to use Veritaserum on me?

Has he lost his mind?

Trying to decide exactly what her colleague was up to, she weighed her odds of getting away unscathed. If Snape stood against her . . . then obviously, she was outnumbered, but she was by no means outdone. Two of her opponents were mere students; besides, one was a blood relative, and the other was just a Weasley. So would Bellatrix be bothered by the fact that the girl in question now held her wand pointed squarely at her, with a threatening glare on her young, as-yet untarnished face?

Not in the least. She had faced far more formidable and worthy adversaries in her life, and this little slut would not get the better of her. And as for Draco . . well, she had that situation well in hand. Although she anticipated the challenge and was sorely tempted to reach for her wand, she played things cool, smiling and saying lightly, "Thank you, Severus, I'm delighted to be here."

She turned about and faced her nephew once more, giving him a smile that was, in a way, almost . . sweet; for a brief flash, Draco was reminded of his own lovely mother.

His Aunt Bellatrix was anything but.

"And yes, my precious, little nephew," she sneered. "I do have something to 'share' with you." She maintained eye contact as she approached him slowly, cautiously. Ginny and Professor Snape watched her every move from a few feet away, their wands never lowering an inch.

When Bellatrix was in front of him yet far enough away that he couldn't just reach out and strangle her, she stopped and crossed her arms. Then she laughed and said derisively, "You always were the curious sort, Draco. My sister raised you that way, indulging you in your inquisitiveness." In a mocking tone that cut him to the core, she added, "But being curious to the point of stupidity will get you nowhere."

He looked away for a moment. He could see that the Soul Window was about four feet to the left of him. He longed to reach down and grab it, but the more her remark stung him, the more his fingers itched to curl around her throat and literally choke the life out of her. He caught Snape's warning look that said 'Don't.'

Glaring at the couple, Bellatrix carried on scornfully. "I can see it in your eyes -- both of you think you know evil. It's your 'common bond', isn't it?" She snorted with disbelief then hissed, "How could you know it? You've never even seen it."

She turned her attention to Draco alone; she stared at him intently and asked, "So you want to know where Michael Grant's been, do you? Would you like to see how it's done? I'd be glad to . . show you—"

As she spoke the last words, she deftly reached into her robes, quickly securing her wand. Draco's first thought was to protect Ginny, and he edged closer to her. But Bellatrix's first malicious act was to Stun . . . Professor Snape? Finding that slightly odd, Draco wondered, But surely, he wouldn't really have used the Veritaserum on her, considering they're on the same side . . .

They are allies -- aren't they?

That moment's hesitation gave Bellatrix just enough time to round on her nephew; she looked insane, as if she might attack him next. Feeling as if he was seeing her for the first time, he suddenly believed she wouldn't hesitate to kill if pressed -- even a blood relative, if need be. Draco swallowed nervously as he grasped for his wand.

Ginny, however, never took her eyes off the woman. Once she had a clear shot at her, she aimed her wand and shouted with determination, "Expelliarmus!"

The female Death Eater tried to sidestep the spell, but being in another person's body for almost three months had left her own reflexes a bit rusty. Her wand sailed into Ginny's outstretched fingers, and she resolutely stashed it in her robes. Impressed by her tenacity, her boyfriend gave her an appreciative smile, which she returned.

But wand or no, Bellatrix would not be easily subdued. Ginny gasped then shouted, "Draco! Watch out!"

His aunt had picked up a heavy book off the Potion Master's desk and raised it up, intent on striking Draco on the back of the head. Ginny cried, "Accio, book!" It came straight to her, landing with a smack in her arms. She dropped it roughly to the floor, loose pages scattering everywhere, and returned to the ensuing fight.

"She just doesn't know when to quit, does she?" Ginny remarked, breathing hard.

Seconds later, the half-crazed woman came at Draco, wielding a small knife that had been setting atop Snape's desk. Ginny cried, "Accio, knife!" It flew directly into her open hand, but when it reached its target, the sharp edge was facing her and inadvertently stabbed her in the palm. Shocked, she screamed in anguish, and her boyfriend turned quickly to see what had had happened. His jaw dropped at what he saw, and he ran to her side.

"I'm so sorry, baby." Then he cautioned her, albeit a bit too late, "I should have warned you not to underestimate her. She's quite dangerous, even without a wand!"

"Great. Now he tells me," she replied with a grimace, trying to make light of the situation and attempting to laugh. "No, I did this . . on . . on my own. Not intentionally, of course—" she gasped. Fortunately, the blade didn't sink very deep; she panted as she pulled it out of her tender, reddened skin. Ginny muttered a Healing spell to stop the blood flow and lessen the stinging pain. Draco looked on with sympathy, cringing as she started to withdraw the blade.

But frankly, he was having problems of his own. All the while, his aunt was looking for even larger and more dangerous objects to throw at them. He knew what she was capable of, even without magic, and it made him nervous. Amidst all the commotion, he was finally able to aim his wand directly at her. He cried, "Stupefy!", but she jumped to one side and managed to dodge the hex.

Although she was disarmed, Bellatrix was not dissuaded; she got completely out of the line of fire by diving behind Professor Snape's massive oak desk. Draco and Ginny both learned that the desk evidently had some sort of Defensive Charm, so that spells and hexes could not go through it -- not terribly surprising, Ginny thought, for a professor whom so many students utterly despised.

The Gryffindor ran around the desk. She readied her wand to throw a Bat Bogey hex at the other witch, who by now had also discovered the desk's defensive qualities. She managed to keep herself hidden on the other side, laughing at the girl's foolishness. Then to Ginny's surprise, she sprung out at her, knocking her legs out from under her and her wand from of her grip. Ginny landed on her backside as her wand rolled several feet across the room in the opposite direction.

Ignoring the wand for the moment, Bellatrix spotted what she really wanted: the Soul Window. She crawled around on her hands and knees, and when her goal was in sight, she darted out from behind the professor's desk and grasped desperately for the warped mirror.

Draco reached down to stop her and grabbed both of her arms, pushing her away. She fought back, but he easily brought her up to a kneeling position and held both her arms just over her head. She leaned closer to him and sunk her teeth into his upper left arm, biting him so hard that she broke the skin and caused him to unintentionally release her right arm.

"Oww!" he shouted as he let go to examine the bite, which was just starting to bleed. "You bitch!" Shocked, he stood up and staggered backward toward the edge of the professor's desk. It was just the break she needed.

Finally able to slip past him, Bellatrix struggled to make physical contact with the mirror. But her nephew had wrapped his arms around her ankles and impeded her progress. Frustrated that she couldn't quite . . . reach it, she doggedly extended her fingers as far as she could, clutching at it wildly.

At last, one of her long, perfectly-shaped, red-tipped fingernails bumped against the rounded corner of its silver frame. But instead of capturing the precious heirloom, she had grazed against it, causing it to slide even further away from her. She strained once more to latch onto it; no longer protected by the desk, a flurry of spells flew about the room, including one each from Lupin and Tonks, who had arrived just in time to help finish the job.

"Stupefy!"

"Immobulus!"

"Accio, Soul Window!"

The barrage flattened Bellatrix and left her unconscious.

Draco breathed a sigh of relief. Pointing his wand at his Head of House, he muttered, "Ennervate," and revived him. Tonks surveyed the damages to the room. Ginny stood up, rubbing her twisted ankle and her aching bum; then she limped over to retrieve her wand.

With the mirror in one hand and his wand in the other, Professor Lupin swiftly placed Bellatrix in a full body bind. Then he exhaled quite heavily, as if he had been involved in the duel as well. For a moment, he seemed immensely pleased about something; Ginny reasoned that for him, this had to be retribution for Sirius. Because in truth, if Harry had been distraught about losing Sirius Black, then Remus Lupin had even more right to be.

"Nice work, Severus," Lupin complimented his old school rival. "Good job, you two," he said to the young couple. The Potions Master, who was still slightly out of focus from being Stunned earlier, nodded his thanks. He stood up then proceeded to finish the theatrics that had taken over his office.

Lupin, somewhat mesmerized by the rare artifact in his hand, finally glanced up. When he saw the bottle of clear liquid in Snape's spindly fingers, his fellow professor inferred, "Veritaserum? So she's to be questioned already? Not going to wait for the Ministry officials?"

But Snape was in no mood. Having returned to his normal, terrible, awful old self, he barked impatiently, "Haven't we waited long enough? Besides, doesn't Tonks count?" he added with sarcasm.

When Lupin did not respond, Severus announced, "Yes, we are nearly ready. Miss Weasley, would you please brew Mrs. Lestrange a cup of tea? Mr. Malfoy can show you where I keep it." A faint smirk graced his thin lips as he said this, then he swiftly revived Mrs. Lestrange so she could give him some answers.

She gave him hell.

"You back-stabbing bastard!!" Bellatrix screamed in his face. "You know what He does to traitors. You will pay for this with your life, Severus! You will all pay for this! That is an absolute promise!! None of you are safe; He will get all of you, and your wretched families!!"

Tonks sighed, "Gods, I hate screeching women." Deliberately aiming her wand at her aunt, she asked the professors, "Either of you want me to silence her until the tea is ready?"

Severus declined, "No, that won't be necessary, Tonks."

He called out to Ginny in the other room, "Miss Weasley, don't bother with the tea." Then focusing on the task at hand, he grumbled to his fellow Order members, "Come on, you two -- help me open her mouth. Let's get this over with."

Lupin interjected, "I'd still like some tea, if you wouldn't mind -- making it anyway?" He gave Ginny a slight smile and shrugged his shoulders.

"Not at all, Professor," she laughed nervously. "I'll brew a pot." Then following Draco to Professor Snape's private stores, she whispered, "Looks like this is going to be a long and interesting night." He heartily agreed.

As they walked toward the cabinet in the far corner of the room, they showed each other their wounds. He winced at seeing the faint scar that was forming in her palm, then he showed her the perfect circle of teeth marks on his injured arm, seeking her sympathy and perhaps a Healing spell. She provided both.

Meanwhile, Bellatrix made it clear that she was having none of the Veritaserum, either with or without tea, as her mouth seemed to be magically sealed shut. Professor Snape worked to pry it open and shove the vial in between her lips. When he was finally successful in administering the potion, she tried to spit it back out, even attempting to bite him as if she were a dog. It was a demanding task, almost as trying and as pointless as it had been attempting to teach Occlumency to Potter.

Although she was quite determined, he eventually forced her to swallow it by simply plugging her nose while Tonks and Lupin held her head still. When she had at last ingested the Veritaserum, a loud, hateful growl emitted from somewhere deep in her throat. Meanwhile, she closed her eyes and whispered spells feverishly, as if to command it not to work.

Her attempts, however, were in vain.

Professor Snape, knowing the most about the case and having been the one to find her out, began the questioning. "Bellatrix Lestrange, do you recognize the object Remus Lupin is holding in his left hand?"

"Y-y-yesss," she replied as she felt the potion starting to work, overtaking her words. "It's my husband's mirror. It's called . . a . . So-Soul W-W-Wind-Window," she stuttered. "It's been in his family for centuries, but he never used it. I saw its potential and shared it with my Master." She cringed in fear of what might happen to her for failing Him again as the potion took the remaining shreds of her dignity.

"Your Master," Severus prompted as his eyes narrowed. "Whom do you mean?"

Bellatrix chuckled mirthlessly, "You know as well as I do. He's your Master too, Severus. Lord Voldemort, of course; he was greatly intrigued."

Meanwhile, the two students reentered the room. Draco watched his aunt intently, as did Ginny, being careful not to spill the tea she was distributing among them. Bellatrix gritted her teeth as if to withhold anything further and deny the potion its prize, but she eventually realized that resisting the Veritaserum was futile. Her eyes rolled as she breathed deeply to calm herself.

It soon became apparent who had won the battle.

Seeing her relax, Professor Snape removed the body bind and went on questioning her. "Mrs. Lestrange, how and why did you capture the soul of Michael Grant and illegally inhabit his body? What were you hoping to achieve by doing this?"

She spoke emotionlessly, paying no attention to the cup of tea that Ginny had gently placed in her extended hand. "I was tapped by Lord Voldemort, via Peter Pettigrew, while I was in hiding in Australia. I was asked to go on a multipurpose assignment to Hogwarts.

"One of my tasks was to recruit young people to our noble cause; another was to ensure loyalty within all of His families. With the arrests last spring at the Ministry of Magic, someone had to help keep watch over their young and ensure they did not stray. Which brings me to you, Draco.

"With Lucius Malfoy imprisoned at Azkaban, he needed someone to remain in contact with his son. To help watch and guide him." She sighed, as if she were still fighting the urge to confess and doing so was utterly draining her. "He needed me to—"

"Needed you to what?" Draco snapped. They were the first words he'd spoken since returning to the room. "Lick his boots?"

"I would have if he asked me," she declared flatly as her eyes met his. "You have no idea who you are dealing with, young Malfoy. He is more powerful than you think."

Her nephew was mildly baffled. "What are you talking about?"

"You feel his power every single day you live," she claimed evasively.
The boy shook his head slowly and laughed softly, "No, I don't, and I assure you, I don't know what you mean."

"Yes, you do," she insisted. "Although you may not recognize it as his power; you have probably felt it for so long -- indeed, for time immemorial, that you must have thought it was your own." Then she asked him, "Do you still have pains, Draco? Headaches?"

Becoming annoyed, he yelled, "What the fuck are you talking about?"

Professor Snape interrupted, "Mr. Malfoy, if you don't mind." Draco begrudgingly relented to the floor to his Head of House, who went on patiently, "Bellatrix, what does Lucius Malfoy's power have to do with his son's recurring headaches?"

"It has everything to do with them," she said blandly.

Snape bit back a frustrated grin and rephrased the question. "Are they somehow . . . caused by it?"

"Yes."

"How, exactly?" was his more direct question.

Her reply stunned everyone in the room, especially Draco.

She sighed and said, "Well. It all started with the Unforgivable Curse his father put on his mother several years ago."

Draco, who had been fairly patient up to this point, now became quite agitated. "Curse?!" he sneered. "What bloody Unforgivable Curse?"

Before she could answer, he shouted angrily in her face, "I'll have you know that my mother is not under any Curse!!! The potion would have shown it -- she only passed out because she took too much at once!"

"You simple, stupid boy," Bellatrix chuckled mirthlessly. "Of course, she is. She has been under it for years, perhaps decades."

Draco started to open his mouth to speak again, but Professor Snape jumped in first. "What curse, Bellatrix?"

She replied dully, "Magno Imperiatum."

On seeing Ginny's and Draco's confused expressions, Professor Lupin, who was watching Bellatrix with extreme interest, joined the conversation. "Magno Imperiatum. It is a lesser known derivative of the Imperius curse -- however rare, it is still an Unforgivable, by association."

Tonks interjected, "And by the way, Draco -- I've seen Aunt Cissy this evening, and Madame Pomfrey said to tell you that she had more information. It seems that your mother's reaction to the potion was partly because of the manner in which it was taken, but mostly because her body was fighting the potion's will to work."

Draco's head was reeling. He quizzed his mother's sister, "Wait a minute . . . did you say a decade or decades? I mean, was she under it when, maybe even before . . I was born?"

"Decades," she answered. "And yes, she was under it for quite some time before you were born. This particular Curse has the rather unique quality of transferring to any offspring a woman bears while she is under it. And once cast, it only requires minimal maintenance."

Draco looked at Ginny and saw the fear in her eyes. He grimaced, and she moved toward him. Wrapping her arms around him, she held him tenderly, the worry never leaving her eyes.

"Bellatrix," Professor Snape began again in a monotone voice. When the Death Eater's lifeless eyes met his, he asked her, "Why would Mr. Malfoy do that to his own wife?"

"Well, it was her own fault, really. She was being incredibly stubborn. She refused to give him an heir."

Draco had been rubbing Ginny's sore palm tenderly then suddenly stopped. "What am I, then?" he scoffed. "Chopped liver?"

"You, dear boy," Bellatrix replied, "are here only due to your father's efforts, in more ways than one. At first, Narcissa rejected the idea of having even one child. Said it would 'ruin her figure' -- more like she was afraid it would cut into her social life. When he discovered her treachery six years into their marriage, he placed her under the Curse." She paused then said, "She would never disobey him again."

"What treachery?" her nephew inquired.

She shook her head, saying, "He was never specific about the details. He only said that your mother and Madame Pomfrey were two daft cows and they wouldn't get away with it."

But Tonks wanted to know more about Magno Imperiatum. "Aunt Trixie, how does the Curse work?"

"Lucius controls all of her thoughts, most of her actions, nearly every feeling she has. He needs to see her at least once a week, preferably twice, to reinforce it. Otherwise, she and her offspring tend to feel intense pain. If Narcissa comes to visit him weekly, then the Curse on Draco can be reinforced by extension."

She droned on, "Through this connection, he could sense his son was starting to slip away from his grasp . . " She eyed Ginny briefly then added coldly, "He was cultivating other interests -- such as this futile 'relationship' with someone who was not worthy of him. His father felt it was necessary to visit, trying to force the issues he saw as important. If Draco chooses to fight against the Curse's effects, or if he feels intense emotions not originating from it, he may also feel pain . . . as a sharp reminder of who owns him.”

Then she pointed at Draco and said, "But you—"

After pausing abruptly, she continued, "You have found something that seems to be weakening his hold on you. And it frightens him more than anything." At his confused expression, she elaborated, "Love, as you know from personal experience -- is a very powerful emotion. As such, it sometimes has strange effects on certain types of magic.” She frowned then remarked wryly, "Apparently, this Curse's one and only flaw.

"But make no mistake, boy: your father is furious with you, and he will stop at nothing to regain his control. And now that his wife is aware of this, or soon will be, he will seek vengeance on both of you. I'd say you and she are as good as dead; naturally, your girlfriend as well."

Taking in so much information, Ginny's head started to spin. She looked to Draco for strength, her eyes wide and fearful; what would they do? How could they stop his father, if he could actually manipulate Narcissa, and at times Draco, into doing, saying, and feeling what he wanted them to?

Lupin said to Draco, "Madame Pomfrey has managed to revive your mother. She is feeling somewhat better, and Poppy and Professor Dumbledore are now attempting to remove the Curse. If needed, they will call in Ginny's older brother Bill for assistance."

His casual remark caused Ginny's head to snap to attention and Draco to frown slightly. The professor explained, "Breaking curses is Bill Weasley's specialty, Mr. Malfoy."

Professor Snape, irritated by yet another diversion, snipped, "Lupin. The Veratiserum only lasts so long; I must get her confession about the Soul Window. Do you mind?"

"Not at all, Severus. Forgive the interruption."

Snape continued. "Why did you choose Grant for your vessel?"

"No reason, really," she shrugged indifferently. "He was there, alone, rather cute. I used a Glamour to make me look younger. I seduced him, we had sex -- too bad I had to Obliviate him, because he had a fabulous time. Then while he rested, I performed the spell."

Ginny couldn't help but roll her eyes as she fought the urge to snort. To hear it that way, the whole thing was as casual as if they had simply gone to Fortescue's for an ice cream.

Bellatrix sighed heavily and closed her eyes. "I'm so very tired. May I rest now?"

Professor Snape had no other questions, but Draco did. He addressed his Head of House respectfully, "One more thing -- Professor, if I may? I have to know." He tried to wrap his mind around all that he had heard, digesting the broken bits that came from his aunt's potion-induced confession and trying to arrange them in some orderly fashion.

He narrowed his eyes, pointed an accusing finger at his aunt, and asked her bluntly, "Did you send Blaise Zabini that Fidelity Mirror? I know you had it in for him. And if wasn't you, then who?"

She licked her lips. Her throat was dry from talking, and she hadn't so much as touched her tea. "Yes. And no. That was Kreacher's idea. He's my auntie's old house-elf. He's unswervingly loyal, the little fart. I do believe he's always had a bit of a crush on me."

Ginny chimed in, assuring her with a smug grin, "I'm relatively certain of it, Mrs. Lestrange."

"At any rate," Bellatrix continued, "Lucius was very keen on the suggestion. He was only too happy to arrange for its delivery."

"But why?" Draco asked he choked back his tears. "What did he have to gain by destroying Blaise? He was crazy in love with the girl -- surely, he knew it would kill him."

"It was to keep you from making a similar mistake. Seeing how close you and Blaise were, he hoped to avert your dating or becoming seriously involved with someone like her -- a muggle, or even a mudblood, especially a common American . . by convincing Blaise and therefore, you, that they are not trustworthy. They always cheat on their partners." She looked up at him, adding with a smirk, "And Lucius ought to know; he's had a good number of them himself."

For the next several minutes, the room was quiet. Eventually, Ministry officials arrived to take Mrs. Lestrange away for further questioning and what Fudge would deem 'a fair and swift trial'. Professor Snape offered what information he had ascertained; he dropped the memories into Kingsley Shacklebolt's portable Pensieve for safekeeping and future reference. Then he Obliviated Bellatrix to remove himself from her memories, to keep his dual role a secret from the being she called 'Master', as well as from Draco's father. Professor Lupin and Tonks also told their side of things, confirming what Severus had already reported.

Just then, Professor Snape's fireplace flared up, and a kindly face appeared in it. "Professor Snape?" Madame Pomfrey shouted. "Is young Mr. Malfoy in your office? I've been looking for him everywhere." Seeing him in the background, she answered her own question. "Ah, there you are, young man. Your mother is awake and asking for you." She reached her hand through the opening, inviting him to join her at the hospital wing.

Draco and Ginny looked at one another with their mouths hanging open dumbly. Madame Pomfrey encouraged, "Miss Weasley can come, too. Come on, now!"

"S'pose I should go and check on Mother . . . Do you want to come?"

"I would love to, but—"

"But what?"

"I've got an essay to write." Holding up her hand and spreading her fingers apart, she reminded him, "Five feet of parchment. And it's due in the morning," she added apologetically.

"Pffff, that?" he snorted. "I'll help you. Come on, now," he pleaded as he took her hand. "I want to introduce you to Mother. And hey -- maybe I'll get to meet Bill." He cleared his throat and asked, "I hope he's not anything like Charlie or either of the twins . . . or even worse, Ron?"

She broke into a grin. "No, Bill's incredibly cool. All of my brothers are cool -- although I question Percy's intelligence at times. They're very understanding; they just want what's best for me."

Draco grabbed a small pinch of Floo Powder and latched onto the hand that extended through the fireplace. He stepped inside, taking Ginny with him.

They landed on a stone floor in a dark, bleak room. It was deathly cold and nearly void of all furniture. When they looked around and saw neither Madame Pomfrey nor any hospital beds, a shock of fear ran through both their hearts.

Draco glanced up at the mantle and saw that there was no Floo Powder to enable them to go back. "Ginny," he panted, "I don't think we're at the hospital wing . . . "

~End of Chapter~

Notes: Go on, you can say it -- I'm evil, evil, evil! But hey, I've got to keep you hooked somehow!! ;-)

Help, I need your feedback! How was that duel scene (or rather, the non-duel, since Bellatrix lost her wand early on)? It was my first attempt at writing one. I've been putting it off, so let me know how you thought the action played out. Was it believable? Too far-fetched? Not enough action? Let me know.

As always, thank you for reading and please review!

P.S. To My Loyal Readers: I posted the following notice at the top of Chapter 1, in case you missed it and would be interested.

Rewrite Notice: I’ve been working on this fic for about a year now, and the more practice I get, the more I’ve wanted to go back over the earliest chapters and rework them. It is only to update content (no plot changes), so if you don’t want to reread them, you’ll still be able to follow it. Just want to make it read better.

Author’s Notes: Thank you for reading and taking the time to review! And thank you, fyrechild, for being my beta reader.

For those sites who take issue with authors who don’t use Ginny’s real name: I do not call her Ginevra, but there’s a reason for that -- other than this has been a work in progress for longer than we’ve had that information. In this fic, her name is Guinevere; since it’s a plot point, I’m letting it stand.

And since you’ve all been so patient, I’m giving you another nice, long chapter to devour. :-D I hope it’s to your liking. And once again, I’ve chosen a Pink Floyd song for the title. (I just love them!)

CHAPTER 20 – Wish You Were Here

Poppy watched as the fire flared up then all but extinguished itself. But when no one came through to meet her, she blinked once then did a double-take into the hearth. Hadn’t he grabbed my hand? she thought, wondering if she had only imagined feeling the sweat from his palm.

The Healer carefully reached back into the fireplace. She rummaged around, as if she extended her arm far enough back, she would actually find Draco waiting there, grasp onto him, and pull him through. It was so simple that the poor woman was dumbfounded as to why it hadn’t worked.

“Well,” Narcissa demanded in a half-whisper, as if the chore of speaking were draining her, “where is he?” Poppy turned to the bed of her solitary patient and saw that the woman’s eyes were closed now. Those cool, haunted eyes which Poppy knew so well. “Is he coming?” she asked her.

“Narcis— Mrs. Malfoy,” she began then stuttered, “I-I’m not sure what happened. One minute he was there, reaching out to me. Our hands touched, and then the next -- h-he was -- he was just . . . gone.”

“Liar,” she sneered. “If you touched him and didn’t bring him here, then you must have let go!”

“No, I’m sure I didn’t,” she assured the boy’s mother. “Perhaps they were called back. I’ll ask Professor Snape.”

But on checking with the Potions Master, he said that Draco and Ginny had both left his office by Floo and were destined for the hospital wing. As he spoke, he tore off a small piece of parchment and scrawled four words on it:
Magno Imperiatum

Lucius Malfoy
With a grim expression on his face, he handed the note to Poppy. She read it silently then drew in a sharp breath. The unexpectedly loud gasp caused Narcissa to stir slightly and let out a soft moan. Severus raised one eyebrow, and curled his lip a bit.

Slipping the note in her front pocket, Poppy tutted, “Do calm down, Mrs. Malfoy. I’ll get a house-elf to go and find your son.”

Shortly after requesting one, Dobby soon arrived. Bowing low to the woman he respected so much for having repeatedly set Harry Potter to rights -- mending his wounds, restoring his bones, and whatnot. His nose practically touching the floor, he asked politely, “What does the honorable Madam Pomfrey wish of Dobby?”

“Oh, Dobby, stop it,” she laughed gently. “I need your help in locating someone.” He rose, his overlarge eyes opening even wider. She went on, “It seems that two students have gone missing while traveling through the internal Floo system: Ginny Weasley and Draco Malfoy. You remember the Malfoys, don’t you, Dobby? Mrs. Malfoy is just over there, taking a rest,” she said, pointing to wife of the elf’s former owner.

“Yes, ma’am, Dobby remembers,” he said, doing his best to hide a shudder. Then he promised, “Dobby will do his best to help Miss Weezy. And young Master Malfoy.”

Madam Pomfrey suggested he begin his search in the Gryffindor common room, or perhaps in Slytherin -- although she secretly doubted that Draco’s housemates would be of much help. Dobby bowed once more, then with loud Crack!, he disappeared and began his search of the expansive castle.

A short while later up in Gryffindor tower, a knock on the sixth-year boys’ dorm startled the only two residents who were there.

“Wh-Who is it?” Ron asked nervously.

“Dobby the house-elf,” came the reply through the latched door.

Both boys sighed and rolled their eyes. Harry murmured, “He’s probably just here to bring us more socks, or to tell me which elves have agreed to join Dumbledore’s Army.”

“Hasn’t he already told you that -- what, eight times?” Ron asked, concentrating on the chess board that lay between them.

Harry rose sluggishly from their game and answered the door. “Come in, Dobby.” He was actually quite glad, since Ron was smoking him like a cheap cigar, to quote a muggle phrase. The truth was, they were both supposed to be studying, which was why they were hiding in their room in the first place; Hermione would have boiled them in oil if she’d caught them ignoring the Advanced Herbology notes she had copied down for them. After all, she had reminded them, their end of term tests were starting in just two weeks.

Dobby seemed a bit anxious, reminding Harry of the first time he’d met the little fellow back at Privet Drive. “Dobby?” he asked concernedly. “What is it?”

The elf hedged another moment then finally spoke. “Dobby needs to ask a very serious question of Harry Potter and Ron Weezy.”

“Shoot,” Ron replied casually, never looking up from the game. It had dragged on for so long now that the pieces were starting to get antsy. Finally, he commanded, “Knight to D-6.” The tiny horse reared up then trampled one of Harry’s rooks. As the castle-shaped piece crumbled under the beast’s hooves, the knight ferociously drove his sword into its rubble, claiming victory.

“Madam Pomfrey has sent Dobby to ask if Harry Potter or Ron Weezy has . . has seen Miss Weezy, Ron Weezy’s sister,” he said slowly, expecting to be pummeled, as if he had lost her himself. When the boys only looked at him blankly, he elaborated carefully. “Well, Miss Weezy was down in Professor Snape’s office. When she tried to Floo to the hospital wing, she . . . disappeared.”

“Disappeared?” Ron gasped, his eyes getting nearly as large as Dobby’s.

Harry, who looked nearly as alarmed as his friend did, asked, “Do you think she didn’t make her destination clear?” But that didn’t sound very likely, not even to Harry. “And you're certain she’s not in the fifth-year girls’ dormitory?” Dobby nodded his head, his ears flapping wildly. “Then where could she be?”

That gave Ron an idea. He exchanged a glance with Harry, giving him a sly wink. “Thanks, Dobby,” he said, “we’ll take it from here,” then tried to shuffle him out the door.

But Dobby was adamant. “Please, Ron Weezy, sir -- Madam Pomfrey, she needs to talk to sirs about this! Someone else was with her and is missing, too!” Ignoring his pleas, they assured him they would be at the hospital wing in five minutes. Ron continued shoving him out into the hallway, practically slamming the door on the elf's spindly fingers.

“Quick, Harry -- the map!” he commanded. On activating it, they swiftly surveyed the school grounds. There was no sign of Ginny; stunned, Harry let the aged parchment fall to the floor.

Then he had an awful thought. “Ron, where else could the Floo network take someone? I mean, your home is on it—”

“Maybe. Our connection doesn’t reach this far.” At Harry’s blank look, Ron explained, “It costs loads of Galleons for your connection to go farther than 100 miles, and using a gateway or connection path can be astronomically expensive. Otherwise, it’s just the cost of the Floo powder.” He sat on his bed, silently staring at the tops of his shoes and pondering where his sister might be.

Meanwhile, Harry thought more about what the elf had said. “What did Dobby mean, she wasn’t alone? And that someone else was missing too?”

Ron shrugged, “S’pose she must have been with a friend. And now they’re both gone.”

“But who? Why didn’t he tell us that? Because that could have something to do with where she is, especially if her friend spoke the destination.” Then he offered quietly, “Maybe—”

“Maybe what?”

“Maybe she’s just as shocked to find herself there -- wherever there is -- as we are to know that she’s gone.” He looked at his friend and said solemnly, “Ron. We have to find her.”

“We can’t go to her, Harry. It might be a . . a trap,” he suggested bleakly. Then he said softly, “Remember what happened with Sirius.”

The wheels in Harry’s mind started to turn, thinking about what little they knew. Down in Snape’s office. In the dungeons.

Close to -- oh, my God, no.

When Ron saw his friend suddenly go pale, he got a quizzical look and said, “Harry? What is it?”

Harry jumped up, Banished the remains of their game, paying no heed to the little pieces’ shouts of protest. Latching onto the map once more, he glanced over it quickly, looking for a dot with the name of a certain blond Slytherin they both utterly loathed.

No sign of him, either. Harry’s heart sunk, thinking the worst. “Ron, listen to me. I may know who she’s with, maybe even where she is. And if I’m right -- we have to hurry.”

He dashed out of the room and headed for the stairs, Ron trailing in his wake. “Harry, wait! What are you talking about?” They were down to the fourth landing when his long arm reached out and was able to make contact with the tail-end of his friend’s robes. He grabbed hold and gave them a sharp tug, yanking him completely around. As both boys panted to catch their breath, Ron implored, “What is it, Harry? Who’s she with?”

Harry started to answer him right away then he hesitated for a bit. But then he decided -- however much this might hurt Ron -- he had to know. Ginny’s life might depend on them . . both of them, for they worked better together than alone.

He murmured a name. A name that Ron hated.

“Draco Malfoy.”

Panicked, his eyes flew open. “What?!” he practically shouted. A few seconds later, Ron accused irritably, “Hang on -- I know what you’re up to, Harry Potter!”

“Up to? What do you mean, ‘up to’?”

“Just because you wanted to date her and she turned you down -- now you’re making up empty, ridiculous lies to pay her back? What will you stoop to next?” he asked with hostility, his face flushed with anger.

Harry exhaled noisily as his face dropped into his hands. Massaging his forehead and temples, he said rather testily, “Ron, I am sorry you have to hear this from me, but, well -- it’s become rather common knowledge that your sister and Draco Malfoy have been, well, what you might call -- an item for a while now.” He added in a soft mutter, almost to himself, “Well, seeing as Neville knows about it . . I believe it’s safe to call it ‘common knowledge’.”

But by then, Ron was beyond listening; his fingers slowly curled into tight fists as he ground his teeth. Thinking momentarily of Hermione and how disappointed she would be if he lost control, he tried desperately to calm himself.

He lost the battle.

Launching himself at Harry, he wrapped his hands around the boy’s throat and tightened them against his wind pipe. Harry was soon gasping for air as he struggled to remove Ron’s hands, but they were clenched too tightly about his neck. He reached for Ron’s face, trying to smack some sense into him, but the Keeper’s height and longer reach gave him the advantage.

Meanwhile, a small, curious crowd was starting to gather at the bottom of the stairs and in the hallway. Younger boys were peeking out of their dorm rooms, anxious to catch a glimpse of the first fight any of them had ever seen break out in Gryffindor tower. The two friends seemed not to notice.

“Get off me, Ron! We’ve got to go and help Ginny!” Harry managed to choke out.

But Ron would not be moved. “That can wait until after I kill you -- you jealous, conniving prick!!”

As each of them wrestled for control, Ron soon had Harry completely backed up against the wall. When his hands started to get clammy, his grip loosened slightly, and Harry managed to take in a few gulps of air. Having had years of practice at wriggling out of Dudley’s fat, piggy fingers, he finally managed to wrench his way out of the stranglehold, finding himself oddly grateful to the obese git. He slipped away deftly; Ron, still in full denial and blinded by rage, came at him again.

Dancing like a lightweight boxer, Harry stepped aside, and Ron ran smack into the wall. The Boy Who Lived seized the moment; he snatched his friend by the robes and spun him around. He punched him with all he had, sending him reeling across the hall and most likely giving him a black eye. Ron struck him a few seconds later, sending Harry’s glasses flying off his face and his body hurtling into the nearest door.

Out of the crowd, a clear voice rang out.

“Petrificus Totalus!”

Harry and Ron fell to the floor together, solid as if they had been turned to stone. People turned, openmouthed and wide-eyed, and stared at Neville Longbottom. As he pocketed his wand, he exhaled, “I’ve wanted to do that for years. Felt really good, too.”

Hermione soon came running up the stairs, a book in one hand, her wand in the other, and worry in her eyes.

“Damnit!” she swore, barely bothering to conceal her annoyance. A collective gasp from their young audience caused Hermione to turn and glare at them, and the group dispersed quickly. Then she chastised their hapless classmate, “Neville, what were you thinking?”

“Someone had to stop them,” he replied unapologetically. “I thought they might kill each other.”

She sighed then muttered the counterspell, adding an Ennervate just for good measure. Running a hand over each of their foreheads, she asked her two best friends in the world, “Are you two all right?” The boys looked at each other then looked down sheepishly as Hermione frowned. “What was that all about, anyway?”

Harry retrieved his glasses and repaired them. As he cleaned the sweat off of the lenses, he muttered, “Ginny.”

“And the company she keeps,” Ron added with mild disgust.

“Oh,” she said, “so Dobby did find you? I didn’t know where to tell him you were.”

Her boyfriend sat up straighter and looked at her. “What?”

“Well, he cornered me in the common room. I was just on my way to come get you two.” Her tone switched from concerned friend to that of harpy in two seconds flat. “And where do I find you? Trying to choke the life out of your best friend!” Sounding eerily like a cross between their head of house and the Weasley matriarch, even to herself, she succeeded in making them both feel completely ridiculous, which was her intent.

Good, she thought.

“I feel so stupid,” Ron admitted. “I’m sorry Harry.”

“Yeah . . me too, mate. I’m sorry I had to tell you. Thought you might react that way,” he muttered.

“A prefect in a fist fight -- with his best friend, no less. Never been so embarrassed in all my life,” Ron mumbled, his head hung low. “Now I’ll never be Head Boy.”

Hermione said wryly, “Oh, I don’t know, Ron. Malfoy’s sure to blow it somehow. There are still two terms and several Quidditch matches left.”

“She’s right, mate,” Harry agreed. “He’s bound to fuck something up.”

Ron nodded as he chuckled softly. Then his girlfriend reminded them, “Look, we really need to go. That is if you . . want my help.” When she showed them the book she was carrying, both of them recognized it instantly: It was the diary that Bill had given to Ginny.

They gladly accepted her offer. The boys apologized to each other once more and shook hands, and the three friends began their descent to the common room. Harry started to ask Hermione why she had brought Ginny’s diary, but before she could answer, they came into full view of the common room. Cheers and raucous laughter immediately erupted, and a few of their more obnoxious housemates just had to throw in their two knuts worth.

Lavender teased, “Aww, Hermione, you should have left ‘em like that!” Parvati glanced up from the tea leaves she was reading. Both girls giggled hysterically, as if Lav had actually said something funny.

“Oy, Weasley!” Seamus Finnegan harassed him, “Nice shiner!” Both he and Dean Thomas broke into fits of laughter as they turned back to their homework. Ron was blushing to the very ends of his hair.

Hermione, who was not the least amused by their antics, said slowly, “Ha, ha.” She turned her wand toward their table, surreptitiously spilling jet-black ink all over Seamus’s half-written Potions essay with a charm she had stumbled upon before she started her first year at Hogwarts.

Annoyed, he turned and gaped at her then shouted indignantly, “Hey!”

Hermione blinked innocently and daintily covered her mouth with her fingers. She gasped, “Oh, how unfortunate! Well, Seamus -- luckily, you are a wizard and not a toad; surely, you can come up with a basic cleaning spell.”

When he glared at her, she looked back at him, unfazed, and said curtly, “Good night.” One by one, the friends stepped into the fireplace then disappeared.

They were soon picking themselves up off the floor of Madam Pomfrey’s domain, Hermione dusting the ashes and soot off of all of their robes. She looked up, surprised to see that the Healer had three people assisting her. Professors Flitwick and Lupin greeted the students with a nod. But neither Madam Pomfrey -- who had extraordinary care in her eyes, perhaps even tears -- nor the tall man with the red ponytail spared a glance from the patient whose bedside they were hovering near.

Hermione asked in an undertone, “What’s Bill doing here?”

“Dunno,” Ron replied dumbly as he gawked openly at his brother. When Bill stretched to work out a kink in his neck, the sixth-years could see the patient’s face more clearly; surprisingly, she was neither student nor teacher, but she was quite beautiful. He was leaning over—

“Isn’t that . . Mrs. Malfoy?” Hermione hissed.

Harry replied, “Yeah. Couldn’t miss that sneer; gods, she even has it in her sleep.”

“Who could blame her, considering who her husband is and that she has to sleep with him? Well -- she used to, anyway,” Ron muttered quietly. Waiting for Madam Pomfrey to turn away from her patient, he wondered aloud, “What’s Malfoy’s mum doing here, anyway?”

Hermione had her own theories, but when Harry jeered, “I don’t know. You’re the diviner; you tell us,” she simply rolled her eyes, exasperated.

“Will you two stop it?” she sighed. “I’m guessing that Ginny was, or rather, is, with Malfoy, and they were coming here to see his mum. But what’s puzzling me is . . why would she be here at all—?”

Suddenly, images of that morning flashed through her mind: The late owl at breakfast, loping toward the Slytherin table, nearly beaten to a bloody pulp; the package it was carrying; Draco asking her about UCD-I in Advanced Potions class.

And she herself, having come so close to telling him what it did and how it worked.

Her hand rose involuntarily to her lips as she let out a gasp. She looked at the figure resting on the small bed. Had his mother taken the UCD-I, and if so, was this the outcome? To be so utterly drained, that all she couldn’t keep her head up? And what did that portend?

Could she have overdosed? Then her mind silently chastised, I told them they should have separated them into two smaller vials. But nooo, Snape had that all worked out!

As the trio looked on, Bill’s presence suddenly spoke volumes to Hermione.

“Well, she obviously needs to have a curse broken. And,” she added, “I’m guessing, a rather nasty one -- if it couldn’t be resolved between Madam Pomfrey and Professors Lupin and Flitwick,” three people she had the utmost respect for.

Returning to her thoughts and silent fears that she may have been partly responsible -- well, if not responsible, she certainly could have been more helpful, maybe even have kept this from happening in the first place . .

Reeling from the implications, the self-doubt, and an unhealthy dose of guilt, Hermione wasn’t really listening when Professor Lupin suggested something about contacting Fred or George for help. Ron, however, was listening. Intently.

He sidled up to the adults then cleared his throat. “Professor Lupin? I hope you don’t mind my asking—” he began. Lupin looked up and greeted him casually. “But . . well, Fred and George are pretty good at putting people in the hospital, but how could either of them help someone who’s already there?”

“We’re just going to use their Floo connection.” Then he added in a low voice, “By the way, Ron -- I’m glad you’re here; I need to talk to you when I’m done with Fred.”

“Well -- if it has anything to do with Ginny . . I-I know,” Ron stammered nervously.

“Oh,” was all the professor said. “Fine.” When Ron’s eyes clouded, he added, “Then you already know she’s missing? And that she was last seen using Professor Snape’s fireplace to Floo here with Draco Malfoy? Only instead of arriving here . . they didn’t. No one knows where they are. Except -- well, except the party responsible for their ‘misrouting’, as it were.”

Ron’s eyes turned to Narcissa Malfoy and narrowed slightly. His mind was jumping to the worst possible conclusions, as he silently accused her son of all sorts of atrocities against his baby sister. Just then, a sleepy, freckle-faced imp appeared in the flames, drawing Lupin’s and Ron’s attention back to the fireplace.

Fred yawned, groaning, “’Sup, Remus?”

The professor cringed slightly, apologizing, “I’m sorry, Fred -- were you already in bed?”

“Tha’s all right,” he slurred. “Do you need one of us to connect you? Where to this time?”

“Yes, please; I must speak with your mother or father. Are either of them at home?”

Fred shrugged casually. “As far as we know. They don’t—” he let out another yawn and stretched his arms toward the ceiling, “don’t always tell us of their comings and goings.”

Ron could barely sit still. He yelled at his brother, “Don’t tell you? What’s going on?”

“Oh, ickle Ronniekins,” Fred sighed. “Go on back to your little room with your little friends and play with your little wand. Me and George, we’ve had a long night of binging . . and well, he’s smashed, and I can already feel a massive hangover coming on. Ah, but it’s the price we pay as inventors.”

Remus gave the young proprietor a mildly disgusted smirk then suggested to Ron that he go and wait with his friends. He did. By some miracle, Fred had the wherewithal to complete the connection to the Burrow and contact his parents, who, as it turned out, had been resting for quite some time.

“Here you go, Lupin,” Fred said lazily, “My father -- or so they tell me -- Arthur Weasley, at your bleeding service. I’m off to bed now . . Merlin, I’m exhausted. G’night, all.” As his face faded, a girlish giggle could be heard as he slurred, “One more time? Alright then, if you insissst—”

Arthur gave Fred a glare of disgust and Remus an apologetic smile. Ron simply rolled his eyes. For the next few minutes, the two men conferred via their Floo connection about Ginny. Mr. Weasley checked the family clock and read the marking above Ginny’s name with a heavy sigh.

“Lost.” He looked at Lupin and said, “Well, on the bright side, that does mean we have time. At least it doesn’t say ‘Mortal Peril’, so we can assume she’s safe. For now, anyway.” He ended the call, promising to let the school know immediately if her status changed and requesting that Lupin call the minute he had any news.

Bill finally turned his head. Looking past Remus, he squinted his eyes and said, “Is that my little brother and his friends?” When he saw that it was, he called out, “Oy, Hermione! Harry, get over here! You too, Ron.”

Feeling slighted, Ron muttered, “Great, I’m always at the bottom of the dung heap.” Hermione clicked her tongue then slugged him teasingly on the shoulder. He winced slightly. “Hey,” he whined, “that’s the one I hurt in Quidditch practice the other day, remember?” She wrapped her arm around his waist, and all his aches and pains, including his bruised ego, were soon forgotten.

“Hermione,” Bill asked, “do you remember that charm we discussed at the Burrow, back before the beginning of term?” Hermione, ever eager to help, not to mention, to show off her skills, particularly when it came to Charms, beamed as she nodded her head.

“And you’ve brought the book?” he asked.

“What the—” Ron started to ask.

“Got it right here,” she said with pride, holding Ginny’s diary out in front of her.

“Good. Now to cast this spell, you run your wand along the outer edges of the book. Draw an imaginary line around all four edges of the diary in a clockwise manner and then say, ‘Locatus Guinevere Molly Weasley.’ ”

“That’s it?” Harry spoke up. “A wand, four words, and a magical diary can tell us where she is?” He looked at the book briefly then asked, “What if this . . falls into the wrong hands?”

Bill said, “Not to worry, Harry. Anyone who casts this charm has to know her full name -- which not many people do. Most of them think it’s Virginia, or maybe even Ginevra, if you can imagine. Besides,” he added, “if you don’t have the best of intentions for her, you can’t even hold it. It would literally scorch the skin right off a Death Eater’s fingers.”

The outer cover of the book unlatched. It opened itself so suddenly that it got knocked out of her hands and fell to the floor. It lay there, open to a page adorned only with today’s date written in Ginny’s handwriting. Hermione picked the book up gingerly and placed it on the nearest hospital bed.

There were no lines on the page; just a vague, colorless image, gray and blurry, of what looked like an inside view of an abandoned house. All they could make out was a rather fuzzy picture of a dimly-lit room with a long table and a solitary chair. The walls looked to be made of stone, and although no one recognized it, the place had a strangely familiar feel to it.

The three friends crowded around the book and studied the image, hoping that by getting closer, it would come into better focus. While they tried to make out what it was they were looking at, Bill stepped up and removed his cloak. He asked them nonchalantly, “Well, kids? Where are they?”

Ron grunted in frustration, “How the bloody hell are we supposed to know?”

“Temper, young one,” his oldest brother taunted him. Then he assured him, “We will find her.”

Ron had nothing to say to his insufferable arrogance. Hell, the guy had gotten Fleur Delacour to marry him, for crying out loud.

“Go on, take another look. Think. Figure it out. I’ve got to go over and help Madam Pomfrey with her patient.” Ron looked warily from his brother to Draco’s mum. Then he watched as Bill strolled away confidently.

Nothing ever shakes him up. Sometimes, Bill just made him sick with envy.

Meanwhile, Harry and Hermione were debating hotly about what the image actually was. Ron peered around his girlfriend’s bushy hair, moving it back over her shoulder and scooting his body closer to hers. She looked at him briefly; she gave him a light smile but did not stop arguing with Harry.

“No, Harry, that can’t be the home of a Death Eater. Most of them are shamefully rich, and it’s not nearly fancy enough.”

“It could be the servants’ area of the house,” Harry offered. “I still say it’s Malfoy Mansion. Or whatever they call their sprawling, palatial estate for three.”

Ron agreed with Harry, saying through gritted teeth, “Definitely. I’m sure he’d take her there, thinking he could have his way with her.” He pressed his fist into his open hand and wrapped his fingers around it, saying, “If he did, I’ll strangle that pointy-faced little bastard -- if I ever see him alive again,” he added with finality. “Ginny might just kill him first.”

Harry chuckled bitterly, “A little late for that, isn’t it Ron?” Then he turned back to Hermione and went on, “It could be the Parkinsons’, you know. Or maybe . . wherever Voldemort’s hiding out these days.” Oddly enough, Ron didn’t even flinch at the mention of ‘You-Know-Who’s’ name.

Hermione confessed, “I don’t know. What do you think, Ron?” she asked, trying to break the tension and end this futile argument.

But Ron was completely silent. He was too busy trying to digest what Harry had just said. A little late for that, isn’t it? What had he meant by that?

He swallowed as the blood ran from his face. Suddenly, he found it difficult to breathe. “Harry,” he said weakly, “are you saying that . . that Lucius Malfoy was right? In th-that vision I had. You know what I mean?”

Exasperated, Harry took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes, and asked in a tired voice, “I’m sorry, Ron -- you lost me. What ‘vision’ would that be?”

As his friends looked up at him, he started to feel mildly uncomfortable. Neither of them actually believed in divination, much less that he had a gift for it. He looked down at the book and saw something . .

Was it their first useful clue?

The walls at the back of the image, as well as part of the dresser, and the table -- they were all sort of . . . moving. Or rather, the impression of something, most likely a person, seemed to be blurring parts of them. This wasn’t invisibility; it looked more like . . camouflage.

Harry gasped, “Wait, that’s a Disillusionment Charm! I’ve been under one myself. They’re creepy but very effective.” As they stared at it, the image became a bit clearer, then it blurred again. Still, no one knew what house they were looking into or what this clue really signified. All they knew was that Ginny might have been followed and could be in even more danger.

Ron’s face turned to one of horror. “So you’re saying that someone’s there with them? And they can’t see him -- or her? Who would want to follow them?”

Harry and Hermione forgot all about their argument, as well as their friend’s misguided belief that he could actually foretell things. Their eyes were drawn to what he was staring at; they studied it intently.

“By the height of the outline,” Harry observed, “it’s got to be a man. Or maybe Madame Maxime,” he added half-jokingly. When the figure made the mistake of turning around quickly, they could see his hair, which appeared to be rather long, as it flew over his shoulder.

Ron thought it had to be Lucius Malfoy, an opinion he readily shared. “But why would he be sneaking up his own son?” he wondered aloud. Hermione said nothing.

“But he’s still in prison, isn’t he? They couldn’t be -- at Azkaban, could they?” Harry half-whispered, the fear apparent in his voice. He thought back to that night on the Hogwarts Express, long ago, when he and his friends had faced a Dementor for the first time. Ron said that Ginny’s face had gone pale; she, too, had remembered something horribly painful, buried in her past.

“No,” Hermione answered softly, pointing to the book. “Look -- there are no bars. And that’s much too large for a cell, according to Sirius.”

Harry scoffed bitterly, “But with Malfoy -- who knows what accommodations he was able to ‘appropriate’ for himself?”

“No, this isn’t a prison.” She eyed the page closely. Suddenly, she drew in a sharp breath. “But for one man, it was.” When both boys looked at her oddly, she explained as if it were as plain as the nose on their faces, “Sirius!” She smiled, impressed by her own cleverness.

Ron, as usual, was without a clue. “Huh? But you said it couldn’t be Azkaban—”

“It’s not! How thick are you? Don’t you recognize the table, that dresser?! We’ve been there, eaten there -- for God’s sake, we had Christmas together there!”

“Of course,” Harry sighed, inexplicably relieved. “Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.”

So Ginny was at Sirius Black’s family home. That didn’t sound so bad. And yet—

“Hey, Bill!” Ron shouted, interrupting his brother, who was right in the middle of a difficult spell meant to break some of the nastiest, most long-standing curses. The results this time were less than stellar.

“What?!” he barked back impatiently, all of his ‘cool’ having flown out the window.

Ron was taken aback at this uncharacteristic reply. “Nothing,” he mumbled, “it’s just -- well, we’ve found out where Ginny is.” Bill merely raised his shoulders indicating that he should tell him, so he did. “She’s at Sirius’s old house.”

Remus smiled and congratulated them. “Good work. We can have someone from the Order there in less than 10 minutes.” He contacted Tonks back at Ministry headquarters and explained what had happened. She couldn’t go herself, as she was finalizing Bellatrix LeStrange’s incarceration proceedings and setting her up to be delivered to Azkaban to await trial.

She remarked, “Unless, of course, Fudge has her Kissed directly for perpetrating numerous Unforgivable Curses, like he did with Barty Crouch, Jr. Surely, the Ministry could gather a good deal of information from such a high-ranking Death Eater -- and a woman, no less. I mean, they must know that giving her to the Dementors right away would be a colossal mistake; not that Fudge hasn’t made any of those in his career,” she added with a sneer.

When their conversation had ended, Lupin nudged Bill. Both men turned to go back to help Madam Pomfrey, who had made slight progress but was still nowhere near finished.

Harry couldn’t stop himself; he felt he had to say something about what else they’d seen. After all, Ginny’s life could be in danger. “Wait! Professor Lupin, Bill . . I know you’re busy just now, but I think Ginny -- and Malfoy -- may be in danger.”

Bill narrowed his eyes. “What makes you say that?”

“We . . saw someone, in the diary. The outline of a person, most likely a man, presumably using a Disillusionment Charm. And if we’re right -- it’s someone who should definitely not be at Number 12, Grimmauld Place.”

“Who do you think it is?” Lupin asked seriously.

Harry looked at the men darkly. “We think . . it was Lucius Malfoy.”

“Bloody hell,” Bill breathed. “Hang on -- I thought he was in Azkaban!”

“Apparently, he’s on holiday at the moment,” Ron sniffed.

“But if he’s escaped, wouldn’t we have at least heard about it?” Bill pointed out. “True, he’s not as big-time news as Sirius Black was, but still -- he’s not exactly Father Christmas.”

“Maybe he’s an unregistered Animagus, or . . or . . . something,” Ron suggested, hoping he’d actually stumble across the answer before Hermione did. She was oddly silent.

Harry bit his lip nervously, anxious for the go-ahead to dash off and rescue Ginny. If she preferred Malfoy to him . . well, that was her misfortune; but when that bastard broke her heart, Harry swore to himself he would be there for her, to help pick up the pieces . .

Emboldened by his hope for a second chance with her, he urged them, “Well, if Draco and Lucius Malfoy are there, you know she doesn’t stand a chance; come on -- let’s go!!”

“She’s stronger than you know,” Hermione murmured quietly. They were the first words she’d spoken since both boys had concluded that the person whose image neither of them could quite make out was Draco’s father. “And she is safe.”

“How do you know?” Ron sneered. “What if that is Malfoy’s dad? He’d kill her without batting an eye.”

“Because—” Hermione’s throat constricting her words, she insisted, “just tell Tonks that it’s not Lucius Malfoy and not to have anyone go charging in there just now!”

Harry asked her point-blank, “Who is it, then?”

“Please, just trust me; it’s a friend of theirs -- a friend of his,” she corrected.

But this declaration caused even more confusion and concern than if she’d said nothing at all.

“Why does that not comfort me?” Ron snarled. “Oh, yeah, I remember; because all his friends are -- oh, how shall I put it -- evil, lowlife scum?!”

She pleaded with her friends. “Believe me, they are safe. Please don’t make me say anything more.”

Yet Ron, stubborn as a badger, would not give up. “Who is it, Hermione?” he persisted. “You know, don’t you?” She nodded, so he pressed, “Then why won’t you tell us?”

She hedged once more. But knowing that she could trust these people with her life, and even though they really had no need to know . . they could never tell another living soul, so she wouldn’t really be breaking her promise. She struggled with her conscience, with the bond of secrecy; the power that Professor Dumbledore had entrusted to her alone.

She looked into Ron’s eyes; seeing the worry and tears in them, she finally relented.

“All right. If you must know . . it’s Blaise Zabini.”

~End of Chapter~

Notes: Told ya he’d be back . . . ! So do your happy dance, then review!!

P.S. Sorry, no Draco or Ginny in this chapter, but I was starting to miss the rest of the cast. I promise, I’ll more than make up for it in the next go-round. ;-)

Author’s Notes: Thanks again for reading and for the fabulous reviews! I’m so glad to know that someone else likes it besides me. :-D As always, Illana, thank you for being my beta. Your input is appreciated!

One part of this chapter might squick you a little, so here’s fair warning. But it’s just the idea; nothing actually happens. And the chapter title comes from the song by the ever-angsty, terminally unhappy Linkin Park. (Just kiddin’ guys; I actually like a lot of their music.)

CHAPTER 21 – Somewhere I Belong

Ron gaped at Hermione, certain she’d finally gone completely around the bend. He shook his head in disbelief and stammered, “It-it can’t be Blaise Zabini, Hermione -- he, err, he died, remember?”

She closed her eyes and sighed. “That’s what Dumbledore wanted everyone to believe. This was all his idea. Blaise Zabini is alive, and he lives in America. Dumbledore chose me as Secret Keeper.”

Neither Harry nor Ron said a word -- nor did they have to. Their looks of disbelief said it all.

She looked at them very seriously and said, “Look, I can assure you that Ginny is safe and that Blaise is not a threat to her. What I can’t figure out, though, is why would Blaise even be at Sirius’s old house?” The three friends alternated between staring at the diary then at one another, trying to make sense of it all.

But Harry… he wasn’t buying any of it.

He simply couldn’t fathom why their Headmaster, the greatest sorcerer in the world and the wisest man he knew, had actually endorsed something as foolhardy as faking a student’s death. Not just a death, a suicide! And yet it was all an elaborate, well-planned ruse!

“I can’t believe,” Harry ranted, “that Professor Dumbledore would be involved in such a farce… And you, Hermione! How could you lie to me -- to Ron? You’re supposed to be our best friend!”

“Harry,” she insisted, “that has nothing to do with it.”

He snapped at her, “Oh, really?”

“Yes, you had no right, or need to know!”

“So you never saw fit to tell us about any of this?” he went on.

“Why should I have? You’re just annoyed that you weren’t ‘in the loop’, like last summer!” she shot back angrily.

In the midst of their disagreement, Ron emerged as the voice of reason, saying in a placid tone, “Guys, we really need to figure out what we can do to help Ginny.”

“Of course -- you’re right, Ron,” Hermione snipped. She glowered at Harry, who held back an acrid remark.

Refocusing, she pressed on, asking them, “Now, why do you suppose Ginny and Draco would simply. . show up, where Blaise just happens to be, at the exact same time? I mean -- why Number 12 Grimmauld Place?”

On that front, anyway, the friends were unanimous: none of them had a clue.

“Well, maybe if we knew why Zabini was there in the first place—” Ron began, only to be cut off in mid-sentence by a new arrival to the hospital wing.

“I may be able to shed some light on that subject, Mr. Weasley.” It was the old Headmaster himself. “He is at Number 12 Grimmauld Place this evening because he is waiting for me. I’m going to take him to see his great-grandmother -- who is, coincidentally, a very old friend of mine,” he added with a wistful smile.

Then pointing a long, crooked finger at Harry and Ron, he said, “As for why Miss Granger can see him but neither of you can -- you are not friends of his. As his secret keeper, she can see him, despite the Disillusionment Charm.”

“But Hermione,” Ron interjected, “why were you chosen as Blaise Zabini’s Secret Keeper? Why not someone from Slytherin, like Draco Malfoy?”

Professor Dumbledore answered him, “It’s quite simple, Mr. Weasley. I asked her to. Miss Granger was in my office seeking some career counseling the day that Mr. Zabini stopped by, quite unexpectedly, pleading desperately for my help. Given his situation, her advanced magical abilities, and the fact that his enemies would never suspect her, she seemed an excellent choice.”

“His situation, sir?” Harry asked, his voice on the edge of sounding terse. “What do you mean?”

“For months now, Blaise has had an American girlfriend that he claimed was a pureblood witch. But he knew she was actually a muggle. When some of his housemates found out, it didn’t set too well with them or their families. He has been in hiding ever since.

“What completely baffles me, however, is why Mr. Malfoy and Miss Weasley would have been sent there, rather than here, just when Blaise was waiting for me to contact him,” Dumbledore added, perplexed.

After pausing a moment or two, he remarked casually, “It may be merely a coincidence. But if it is, then it is a most curious one. At any rate, once I’ve had Mr. Filch check the Floo system for a possible breach, I shall see to it they make it back safely. Good night, all.”

And as if that settled the matter entirely, he left the room.

*****
Blaise was bored out of his ever-loving mind. This tedious waiting for Dumbledore -- it got so old. He was starting to get edgy, and he ground his teeth irritably.

Out of pure boredom, he raised his hand, and even though he could not see it, he dropped it back down to the arm of the chair with a dull ‘thud’, repeating the action over and over. Raise. Drop. Raise. Drop. It felt weird, hearing and feeling his arm make physical contact with the furniture, but not actually seeing it do so. Mad-Eye Moody’s Disillusionment Charm appeared to be ironclad, even if the man’s grip on reality wasn’t.

The sound of a bird singing and flapping its great wings gently awoke the boy from his dull stupor. On seeing Professor Dumbledore’s pet phoenix fly into the room, he exclaimed, “Fawkes!”

He grasped the note from the bird’s talons and muttered, “At last, some bloody news…” Fawkes vanished as quickly as he had arrived. Meanwhile, Blaise broke the sealing wax and read the old man’s brief apology:

So sorry, got delayed. Have a look around the place, if you like -- it’s quite old and very interesting, but be careful what you touch. See you soon.

“No, thanks -- did that already,” Blaise grumbled as he rubbed his right wrist, remembering the spot where a doxy had nearly bitten him. Fortunately, he was faster and Stunned the damned thing.

As always, Dumbledore’s note evaporated a few seconds later. The impatient teen breathed a heavy sigh; the old coot was a half-hour late as it was!

He stretched and yawned, checking the clock on the wall. Gods, hiding out was such a drag! How did Sirius Black ever manage it for nearly two whole years without going completely stir-crazy?

On hearing a rather loud noise downstairs followed closely by another, the poor boy’s heart nearly stopped. Dumbledore couldn’t have come so soon, he surmised. He swallowed nervously, and his mind quickly ran through his extremely limited options of what he should do.

1. Go see who it is. Hope they’re friendly and can’t see through Disillusionment Charms.

2. Pretend that that last loud ‘bump’ was just Fawkes flying into the wall.

3. Hide in the wardrobe in the next room and pay that pesky boggart no mind.

4. Wait here and see what happens.

Very limited options, indeed.

While he fretted about what to do, he listened and was soon rewarded with soft voices. Well, there were at least two of them, and they sounded… young, much too young to be Death Eaters. Still, what if they were children of Death Eaters? Theodore Nott, Adrian Pucey, Millicent Bulstrode… all of them had family connections with the Dark Lord. But if that were the case, how could any of them have found this sanctuary known as Number Twelve Grimmauld Place?

Blaise convinced himself that whoever these people were, they were most likely on Dumbledore’s side. He slowly crept downstairs as quietly as possible, carefully avoiding the fifth step from the top, which had creaked noisily the last three times he had traveled this way.

When he heard the boy speak again, his heart soared.

Draco!

Blaise was elated; he wasn’t alone, and his best friend in the world was here with him. How he had longed to see him, talk with him, tell him about life in the United States… But wait -- who was that girl with him?

Come to think of it, how did he know for certain that it was Draco and not someone else in disguise?

Although practically invisible, Blaise instinctively backed up next to the wall. As a refugee and a pupil of Albus Dumbledore, he had learned many things about caution and who to trust. And as a Slytherin, he knew that one had to be 100% certain that the person you trust is actually who you think they are.

“Constant vigilance!” he thought, recalling Mad-Eye Moody’s mantra. Mad-Eye, indeed; more like Mad-Brain.

He soon reached the lowest level of the house, its basement kitchen, treading carefully so as not to alert them to his presence. In the very faint light, this boy certainly looked like Draco; it even sounded like him.

Yet Blaise was troubled; what the hell was Draco doing with… King Weasley’s sister? Then he released a slight gasp and blinked in disbelief.

Why the bloody hell is he putting his arm around her? And why is he looking at her like that? Did he just touch -- no, caress -- her hair?

When he and the girl kissed, Blaise knew for sure that this couldn’t be his best friend. Still, he couldn’t quell his doubts. He had so wanted for it to be him…

He told himself, But it sounds just like him. How can I find out for sure?

With a smirk on his lips, he reached into his robes and took out some parchment and a muggle pen. (Handy invention, pens, he thought.) He removed the cap and wrote down a few words. While Draco and Ginny were discussing exactly where fate had landed them, Blaise surreptitiously dropped his note. Using his wand, he flipped it face up then slid it toward the spot where Ginny was standing.

“Wherever we are, we do seem to be alone,” she observed. Then she murmured, “Lumos.”

She seemed not to notice the note at first, as she overstepped it four times while pacing the floor nervously in small circles. Suddenly, her eyes lit up as she cried out, “Draco, I know where we are, and we’re going to be all right! We’re at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place!”

Draco, still mildly distracted by the fact that they were not at the hospital wing, asked dumbly, “Where? Is it your house?”

“No, silly,” she laughed, “it’s yours. Well, it might as well be -- it belonged to some of your mother’s relatives.”

She turned around quickly, anxious to have a look at the place. That was when she noticed the slip of parchment at her feet. Since they were standing in the headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix and were obviously safe, she shrugged and bent down to pick it up. She read silently then smirked to herself.

“Draco, truth or dare?”

He snorted, “At a time like this, you say, ‘Truth or Dare’? What is wrong with you, woman?!” She only raised her eyebrows in response. He sighed. “Oh, all right -- if you insist. Truth.”

“Afraid of a dare?” she teased.

“Are you serious? In this weird, fucked-up old house? Hell, yes, I am!”

With a wicked grin, she asked him, “Who was the only boy you ever kissed?”

Ginny knew the answer -- the forced confession he’d made when they were both under Veritaserum that night, all those weeks ago, rung in her ears. Frankly, she wondered if he would ever admit it again.

He groaned, “You bloody well know the answer to that. I told you once -- it was Blaise. Now don’t ask me again! Ever!”

A loud sigh of relief escaped from invisible lips. “Thank you, Miss Weasley!” a joyful, disembodied voice nearly shouted. “Oh, Draco, it really is you!! That Dumbledore’s a miracle worker!”

The blond was startled. After all, he couldn’t see anyone, and it sounded like his friend -- the one who had died. But how could it be?

“Blaise?” he asked nervously, “are you a… a ghost now? Do you haunt this place?”

“Errr, not exactly,” Blaise replied tentatively. “Say, do either of you know how to undo a Disillusionment Charm?”

Ginny and Draco exchanged glances then she chuckled, “Come over here.”

Blaise quickly closed the distance between them and took her hand to guide her. With the back-end of her wand, she struck him on the head from behind -- not too gently, but not hurting him either.

As the Charm began to melt away, Blaise shuddered slightly as he felt the familiar warm ooze trickle down his back; his body gradually became more and more visible to them -- and most importantly, his eyes. On seeing them, Draco and Ginny both felt a rush of memories flood their minds. They had been in the Headmaster’s office, just after the funeral . . .

Draco was ecstatic. It was far too much to hope for: Blaise, alive and well, living in America with his girlfriend and her family. He had to fight to keep his tears from falling again, and Ginny instinctively took him into her arms. He hugged her fiercely and wept with joy into her soft, ginger hair. She stroked his hair tenderly and cooed gentle words of comfort and reassurance.

After several minutes, he looked up and wiped his eyes. “So what happens now?”

“Now,” Professor Snape said, “comes the difficult part. This hurts me more than I can say. You both need to have your memories modified.”

“What?!!” Draco shouted. “You can’t take this from me! This is Blaise we’re talking about -- he’s the closest thing I have to a brother!”

Professor Snape argued, “Believe me when I say it’s for his safety. And yours. Your close friendship is exactly the reason you were not chosen to be his Secret Keeper.”

Ginny asked harshly, “So Draco and I will believe that Blaise is -- really dead?” The she sobbed quietly, “This is so wrong. How could you?”

“No, Miss Weasley,” Professor Dumbledore assured her. “You will both know in your hearts that he is all right, just as you know now. What you cannot have any memory of is the circumstances -- not until you see him again. When your eyes meet his, the memories will be restored to you.”

And suddenly, just like Dumbledore had said they would, they knew. Both of them remembered everything. The fake suicide. The funeral that was a farce. The fact that Blaise Zabini was alive.

Draco was euphoric, feeling joy like he had not felt in ages. “Blaise,” he whispered excitedly, not taking his eyes off of him. When they finally broke eye contact, the two friends embraced one another jubilantly, then stepped back to take a good, long look at one another.

Practically beaming, Draco said, “I can’t tell you how great it is to see you. I suppose you know Ginny. She came with me to your ‘funeral’.” Eyeing her with a wry smile, he added cockily, “She’s wild about me.”

Ginny bit her lip as she blushed and rolled her eyes. Blaise noticed that she didn’t deny it, though.

“That’s great, man.” Blaise said, grinning from ear to ear. “Me and Marianne, we’re still together, and it just keeps getting better. Really, I couldn’t be happier, unless -- well, unless I could go back to Hogwarts . . . I do miss England,” he remarked with a sad smile.

The three of them joked around a bit, laughing nervously at first, unsure what to say at this odd, unexpected meeting. When the conversation took its inevitable lull, Ginny stirred it up again. She asked Blaise, “So, anyway -- what are you doing here?”

“Well, that’s a rather long story. Suffice it to say that I’m waiting for Dumbledore to pick me up and take me to visit Grandmamma Zabini. You know, the one who ‘allegedly’ sent me that ruddy mirror,” he remarked to Draco.

“Yes, about that goddamn mirror,” his friend sneered, “what were you thinking, you arrogant, self-centered prig? I should kick your arse for the stunt you pulled . . . the grief and agony you put me through! Don’t misunderstand; I’m quite grateful you’re here, of course. But was it absolutely necessary?”

Blaise was silent; there was really nothing he could say to make up for the pain he’d caused. It was one time he couldn’t just wave his wand and ‘make it all better’.

Getting no response, Draco went on angrily. “You know I love you, like you were my own brother. And losing you -- it really hurt! So why’d you fucking do it?”

His friend winced slightly; he knew he had a lot to explain. “Well,” he hedged then laughed nervously. “As much as I was hoping desperately for this to happen someday . . well, now that it actually is -- I realize that I’ve been rather dreading it, too.”

He paused briefly then sighed once more. “I got the mirror on a Saturday. You remember, it was a Hogsmeade Weekend, the 12th of October. After I looked in it and said Marianne’s name, and saw a stranger’s face staring back -- a note fell out of the package.”

His eyes met Draco’s. “It was a Howler -- in a voice I knew far too well to simply ignore . . . ”

*****
Saturday, October 12 (Slytherin Sixth-Year Boys’ Dormitory)

The very idea that Marianne had been unfaithful to him caused Blaise’s heart to ache with pain. The cruel manner in which he was told -- by Grandmamma, no less! -- had made it all the worse. It was a crushing blow. Sobbing gently, he picked up the unopened Howler, considering it carefully.

“The mirror wasn’t enough?” he asked bitterly.

He cast a Silencing Charm, just in case any of the others got back early or if Draco came down. He broke the seal gingerly and waited -- anything to make him forget what he had seen, even harsh words from Grandmamma, seemed better.

Maybe he deserved them.

But it was a man’s, one he knew immediately: Draco’s father. It wasn’t loud, or screaming, but it was damning all the same. He cut right to the chase -- and deep into Blaise’s heart.

“Blaise Zabini,” came the haughty, authoritative voice.

“I have known you for so long, you are like a son to me. I am sorry, but I felt it was my duty, however painful, to show you what your muggle lover does when you are not with her. Don’t feel badly; they all do. They know nothing of loyalty.

“The reasons I share this with you are twofold. One, I hate to see a fellow pureblood wizard be made a fool of, especially at the hands of a muggle. Nothing disgusts me more.

“Two, your friendship with Draco and your influence on him could have become far too important to him. If my only son were to follow your example -- I ask you, what would become of the Malfoy line?

“You are better off without her. Break it off now, before it goes too far. If you do not, I cannot guarantee her safety or that of her family.

“You are a pureblood wizard, Blaise Zabini. Never forget that. Consider carefully what you do.”

The note ripped itself into tiny shreds, which disappeared before they could reach the floor.

Blaise was livid. Seeing another man’s face in the Fidelity Mirror had made him feel physically ill. He felt jealous, betrayed, angry -- but even more so, he hated Draco’s father for sending the mirror and this blasted note.

He was certain of one thing, though: he had to act. He couldn’t let them hurt Marianne, but neither could he give her up. Tears welled up in his eyes once more, his mind racing . . ‘No, Marianne does love me -- she would never do that! It’s not true. The . . . mirror, it must be fake—’

“I won’t let her go,” he said to the empty room.

Mulling over what his professors and Madam Pomfrey had discussed, he remedied the situation by drinking the potion and effectively removing himself from the equation.

*****
He concluded, “And that was when I took the potion. Sorry to worry you, mate. It wasn’t intentional.”

But Draco couldn’t stay angry at his friend. Instead, he was more disappointed in his father. He wasn’t even that upset, really -- just dismayed.

“So,” Draco asked him, “what do your parents think?”

“About what?”

“Do they know you’re not really . . . you know, dead?”

“No, they still believe it,” Blaise confessed. “They’re too close to the wrong people.”

“Aren’t they upset?” Draco asked, sounding shocked.

“Not so far as I could tell. Dumbledore must have put a Charm on them -- like with you, I suppose.”

Longing to change the subject to something less morose, Blaise offered, “Say, how about I show you two around the place? Just be careful; there seem to be a few doxies about, and I could have sworn there was a boggart rattling around in a wardrobe upstairs.” They set off to explore the upper levels of the house.

“Sure,” Ginny readily agreed.

“Wait till you see these revolting, shrunken house-elves’ heads,” Blaise continued. “Got ‘em mounted like trophies.”

Feigning disgust mingled with curiosity, she cringed. “You’re joking, right?” When he insisted he wasn’t, she added, “Ewww!”

As they trod up the stairs from the basement to the ground floor, Draco asked her, “Hey, Gin, have you been here before?”

“No,” she lied easily. “Why?”

He shrugged, “No reason. Just wondering how you recognized it earlier.”

“Oh. Well, Harry spent his winter holidays here last year. He took pictures of it with a muggle camera and then brought them back to school.” Ginny told herself, Damn, you’re getting good at this; maybe you do have a future as an Auror.

Taking care to steer clear of the draperies where he had narrowly escaped the sharp, venomous teeth of that sodding doxy, Blaise pointed out a number of oddities, including a set of long, moth-eaten velvet drapes. Ginny tiptoed past them cautiously, knowing that Mrs. Black’s portrait was hidden behind them. Draco thought it odd, the way she maneuvered past them -- after all, they were just a pair of old drapes -- but he kept his comments to himself.

Climbing the steps, they looked at the line of repugnant heads of the late house-elves who had served the Blacks for generations. They all agreed vehemently that they were absolutely repulsive.

When the three of them arrived at the upper level, Ginny remembered the Black family tapestry -- and apparently, forgot herself. She grabbed Draco’s hand and practically dragged him ran into the room where it was. She squealed, “Oooh, Draco, you’ve got to see this! Your name is on it!”

He looked at her with a raised eyebrow and drawled, “Really?”

“Yes,” she blurted out, “that’s how I knew the house was in your family, that your mum was related to Sirius, and—”

Then she stopped.

“And how would you know about all that? Did Potter share that little bit of gossip with you as he gazed into your eyes, telling you all about his enchanting little winter visit with his godfather, known murderer and fugitive, Sirius Black?” A smug look crossed his face.

Realizing she was caught, she admitted with frustration, “All right -- I have been here. So what? And yes, I was with Harry, and my family; all of them except Percy.”

“Vacationing with Potter? How convenient,” he glared at her jealously. “Did you and ‘Harry’ sleep in the same room?”

She gasped, “What sort of girl do you take me for? You know I was a virgin when we—”

Blushing furiously, she suddenly remembered they weren’t entirely alone. Blaise looked around rather awkwardly as he tried to back away from the bickering couple. He grinned sheepishly and said, “Hey, don’t mind me -- just pretend I’m not here.”

Ginny seemed to turn even redder than her hair. She stamped her foot, and fuming, marched out the door.

Draco snickered, “I just love ‘getting’ her -- she’s so cute when she’s miffed, and she’s so easy to get riled. I knew she was lying about never having been here before.”

“Aren’t you going to check on her? Maybe apologize?”

“No, she’ll be back. She can’t Floo out of here, can she? Unless she has an emergency supply in her pockets.”

Blaise smiled comfortably and sighed. At least some things haven’t changed.

He turned his gaze to the elegant tapestry. “Say, she was right; you are on here, mate.”

As the two old friends examined the tapestry, they talked as easily as they always had, almost as if they’d never been apart. They anxiously told each other what had been going on since that fateful day last October. Blaise talked about what he had learned in America, muggle inventions he couldn’t live without, and the different subjects they studied in their magical schools. One of the main subjects, in fact, a requirement for all seven years in American wizarding schools, was Muggle Studies.

He said, “So far, my class has dealt mostly with what to do if you meet a muggle who has a gun -- they’re legal there, you know.”

When Draco took his turn, he told him about Michael Grant, the strange goings-on with his mother and the UCD-I potion, and what it felt like for him to be in love and to be loved.

As his friend talked, Blaise realized, Come to think of it, things have changed radically since we parted.

*****
Ginny snorted. She didn’t care what Blaise thought, anyway.

At least, that’s what she kept telling herself. But why did Draco have to embarrass her, or catch her in that stupid lie, or make her admit that she had lost her virginity to him . . ? And all of it, in front of his best friend!

Blowing out a frustrated breath, she sulked in silence. She told herself, Don’t know why I care if he knows about me and Draco, anyway. What does it matter that they’re probably talking about us, right now?

She stood in the hallway, lurking just outside the same bedroom she and Hermione had shared every time they’d stayed there. From there, she could barely hear either one of the young Slytherins, but it seemed that they had long since stopped talking about her. Not wishing to interrupt them, though, she listened patiently for an opportune moment to return -- and for the remainder of her embarrassment to subside.

Suddenly, she felt inexplicably nervous, as if someone were nearby or slipping up on her. Then a small, unassuming voice whispered, “Mrs. LeStrange?” After a brief silence, it hissed, “Is that you, Missus? Kreacher has come, as he promised.”

Ginny listened in disbelief as the foul, little house-elf called out for his late mistress’s niece, the nefarious Bellatrix LeStrange.

Why is he here? And why does he think that Bellatrix would be here, too? Surely, he must know she’s at Azkaban.

Out of morbid curiosity, and wishing to protect Draco and Blaise, she left the sanctuary of the upstairs hallway. She followed the sound of his voice to the ground floor. Her heart was thumping loudly, yet she managed to sound relatively calm when she found him and said, “Kreacher?”

The house-elf looked at Ginny, focusing intently on her face. His eyes went wide and his mouth fell open as he stared at her mutely. Then he said something that she could barely comprehend.

“Mrs. LeStrange,” he asked eagerly, “it is you, isn’t it, milady? Is Mr. Grant gone, and did Missus trap the vile daughter of those . . nasty red-haired freaks in her Soul Window, just like Missus wanted?”

So that was their plan! she thought, trying to keep the utter horror from reaching her face.

Could that be -- why we’re here?

Thinking quickly, she forced a wicked smirk and gave a slight nod of her head. “Yes, it’s me, Bellatrix,” she lied smoothly.

“It’s uncanny; Missus has even taken on the brat’s demeanor.” Clearly awed, Kreacher rubbed his hands together as he whispered in barely-contained excitement, “Young Master Malfoy will never know.”

Ginny found it difficult not to choke when she heard those words. And she chose her next ones very carefully.

“No, he won’t. Michael Grant is dead, and that Weasley whore is safely hidden inside my mirror. And now . . ” She stopped to give him a malevolent smile then whispered, “We move on with our plan.”

Kreacher’s eyes lit up. He was practically salivating at the thought. A most cooperative servant, he was quite eager to help. “Yes, ma’am. Young Master Malfoy is here, isn’t he?”

“Of course he is, you ignorant twat!” she hissed in her most Bella-like manner.

There was only one slight problem, that being that Ginny had no clue what this ‘plan’ of theirs actually was. But she was getting an idea that would make that little detail inconsequential.

“You do understand the plan, don’t you, you imbecile?” she barked at him. He nodded, and she ordered, “Then explain your view of it -- just to make sure you ‘get it’.”

The elf, anxious to show his loyalty to his late mistress’s favorite niece, blathered more rapidly than Ginny had ever heard him speak before. “First, Missus puts Miss Weasley’s soul into the Soul Window and takes over her body. Over time, the new ‘Miss Weasley’ is gradually taken in by the Dark Lord and convinces young Master Malfoy to follow him as well -- even refusing to sleep with the boy until he agrees.

“Meanwhile, Missus coerces the real Miss Weasley to tell her family’s secrets… passwords to charms and wards that protect her family and others who support Dumbledore, threatening to ‘forget’ to use the Pregnancy Prevention Charm and to tell young Master Malfoy that she doesn’t really love him; she only sleeps with him for his power and his money.”

Ginny was horrified. But he wasn’t finished yet.

“Then Missus returns to her Master, triumphant, young Master Malfoy ensnared and enthralled by ‘Miss Weasley’… who, when released from the Soul Window, will do anything to protect her family from the Dark Lord -- even join him willingly,” he concluded proudly, nearly out of breath with excitement. “He will be so proud of Missus.”

Ginny had never seen him so happy, nor had she ever felt so intimidated by a house-elf. Her mouth fell open into a slight ‘O’ at the audacity of the woman whose evil mind could conjure such a devious plan, much less intend to spring such a trap on her own nephew -- even engage in incest, if necessary.

She didn’t know how she kept from vomiting all over the little freak.

Remembering her role, she wrinkled her nose and said coldly, “Hmmm, you seem to have the gist of it. Let’s not waste any time.”

“Yes, yes -- must go further down the stairs, so Master Malfoy cannot hear us.”

When they reached Mrs. Black’s portrait, Ginny was taken slightly aback, as the curtains were now open, and the lady within the painting sneered at her with disdain. “What is that piece of trash doing in my house?!” She shrieked, “I told you to get rid of them, Kreacher -- all of them!”

The elf recoiled slightly and bowed, saying as respectfully as possible, “Begging pardon most humbly, Mistress, but this -- this is your niece, Bellatrix. She is only borrowing the Weasley girl’s body to sway Master Lucius and Mistress Narcissa’s boy to join their noble cause.”

The former lady of the house looked down her nose and passed judgment on her. “Well, good luck, darling. That boy has been the bane of his parents’ existence since he was born. It’s all your sister’s fault, you know; she’s way too easy on him. Always has been.”

The redhead nodded and did her best to fake a devious laugh. Mrs. Black seemed pleased, as she added confidentially, “And Trixie, just between you, me, and the house-elf -- Lucius should have married you. The biggest mistake he ever made was breaking up with you after he met Cissy.”

On hearing the Black sisters called by their pet names, Ginny suddenly realized that she didn’t even know Mrs. Black’s first name. What should I call her? Her niece wouldn’t call her ‘Mrs. Black’, and ‘Aunt Black’ sounds a little too -- 18th century.

Inspiration struck her.

“Yes, Auntie,” she agreed, “it was foolish of him.”

“Trixie! You haven’t called me that in years, not since you were a girl! It warms my heart to know you still think of me with affection.” Ginny thought the miserable old woman in the portrait might actually . . . cry.

“Of course, I do. But Auntie, I need to go -- we have a task to complete.”

“I understand, my dear. Goodbye, then.” As an afterthought, Mrs. Black called to her, “Trixie, would you mind drawing the curtains? I’m feeling a bit tired.” Ginny complied, giving the woman a smile, one that was as sincere and loving as she could muster, reminding herself a little bit of Professor Umbridge. The young witch and the elf turned to go.

Following after Kreacher, she walked down the main hallway, heading for -- Ginny really didn’t know where. The basement kitchen, perhaps, since it had a large table?

Then without warning, a pair of strong hands reached out from the darkness and grabbed her, startling her half to death. She screamed reflexively. Arms were soon flung about her waist, pulling her into the shadows and close to a figure that was tall and slender yet slightly muscular. She shuddered as a thrill coursed through her; she loved the feel of his body pressed against hers.

“Draco, you arsehole -- you frightened me!” she squealed. “Let me go this instant!”

But instead of releasing her, a hand went over her mouth, stifling another scream. A wand was placed roughly at the base of her throat; she had a sinking feeling that she was about to be killed mercilessly. When a cruel voice panted in her ear, “Guess again, you muggle-loving slut,” she was certain of it.

Kreacher looked on, utterly horror-struck. He fell to his knees as he begged, “No, Master Malfoy, no!!! It is your sister-in-law, Mrs. LeStrange!”

Lucius glared at the elf with severe loathing. “It certainly is not, you contemptible fool!”

Ginny swallowed nervously. The jig was up . . or so it seemed. She watched the distraught house-elf as he struggled to comprehend what Mr. Malfoy had just said. She had never seen worry or fear in Kreacher’s eyes before, but now -- she saw both.

Still, as if by merely saying it, he could make it true, the loyal servant insisted adamantly, “But she is Bella, sir, she must be—”

Lucius Malfoy’s next words sent terror into his black heart. “Your precious Bella is now in Azkaban -- thanks to my ungrateful son and this trollop!”

*****
“And then—” Blaise said, unable to stop cackling long enough to finish, “and then, he says, ‘You don’t bewieve I have a fwiend named Biggus Dickus?’ And all the centurions are rolling on the floor laughing! I’m telling you, those guys are the funniest muggles ever!” Blaise was laughing so hard that he could barely breathe, and Draco had a stitch in his side. He groaned and placed a hand on his aching ribs. Both of them rubbed the tears out of their eyes. Neither of them had laughed like that in months.

Shortly after the laughter died down, they heard a shriek from downstairs. Draco looked around nervously.

He whispered, “Did you hear that?”

“Must have been Ginny,” Blaise shrugged. “I’ll bet she found that boggart. Or Dumbledore got here. Suppose we ought to go and see?”

“Yeah, let’s go.”

They stood up and headed for the stairs. As they reached the last stair, Draco stopped dead in his tracks for no apparent reason, and his expression hardened.

Slightly alarmed, Blaise looked at him and asked cautiously, “You all right, mate?”

He was anything but.

Draco dropped to his knees as tears surged from his squinted grey eyes. He felt pain grip his head like it never had before. Hot, white pain, impossible to endure, worse than any kind he’d ever known; even Cruciatus hadn’t been this bad. Somehow, this was far more . . intense.

Blaise called his name, but he didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he fell down and was soon lying prone on the floor, writhing in anguish. He released an involuntary scream.

“Draco!” Blaise cried. “What’s wrong? What’s happening to you?”

“I don’t know,” he wheezed, his eyes shut tight, his face contorted in agony. “I feel like my head is being crushed in a vice—”

He sobbed and curled into a tight ball. His friend knelt at his side.

“Ginny—” Draco gasped, “Blaise, get Ginny and get out! Take the Knight Bus! GO!!” Then he blacked out.

“Bloody hell,” Blaise muttered.

Suddenly, a loud BANG! startled Blaise and sent a shock of fear down to his very core. His heart pounding madly, he jumped to his feet and looked around the dimly-lit anteroom. He raised his wand and shouted, “Lumos!”, pointing it in the direction he thought the sound had come from.

When he saw it was only Ginny, he lowered it and sighed in relief. But she seemed a bit strange; she had a rather dazed look in her eyes, and her hair seemed to shine, like she a halo or bright light was glowing behind her.

A few seconds later, Draco came to again. He opened his eyes and blinked them to focus. He looked up and whispered, “Ginny?”

An invisible force thrust her forward. She stumbled and fell to the floor, landing flat on her back, not far from Draco. When her head struck the ground with a dull thump, she released a painful groan. As she lay sprawled out on the floor, her hand clutched her forehead. Both boys could see a patch of thick blood oozing from her hairline. They looked at her in utter disbelief and horror.

From the shadows where she’d been standing, there came a silky, smooth voice that drawled lazily, “Hello, boys -- looking for this?!”

~End of Chapter~

Notes: I know, absolutely terrible place to end it, but if I had gone on, the chapter would be over 10,000 words. I promise, more in a few weeks - ! Meanwhile, please review (your reviews inspire me . . . !). :-D

The bit about Draco and Blaise having kissed before was mentioned in a higher-rated outtake from Chapter 8. They were drunk and ‘experimenting’ -- but it didn’t go beyond kissing. (That’s all the slash this fic will have.)

In the Credit Where it’s Due Department: The lines Blaise quotes when he and Draco are laughing (a fwiend named Biggus Dickus) are from Monty Python’s film, “The Life of Brian.” I thought that Python fans would appreciate it! And yes, those guys are brilliant.

Please review -- thanks!

Author’s Notes: Thank you so much for reading and being patient with me while I write this. And I appreciate your enthusiastic reviews! Another long chapter with lots of action, emotions, and unraveling of mysteries . . so hopefully, you think it was worth the wait. :-D

Fyrechild, thanks for the beta-read. This chapter is named for the 1988 song by Edie Brickell and the New Bohemians.

CHAPTER 22 – What I Am

Faking one’s own death, no matter how carefully it was planned or how well it was carried out, was still a bleak and frightening experience. There was an almost surreal feeling about it, as well as a nagging sense of mild trepidation. These were feelings that Blaise Zabini had become quite familiar with; he found he could deal with them and had even learned to live somewhat normally, despite the fact that he was dead.

But when he stared his impending doom in the face - the pale, aristocratic face of Lucius Malfoy - mild trepidation gave way to sheer terror.

He’d tried to disarm him. But he couldn’t seem to make his arm move fast enough. Instead, his own wand was in the older man’s grasp before he could recall the bloody spell. As Blaise watched in horror, a multitude of unguarded thoughts and feelings flowed through his overwhelmed mind, all of them screaming for his attention.

Humiliation.

Failure.

Despair.

Folly.

And regrettably, the hastily thrown-away, now very precious . . . Disillusionment Charm.

What the hell had he been thinking? And to add insult to injury, he had let Draco down by not getting Ginny and just leaving. At least he could have ensured her safety. But how could he have just left his best friend in such a desperate situation? To have to face the one thing he feared most - his father - on his own?

Blaise stood there, lost in a bizarre dream of his own making. His feet felt like lead blocks glued to the floor. It seemed like an eternity . . but in reality, it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds when finally, the hex came: Stupefy! Grateful that the waiting was finally over, and the spell wasn’t that bad, blackness overtook him as he crumpled to the ground with a loud, painful ‘thud’.

Where am I? was his next conscious thought. His head was groggy and his vision bleary. Tight, constricting ropes held him firmly in place.

Slowly, he realized that he was sitting at one end of a dilapidated couch. At the other end was Ginny Weasley; she too was disarmed and secured by her own set of smooth ropes. To his surprise, the normally-feisty redhead just sat there, quietly, perfectly still, not budging an inch - in fact, she barely appeared to be breathing.

Blaise soon learned why.

When he tried to wriggle his way out of the snug ropes, it felt like they had sprouted teeth or sharp claws. They bit sharply into his skin, actually drawing tiny drops of blood and causing him to release a muffled cry. Studying Ginny more closely this time, he could see several trickles of blood that had seeped out of her own rope’s bite marks, crept down her arm, and dried there. The blood from the gash on her forehead had turned a dark maroonish-brown and was nearly dried as well. Blaise wondered vaguely how long he’d been out.

She didn’t look back at him. Her eyes, puffy and red from crying, were transfixed by something on the other side of the room, just past the frayed edges of a shoddy-looking Persian rug. Still hesitant to turn his head, he glanced sideways to see what held her spellbound.

At the edge of his vision, he caught a glimpse of a paler, slightly thinner Lucius Malfoy. He was moving in deliberately slow circles around the floor and talking softly; he was, no doubt, lecturing his errant son. Finally, Blaise dared more than a fleeting glance to see how his best friend was holding up.

He was just . . lying there, awkwardly sprawled out across the lackluster wooden floor. On seeing the shallow rise and fall of Draco’s chest, assurance that he wasn’t dead, Blaise sighed in relief. His friend seemed to be drifting in and out of consciousness, most likely from severe pain, which appeared to intensify then gradually ease away, only to return more vehemently than before. Blaise’s heart went out to him.

Draco’s father continued to circle him like a hovering vulture. Occasionally, he raised his hand in gentle nuance and inflicted a fresh dose of cruelty, causing his son to groan and hiss in agony. When he reflexively curled himself into a ball, he was quickly thrown back down and forced to lie completely flat - serving as a harsh reminder that the suffering was somehow good for him . . that it must be endured.

As Blaise’s head slowly cleared, he could only just hear Draco’s weak cries for mercy. “Please, Father - please make it stop . . ”

Lucius assured him coolly, “You will improve because of it.”

“But I’m your son, for pity’s sake—”

“Yes, you are. And what a bitter disappointment you have been to me,” the man growled as he raised his spell a notch. “After all I’ve given you, done for you, secured for you - I poured myself into you, for Merlin’s sake - this is how you show your gratitude? By wasting your time hanging about with a muggle-loving tramp who’s terribly plain, and a boy who, by all accounts, is supposed to be dead.”

He scoffed then drawled sarcastically, “Bloody marvelous.”

Draco was seething on the inside, his lips twisting in silent anger, but he wisely held his tongue. He knew it wasn’t his turn to speak yet; Father wasn’t finished. Following a brief silence, Lucius continued in a much louder voice as he strolled around the room.

“And I ask you - my son, sole heir to all I have achieved - what the devil has happened to you? You would throw everything away for a friend who is weak, a pureblood wizard who thinks so little of himself that a muggle deserves his affections? And for a girl whose family are the poorest excuse for wizards?!”

Exasperated, he sighed emptily, “Sometimes I can’t believe you’re my own flesh and blood. You sicken me.”

Blaise felt for his friend. He had heard such father-son talks before on his numerous visits to the Malfoys’ luxurious home. Like all of the others, he could tell that this one was winding down to its inevitable conclusion: His father furious, Draco might get a chance to justify his actions, to explain his ‘poor’ choices.

Might.

And Blaise knew that that was when things would turn really scary. He swallowed hard and braced himself for the worst.

Yet it was then that Mr. Malfoy’s tone turned almost eerily quiet. He squatted down inelegantly in front of his son and looked him in the eye. In a move so foreign to Draco that he actually flinched, Lucius stroked his son’s pale hair as he spoke to him calmly. “Surely, you see my dilemma. This behavior simply will not do. You and I must reach some sort of . . understanding here. Tonight.”

Still, Draco said nothing, and his father raised himself up to his full height. Waving his hand once more, he sent another surge of torment through the boy’s already weakened body, causing him to convulse spontaneously. When the hurting stopped again, he thought briefly how this made all those monstrous headaches he’d had over the years seem suddenly insignificant.

Aunt Bella’s voice echoed inside his tired brain. Do you still have pains, Draco? Headaches? Her voice was so quiet compared to the throbbing in his head that he had to strain to hear what she’d said at the last.

He will stop at nothing to regain his control.

“Well?” Lucius barked, his patience nearing an end. “I don’t have all night! Will you do as I command, or must this pointless, debilitating abuse continue?”

Through his tears, Draco asked quietly, “What do you want me to do, Father? I - I’ll do anything, if you just make it . . please, make it go away.”

Mr. Malfoy laughed at him harshly. “Gods, you’re thick! Renounce these two losers, these dregs of society, so you can move on and be who you were born to be!”

His son sighed audibly. He seemed to be struggling to find the words he longed to say. Then he half-blurted, half-stuttered, “I - I can’t. It’s just that—”

“How could they possibly mean anything to you? Are they more important than - your family?” he roared, his arm extended and shaking in anger.

Draco gasped as he stifled a scream, “Please, no more!!” He panted a few times then muttered, “I will - obey, Father.”

The burning in his skin ceased immediately. Within minutes, he was able to sit up. He rolled his head from side to side, working a kink out of his neck, and stretched his shoulders to relieve some of the tension that had settled in them.

Lucius smiled sardonically at him. “That’s better. Now, do you have something to say - son?” he asked, gesturing toward the couch.

Draco looked at Ginny, eyeing her intently, his lip curling slightly.

“You,” he began rather nervously. He licked his lips and stammered, “It-it’s over between us. I don’t want to see you anymore. And - and I . . . I never loved you. I only slept with you to get at your brother . . and to have something Potter wants but will never have,” He looked her in the eye then added with a bitter laugh, “Glad to be rid of you, anyway - you were a lousy shag.”

Her bloodshot eyes gushed with tears. She valiantly fought the urge to scream out loud - she wouldn’t give his father the satisfaction - but her fiery emotions soon got the better of her.

“You contemptible bastard!” she shrieked at Mr. Malfoy. “I hate you!! I hope you die a horribly painful death—”

“Silencio!” Lucius commanded. He sneered at her, his contempt palpable.

Furious, she continued her tirade without the benefit of her voice. The elder Malfoy found her futile attempts amusing, and he snickered at her impotence. “What’s the matter, Miss Weasley? Cat got your tongue?” he taunted as he laughed loudly.

She was soon frustrated and out of breath. He smirked at her again then called to his son, “Draco.” The boy looked up at him, his mind and emotions a blank. “Go on,” his father prompted, indicating Blaise by arching one eyebrow and cocking his head.

The blond scrutinized his best friend. He glowered at him and jeered as cruelly if he were speaking to Potter or the Mudblood. “Zabini. What a fool you’ve been! Running to Dumbledore, letting that imbecile tell you what to do, just so you could protect some muggle slut who dropped her knickers for you - like that was some big accomplishment!”

Cutting Blaise to the core, he scoffed coldly, “Can’t believe I ever called you my friend.”

On finishing his diatribe, he closed his eyes briefly then exhaled, as if it had taken a great deal of energy. Lucius, however, took no notice; he was too busy enjoying Blaise’s reaction. He stared at the dark-haired boy, the hurt on his young face giving him a depraved sense of satisfaction. A vindictive smile spread across the man’s lips then he turned slowly back to his son.

“Excellent,” he praised. “Now, what do you think we should do with them?”

Draco rather knew the answer to that - at least, the one his father would expect. His head was swimming. He looked mildly disoriented, as if he were awakening from a dream. A horrible nightmare, but one that felt very real; feeling like he wasn’t fully cognizant of what had just transpired, his mind wandered at random.

“Draco?” his father prompted, seeing the boy’s expression change. “What is it?”

An unforeseen opportunity - unsolicited, yet not unwelcome - had arisen in Draco’s mind. Quickly considering his options, he decided, Yes, now would be the ideal time.

Seizing the moment, he began pensively, “Can I . . ask you something, Father? Something important?”

“Of course.”

Slightly nervous, Draco hedged at first. But he just had to know. If he didn’t speak now, the words might stick in his throat forever - along with the silent, angry regret that might never leave his heart. Steeling his courage, the question practically flew out of his mouth.

“Why did you put that curse on Mother?”

It was not at all what his father had expected.

Lucius switched from placid to furious in .08 seconds. He growled, “She went against my wishes and did so in a calculatingly cold manner. Narcissa knew when we married that I wanted to have children with her, and yet she betrayed me—”

“How? Was she . . unfaithful?” Draco whispered. “I am a Malfoy, aren’t I?”

“Of course, you are; one look at you proves that. But have you never wondered why there were no others? No siblings, younger or older than yourself?”

Draco shrugged casually. “I - I just always assumed you and Mother only wanted one child, for some reason.”

“No, we didn’t. That was all her doing. That heartless, selfish bitch you have the misfortune to call ‘Mother’,” he seethed. “And that pitiful excuse for a Healer, Madam Pomfrey!” He spat her name as if it were a foul poison.

Now Draco was thoroughly confused. His head felt like it would explode. No answers, only riddles and even more questions - he was worse off than before he’d opened his mouth to ask!

“You mean, she could have had more children? I might have had a brother, or a sister?” He was stunned. The thought had never really occurred to him before. Although he normally liked being the center of attention, at times, being an only child was boring and terribly lonely. He speculated whether that was why he envied the Weasleys so much . . .

I do not envy them! he reminded himself firmly. They’re all poor, revolting, vile—

His father continued, “I wasn’t willing to risk everything on just one child, which is why I wanted at least two or three more.” He ground his teeth and scowled, “Did she ever tell you that we had twins? A boy and a girl - a few years before you came along?”

“She did?!” The boy’s mouth hung open in shock. “Wh-what happened to them?”

“Neither was strong enough to make it. Born too early.”

Draco’s face fell. Having siblings might have been . . fun. Although he had teased the Weasleys mercilessly about their enormous family, Ginny had once said that although she wouldn’t mind having lots of money, she simply couldn’t live without her family. He had scoffed at what she’d said that day . . .

“I don’t know how to explain it, but they somehow help fill in the gaps between paydays.”

He couldn’t imagine how that could be true - yet he had never forgotten her saying it. Still, he had noticed the way Potter sometimes seemed to be envious of Ron and the exceedingly large Weasley brood.

He marveled at the idea. Siblings - twins, no less! The Malfoy twins; he thought of the fun they could have had, the trouble they could have caused! They could have given old Fred and George a run for their money . . And they may have been Beaters on the Slytherin team . . . !

Allowing his mind to wander a bit more, he imagined what it might have been like to have friends, playmates, at his disposal, to have fun with, anytime he wanted. To not be utterly alone during the holidays, or when his parents traveled for business. As it was, his only companions had been nannies and house-elves. And mostly unpleasant ones, at that.

Returning to the present, he realized his father had gone on. “Sorry, what - what happened after the twins? After all, I’m here, so—”

“You, my child, barely made it. After you, the Healers said . . another birth would be the death of her.”

“But how was that Madam Pomfrey’s fault?” Draco wondered aloud.

Lucius struggled to hide his impatience. “Well, think about it. Why else would a young married witch, who was reasonably healthy, make regular visits to a Healer?” At his son’s blank expression, he expelled a frustrated sigh then went on. “To avoid becoming pregnant - there are potions to prevent that, you know. Surely, you’re familiar with one called ‘Reicere Conceptio’. It’s a highly suspect formula. It’s centuries old, but it’s still in use today; I wouldn’t doubt that some of your female classmates take it.”

“I - I don’t know. What does . . how does it work?”

With a soft, bitter laugh, he replied, “It’s simple, really. Deviously so. Instead of allowing a baby to grow, the woman’s body merely rejects it. Muggle doctors equate it to the body’s ‘rejecting a donated organ’ - basically, it sees it as foreign and tries to expel or damage it. Merlin only knows how many times she conceived and got rid of it before—”

He stopped in mid-sentence as his lips drew tight.

Draco, still curious, asked him, “And since when you do make it a practice to know what muggles do?”

“Healers sometimes collaborate with them.” Lucius glared at him and said, “I’ve met a few people over the years that were familiar with Healers and their underhanded, sneaky practices. They make it their business to know.

“Of course, after I found out about that, I would not allow that deceitful, potions-peddling witch in my home - or anything she had a hand in creating - not if I were drawing my last breath and she alone could save me! I’ve wanted to Crucio her, but she’s too well-protected by ‘Saint Albus’!” he hissed.

Lucius was nearly boiling by now. “Once, when you were five or six, she tried to enter my home to cast a healing spell on you, against my orders. You may remember - you had broken some bones in your arm and cracked a rib in a broomstick accident. I did not approve of her being there, so I made her leave. I was, understandably, very irate, but I couldn’t exactly kill my wife, or her childhood nurse—”

Her nurse? Draco thought, fighting to keep his expression bland.

His father continued, “Instead, the stupid, bungling house-elf who let her in was Incendio’d - burnt to cinders, on the spot.” Draco shuddered; he didn’t like house-elves either, but the very thought, the smell of one, smoldering in your front room . . urgghhh . . . It caused his stomach to turn.

Lucius smiled haughtily and said, “Since that time, Malfoy Manor has had guardian spells and wards in place to prevent her or her vile poisons from entering.”

All the while, Ginny sat spellbound, watching and listening from the couch. Her eyes drew wider than they had been all night. Of course - no wonder Dionysus couldn’t deliver the UCD-I! A half-moment later, Draco seemed to have a similar revelation, as Ginny saw, rather than heard, him release a soft laugh of irony.

His father said to him tersely, “No more time for questions, Draco. I must get back soon, or I’ll be missed.” Mr. Malfoy reminded him, “So, you know what must be done?”

Emotionally drained, the boy shrugged and suggested lazily, “Kill them?”

“One of them, yes. And Zabini would be the obvious choice - given that the world already believes him to be dead.” He glared at his intended victim. He gave him a smile that was pure evil, eliciting the slightest shudder from the poor boy before he went on.

“Fortunately, I know an incantation that accelerates the decay of a body; we simply put you back in your ‘grave’, and no one’s the wiser.” He laughed coldly and said, “Couldn’t have planned it better myself. Thank you, Blaise, for your assistance.”

The boy on the couch was incensed, but when he tried to defy him, a quick Silencio put a halt to that. Lucius slowly pocketed his wand as he watched Blaise momentarily for any signs of mutiny. Although any fresh cuts on his arms would definitely sting, they might not be enough to dissuade him from trying to escape. And now that he had shown his hand - that would never do.

Draco was dazed and tired beyond belief. He exchanged an impassive look with Ginny then with Blaise. Neither of them could read his thoughts; his face was empty of all emotion and washed with exhaustion.

An eerie unpleasantness settled over the room as they watched their friend apparently hand them over to his malicious father; one of them, to die, and the other to . . who knew what purpose? Had either of them been able to speak, they would have lashed out at him, screamed at him, pleaded for mercy. Their teary eyes spoke volumes - but not to Draco.

Despite his world crumbling around him, he remained amazingly calm . . . almost unnaturally so. Pointing at Ginny, he asked in a hollow voice, “What about her? Won’t she be killed too?”

His father stared into Ginny’s fearful eyes. He snarled, “Oh, no - I have no intention of killing Miss Weasley.” Then he turned to his son. “Do you remember what I told you the price for these late-night wanderings away from Azkaban is?” Draco’s eyes widened. “That’s right; one muggle. But it need not be a muggle - my guard is not choosy whose soul it devours.”

He then turned to Ginny and leered. “It only knows hunger. And it needs to feed that hunger.”

He approached her slowly. Placing a cold hand on her soft hair, she gasped and almost fainted in terror. He fingered the ginger strands gently and murmured, “You’re not really plain, are you? You’re actually quite pretty.” Blaise looked on, horrified, hoping that he couldn’t actually do anything to her, as he wasn’t really altogether . . . there.

But to Ginny, the slender fingers that now ran through her hair felt more than real. They reminded her of another ghost of a boy who had touched her in that very same way, years ago. She shuddered at the memory. Trying desperately to quell her fear, she fixed her eyes on Draco’s; staring into them, reaching out to him, she tried to read what was in his soul.

When she neither saw nor felt anything in them, a sinking feeling came over her. She began to doubt whether the two of them had ever had anything that could actually be called ‘love’. Did he really despise her now, just because his father commanded him to?

Tears she didn’t think she had left began to fall incessantly.

Bugger! she thought, frustrated that she couldn’t contain her emotions this time.

Meanwhile, the Death Eater continued to stroke her hair, wrapping his fingers in it gently with a strange sort of tenderness. He closed his eyes and moved a step closer to her. A cold surge of panic flowed through her. Rumors of Voldemort’s followers’ “take-what-you-want’” attitude had long run rampant throughout England, striking fear in the hearts of even the bravest witches. Ginny had heard about them before she even knew what those hushed whispers between her mother and her friends actually meant.

Soon, he was moving his palm toward the edge of her face, touching it lightly as his breathing became heavier and more irregular. “Prison is such a lonely place, Miss Weasley,” Lucius whispered in a hoarse, husky voice that his son barely recognized. “You have no idea how lonely . . a man becomes . . . ”

Draco, who had been looking away absently, turned to face where his father was standing. He cleared his throat to call the man’s attention away from her, unsure why he did so, then said flatly, “Father. It’s getting late.”

Startled, Lucius looked up. Moving his face a bit closer to hers, he ogled her then hissed, “This isn’t over yet, girl.” He spun around quickly and glided toward his son.

Draco asked hesitantly, “Hadn’t you better . . finish him off . . . ?” His mind was a blur.

His father drew up to his side with a self-satisfied smirk on his lips and gave him a sharp nod. “Get out your wand,” he commanded.

“What . . ? I thought that you—”

“No,” his father corrected. “Not me. You must do it.”

As both of the boys’ eyes went wide, Ginny’s squinted shut. She felt queasy, certain that she couldn’t bear to watch Draco become just like his father . . a cold-hearted killer, murdering someone he had once loved dearly.

Would he actually do it? she wondered, finding herself curious enough to take a slight peek.

Draco obediently raised his wand. Concentrating, he furrowed his pale brow then sniffed as he stood there, his arm quivering, “Ava—” he began weakly but stopped.

“Avada K—” he started again. But his concentration was broken once more. Gasping for breath, he closed his eyes as tears started to flow. He sighed heavily and confessed, “I-I can’t. I just can’t . . kill him . . . ”

Lucius turned to Draco, his arm stretched so his own wand nearly touched him. “You weakling! You’ll never amount to anything!” he roared.

The pain was fierce and immediate, so much so that he unintentionally dropped his wand. It burned intensely as it pummeled his chest, then spread like a poison into his arm, finally reaching down into his hand and fingers. Falling to the floor in a heap, he was held down once more. He no longer resisted the urge to scream and did so loudly.

A soft gasp came from the hallway, followed by a faint voice calling out, “Master?”

Ginny gaped at Kreacher, and her mouth fell open. She hadn’t seen him since Lucius had grabbed her earlier in the hallway. The last thing she remembered before she had blacked out was the sadistic wizard slamming the elf into the wall with a sharp, cruel kick to the head.

As the elf wandered in, she could see that he was still disoriented and wobbling slightly. His eye was bruised, tinged with a mixture of pale green and purple. He massaged his head, which Ginny assumed was still throbbing, with his crooked, spindly fingers.

“Master?” he repeated. “Is Master Draco . . all right?”

Lucius paid the elf no mind. Instead, he lashed out at his son the moment he tried to stand up. When a vicious hex struck the boy’s body, he fell back down and moaned, gripped by its excruciating sting.

The house-elf suddenly looked very alert. He appeared more alive than Ginny had ever seen him since meeting him two summers before. He boldly defied the powerful wizard, announcing quite loudly:

“No one shall harm a family member in the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black!!”

Lucius jeered at the lowly servant, “Get out of my way, you worthless pile of dung!”

“NO!!!” Kreacher repeated, “No member of the family may be harmed in the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black!!”

Mr. Malfoy scoffed, “But I am family as well. I’m only correcting my impudent child.”

“No, you are not family; his mother is,” Kreacher corrected. Lucius ignored the subtle difference and raised his wand to discipline the boy once more.

The repulsive little house-elf, obeying his time-honored mandate to protect any and all heirs of the Black family - the family he had sworn to serve - struck Lucius with a hex so intense that the wizard was thrust to the far side of the room and directly against the wall. Unable to stop his fall, he hit his head on the troll-leg umbrella stand with a loud, sickening ‘crack’ then his body collapsed to the floor.

Draco gasped sharply; he jumped up and ran to him. He knelt before the man who had given him life, given him everything he had ever known, and gently cradled his head. His father’s cold grey eyes stared unseeing at the moldy ceiling above. The crimson flow that now seeped through Mr. Malfoy’s platinum locks found its way to the boy’s fingers. He winced as he gingerly felt the back of his father’s head, trying to ascertain the severity of the injury. As he did, he wondered vaguely - could he be saved?

Should he be saved?

As the warm blood flowed freely over his open palms and quickly soaked into a nearby rug, Draco whispered, “Kreacher - you-you’ve . . killed him . . . ”

*^*^*^*
A pair of blue eyes, translucent and piercing, flew open; the lady behind them inhaled sharply. Sitting upright in her narrow bed, she gasped for breath, then in an ear-splitting scream, she cried out desperately, “LUCIUS!!”, then sank back onto the bed.

Madam Pomfrey, Professors Lupin and Flitwick, and Bill Weasley, had been working to break the curse’s hold on Mrs. Malfoy. To that point, she had barely moved or made a sound, so they were quite startled by her sudden movement. Almost in unison, they jumped back, all except for Professor Flitwick.

The Charms teacher had been floating overhead so that he could reach her without standing in a chair or on top of the bed. Her outburst broke the mild bit of concentration he had relegated to the simple Wingardium Liviosa spell that held him suspended, and the poor little fellow toppled to the floor.

“Damn!” he squeaked.

His tumble, along with his mild expletive, caused Bill to grin slightly. He began to snicker to himself. Soon, he was fighting to keep a straight face and attempting to maintain his decorum. When he could no longer resist the urge to laugh out loud, he gave up all hope of pretense. He started chuckling in a manner that would have made his mother scold him for his rudeness.

Before long, everyone else was smiling - everyone except Professor Flitwick, who was still a bit miffed at having lapsed on a spell that could be done by first-years. Still, his little mishap did help to release some of the tension between them, tension which had been building since they first started their task. Having worked for an hour or so, they still had little to show for their efforts.

Seeing the annoyance on the man’s face, Bill apologized in between snorts, “I’m sorry, Professor F. But it was just so funny - if you could have seen the look on your face as you just plopped down to the floor . . ” And he burst out laughing once again.

Madam Pomfrey was tittering as well, and Professor Lupin was alternating between trying to remain serious and breaking into the giggles, something which he ended up failing at miserably. “Sorry, Filius, but you’ve got to admit—”

“All right - it was a little funny,” the Charms professor sniffed. “Now can we please get back to work? I have a stack of pre-O.W.L. essays to review tonight!”

“Okay, okay,” Bill agreed, clearing his throat and trying not to smile again. It seemed that everyone else was settling back down and focusing on the task at hand. But when Professor Flitwick spry body floated up to his previous position, one of them started giggling again, and the others had to purse their lips together to stifle a laugh.

“Poppy!” Flitwick chided.

“It wasn’t me,” she insisted with an amused smirk. Pointing over her shoulder, she suggested, “Probably Miss Granger; she’s just over there.” But when she looked around, Hermione, Harry, and Ron were in a close huddle, completely oblivious to the adults and the professor’s mishap.

The soft, feminine laughter began once more, surprising them and drawing their attention to—

“Narcissa?” Poppy breathed.

Mrs. Malfoy said softly to Professor Flitwick, “I’m sorry, sir - I meant no disrespect. But it was pretty funny.”

Madam Pomfrey looked at her in awe. Then smiling at her old nurse, she greeted her warmly, “Hello, Poppy.”

*^*^*^*
Time stood still as the three students gaped at one another, then at the despondent house-elf, who was nervously picking at the ragged edge of his towel. Kreacher stood frozen in place, his head shaking back and forth in fearful disbelief. His eyes were as wide as the mouth of Hagrid’s favorite tea cup as he murmured softly to himself, “No, no, no— ”

Slowly realizing the magnitude of what had just happened, Draco suddenly felt very strange inside; he felt somehow lost, and alone - yet at the same time, he felt remarkably free. Free from a weight he hadn’t known he was carrying, until it was gone. The feel of it was all but indescribable.

He closed his eyes and exhaled an otherworldly sigh. Gradually, his lungs filled with air, expanding fully; he could breathe, relax, be himself, for the first time since - well - ever. Looking down at his father’s lifeless body once more, he was relieved to have his friends nearby for comfort. But neither Ginny nor Blaise knew quite what to say to him; “I’m sorry” or “I forgive you” just didn’t seem to capture it.

Still reeling from the shock, they barely noticed the arrival of Nymphadora Tonks and Kingsley Shacklebolt. Kingsley surveyed the dead body that lie on the floor next to Draco. The long, platinum hair that draped across the floor was now soaked in a thick river of dark maroon. Meanwhile, Tonks eyed her young cousin with a look that bordered somewhere between disappointment and regret; its meaning was not lost on Ginny.

Eager to absolve the two boys from guilt, she spat out quickly, “Tonks, wait! It was Kreacher. But - it was an accident, I swear! It was his mandate to serve the Blacks that made him do it; Mr. Malfoy was hurting Draco, and he had to stop him!”

Kingsley looked at her skeptically then back at Kreacher, judging whether she were telling the truth. After all, she wasn’t above lying, when she thought the situation warranted it.

The seasoned Auror exchanged a glance with his partner. “Well?” was all he said.

Knowing what he meant, Tonks quickly banished the possibility from her mind. This situation was far too serious for Ginny to not be truthful. The spiky-haired Auror reached out and grabbed the reluctant house-elf roughly by the ears and pulled him forward. Then without fuss, fanfare, or apology, she clasped on the Apparation-Proof Shackles, Special House-Elf Model, around his wrists and ankles.

“No, no,” the elf swore pitifully, “Kreacher didn’t mean to!”

But Tonks was having none of it. She had no tolerance for the moanings and groanings of the likes of Kreacher. “Tell it to the Wizengamot,” she snarled at him as she pushed him toward the front door. As Kingsley prepared to transport the house-elf and Mr. Malfoy’s body back to Ministry of Magic headquarters, she turned around to speak to the students once more.

“Draco, we’ll need a statement,” she began then clarified, “well, from all of you, naturally. No doubt, you’ve had a trying day, so I’ll just drop by the school in the morning to wrap that part up.”

She reached into her robes and withdrew three small boxes, about 5” cubed, and passed them out. “These are miniature penseives, one for each of you. If you want to file your memories away in them, do so tonight, while they’re still fresh in your minds.”

She paused, turned to Draco, and said awkwardly, “Look, I’m - I’m sorry.”

“Thanks,” he muttered.

Suddenly remembering something else, she gasped and said, “Oh! Blaise?”

His blue eyes met hers, which were aquamarine at the moment. “Yes, Miss . . Tonks?” he asked doubtfully. He had heard of Draco’s cousin before, but he had never actually met her.

“I received an owl from Dumbledore, just before I left the Ministry. He said for you to come back to the school by the Portkey I’ll be leaving with Ginny and Draco.” Reaching inside her cloak once more, she withdrew an empty, dusty plastic bottle that bragged in royal blue cursive letters: ‘Mrs. Sapp’s Best Maple Syrup - Guaranteed to stay thick even when warm!’

Touching her wand to the everyday object, it gave off a slight glow. “All right, then. This will be ready in one minute and will be good for the next ten. It will take you straight to the front door of Honeydukes. Filch will meet you outside the school gates fifteen minutes later.”

Ginny sighed, “Thanks, Tonks. See you later.”

“Now don’t go hanging about,” the Auror advised. “Leave straight away. Well . . bye, everyone.” And with that, she left them.

The three of them couldn’t wait to get out of there. On the count of three, they touched the Portkey simultaneously, feeling the familiar tug behind their navels, and soon landed on solid ground just outside Honeydukes Sweet Shop.

“Hello, Lady Guinevere. Keeping rather dodgy company these days, aren’t we?”

~End of Chapter~

Notes: Whew! This rollercoaster ride is almost over (a little ‘nudge, nudge’ to PhoenixRae). :-D Just a few more chapters to go. Thanks again for reading, and remember, reviews inspire and feed the author’s soul!

In the Credit Where it’s Due Department: “You’re not really plain, are you? You’re actually quite pretty.” Stole this line from Paul Scott, author of The Raj Quartet (basis for the mini-series “The Jewel in the Crown”). It’s marvelous stuff!

And once again, definitions of my squirrely, homebrewed Latin: Reicere meaning ‘Reject’. Conceptio meaning ‘Conception’.

“A Pair of Blue Eyes” is a book by Thomas Hardy, the author who inadvertently gave me my pen name.