Quand tu m’as accueilli sous ton toit
Tu as pris chacun de mes sourires
Pour les brûler devant moi
Pour en faire un feu de joie
Pour me montrer qu’ici-bas
L’amour peut devenir combat

Pierre Lapointe – Les sentiments humains

When you welcomed me under your roof
You took each one of my smiles
To burn them before me
To make a bonfire out of them
To show me that here below
Love can become a battle

•••

Five months can change the world. In five months, bravery can dissolve into fear; rebellion can fizzle to weak unhappiness. The men who before strode with rigid backs and fiery eyes reduced to jumping at shadows and hesitating before passing through doorways, in five months.

It seemed strange to Ginny Weasley that the prime of the wizarding world could be so easily defeated. It seemed strange, when she had always thought the majority was on her side – the good side – the losing side. It seemed strange, and yet her thoughts were never put to words, though she was certain she was not the only one to think them. How could they have lost? It didn’t seem possible, even after five months. It would never seem possible.

The Dark Lord had begun his reign five months ago. The Order had been militant, at first. They fled deep into the heart of quiet Wales, where they amassed their new army and returned to England strong and ready to fight, and where they were struck down once again.

Even love could not save them.

And now Ginny Weasley, no longer young, sat upon the narrow bed in her childhood room. Embroidery made deep marks on her bare legs, but she didn’t move. She could see the mirror from where she sat, but the mirror could not see her – all the better, because seeing her face, now gaunt and pallid after five months of pain, would have only reduced her to tears. She looked too much like the family she had lost. Every flicker of red at the corners of her eyes made her heart ache; made the pressure behind her eyes almost unbearable.

“Ginny, lunch is ready.” Her mother’s voice echoed up the stairs. Tired, weak.

She couldn’t bring herself to reply. It seemed to take all her energy to get off the bed and to the mirror. And once there, it took everything within her to keep from crying.

Her last dinner at the Burrow, and she wanted to look presentable.

The familiar pounding in her head. The pressure behind her eyes. The tears she would not let fall.

She pinched her cheeks to give them colour. Ran a brush listlessly through her hair. It crackled like flames, licking at the brush with its dry, needy tendrils. She set it back down with a soft snap, pushing it to the exact position it had been in before she’d picked it up. She wanted the room to look immaculate. A shrine to her past life.

The kitchen was too empty when Ginny got there. Five months could not fill the vacant seats with life.

“I made your favourite, dear,” her mother said, pushing a plate of something hot before her. All food tasted the same to her now. Her mother must know that.

Molly Weasley sat down opposite her daughter, taking small bites of whatever food she had prepared, watching her daughter prod at it listlessly with a fork.

“You’ll need your energy, dear,” she said softly.

Ginny took a sip of lukewarm water instead. Her throat was so dry, she didn’t think she could force the food down if she tried. But catching her mother’s eye, she took a bite.

She avoided looking at her mother after that. The sadness in her eyes was creating a spark of hatred within her.

She mapped out the grains in the table. Hoping that she would never forget what it looked like.

She had barely eaten half her meal before a knock, loud and demanding, startled the two women out of their reveries.

Ginny’s head snapped up, but her mother murmured, “No, I’ll get it.”

She looked back down at the table, willing back the tears that threatened to fall. It was hopeless. They dropped like tiny salted crystals and shattered on the wooden table.

“Ginevra Weasley.” The man’s voice was hard, slicing through the thick air and bringing her back to the present.

She wiped her tears away and stood up to face him.

The man was dressed in rich black robes. Dark hair framed a handsome, masculine face. His eyes were granite, his voice a knife. “You’re to come with me, Ginevra. Your family is waiting.”

Family. He made a mockery of the word.

“Ginny,” she heard her mother whisper from behind the man’s imposing figure. "Ginny." She was crying.

The man seemed to remember she was there. He turned towards her, his voice cutting short any delusions of sympathy. “Your trial is eight o’clock tonight. You won’t be able to leave the boundary of your property until then. And I wouldn’t try, if I were you.” The cold smirk that danced on his lips and in his eyes threatened worse punishment. “Now, say goodbye to your daughter.”

Ginny was engulfed in a tight hug, a hug she returned just as tightly, feeling the tears she condemned falling without dignity.

But a moment later, the man said, “Enough of that,” and with bruising fingers pulled Ginny away from her mother.

The sudden coldness of the air outside her mother’s grasp only made her cry harder. Choked sobs echoed by the woman who must have felt the same thing.

And then the scream. The shrieking, desperate scream. “Ginny! Ginny!” Tearing at her mother’s throat, raw, desperate, before she was silenced by a spell that sent her reeling backwards and falling to the floor, unconscious, bleeding.

Ginny tried to tear herself from the man’s grasp, shouting “Mum! MUM!” until her throat was raw and burning, her eyes half blinded by tears, but a Silencing spell cut her short, and the tight, choking feeling of Apparation engulfed her before she could protest.

Whether it was the shock of the sudden pressure or a silent spell from her captor that made her lose consciousness, she didn’t know. But when she opened her eyes again, she was lying on an ornate bed in a room she didn’t recognize.

Her captor was nowhere to be seen.

Tentatively, nervously, she slid off the bed and inspected the room, looking for clues as to whose house she may be in. But beyond the ostentatiously expensive furniture, something she expected to find in any of the Inner Circle’s homes, there were no clues as to where she was.

The window was closed by shutters outside the glass, and she could see no way to open them. Instead, she turned to the door. Fighting back weak tears, she moved towards it. She had only half crossed the room when it opened and a man entered, shutting it again with a sharp snap.

Lucius Malfoy, looking almost exactly the same as he had so many years ago.

“You,” she said, recoiling, as if his presence were so strong it pushed her back.

He did not grace her with a reply. Instead, he scanned the room leisurely before fixing his cold eyes on her, taking a moment to run them over her critically. She shuddered under his gaze. The gaze that made her shiver, made her feel naked, impure, worthless.

After what felt like years, he spoke. “You look disgusting. I’d have thought you’d get more food once your mother had fewer mouths to feed.”

She hurled herself at him, shrieking with wild rage, desperate to cause harm. But with a lazy flick of his wand, she was thrown back, hitting the opposite wall and sliding down, her back aching from the impact. She was half up when another flick immobilized her, and she fell back to the ground.

“Silly girl,” he drawled, a half-smirk playing darkly on his lips. With a softly murmured spell, her hands were bound before her, and her frozen limbs were loosened. “Get up,” he commanded, gesturing with his wand.

She stayed where she was, her eyes glowing with hatred, daring him to beat her.

He sneered, and with a few quick strides he was standing over her. She glared up at him, bitter fury darkening her gaze, and she spat.

“I hope you die,” she hissed. “You and everyone like you, worthless fucking cowards.”

He remained impassive, looking down at her coldly, until the butt of his walking stick met her cheek, sending her reeling. She barely had a moment to move back before the stick, hitting her back, forced her down on her stomach.

“Stupid girl.” He placed the stick across her neck, preventing her from rising. “Learn to clean up your messes.”

A nudge from the stick pushed her forwards so her face was nearly touching his shoes, upon which shone a globule of her spittle.

“Lick it up, stupid girl,” he drawled, increasing the pressure on the back of her neck.

“No,” she growled. “Never!”

She squirmed and struggled to escape from under his stick, pushing against the ground with her bound hands, writhing below him. In a movement so quick she barely realised it, Lucius removed his walking stick from above her neck. The force of her struggle sent her careening back against the wall. Before she could scrabble up, the stick made contact with her stomach, and she keeled over, winded and aching.

Terror and pain made her vision go dark, blood pulsing wildly behind her eyes. She could barely see the stick that was forcing her to the ground, drawing blood from the side of her head. She struggled as best she could, but overpowered and in pain, she soon stopped, slumping over.

Lucius took this as a sign of defeat, and for a moment, no more blows rained down on her. Instead, after a brief moment’s respite, he wedged his walking stick under her, using it to level her up against the wall.

Bloody, bruised and gasping for breath, Ginny sat against the wall. Lucius watched her for a moment. When she made no move to attack, he moved back half a pace and surveyed her critically.

“So I seem to have knocked some sense into you at last,” he said coldly. “Now, Weasley, come here and clean up your mess.”

A few drops of blood were splattered on his shoes, intermingled with her spit.

Slowly, she raised her eyes to his. Rage burned behind them and she said, her voice, weak and gravelly, “No.”

She was hit so suddenly and so forcefully that she was sent skidding to the side, fresh blood drawn just below her ear.

A sharp step, and the stick once again pushed her up. But this time it came to rest at the base of her throat.
He pushed.

Tears welled in her eyes as her face turned red and she gasped desperately for breath, wheezing in a half-scream.

When he finally let go, her breath was shallow and desperate as she fell once more to the floor, unbidden tears mingling with blood halfway down her face. A final blow to the back of her head sent her into unconsciousness.

•••

“The girl is a disgusting, impertinent thing,” Lucius said, idly plucking at a grape and bringing it to his mouth.

His sister in law sneered. “She’s a little blood-traitor bitch. What did you think?”

Lucius levelled her with a cold and meaningful glare. “I’ve been met with impertinence from our kind as well.”

“I hope you’re not forgetting I pull rank, dear brother,” Bellatrix hissed softly, pulling a grape out from between his fingers and impaling it on one of her long, claret red nails.

In a motion that was too terrifying on her to be erotic, she slid the grape into her mouth, red lips slipping over the tiny fruit, it and the tip of her finger disappearing into the depths of her mouth.

Lucius looked away.

The voice of Bellatrix’s husband met them as he entered the dining room. “The girl is still unconscious,” he said, taking a seat across from his wife. “She looks like hell.” There was no compassion in his voice.

Lucius shrugged lazily, taking a drink from his goblet before responding, “She’s impertinent.”

Bellatrix fixed her eyes on him. “I told you she would make a shit servant,” she snapped.

Lucius rose from the table. “Far be it for you to give your opinion on my choices,” he said, and turning to Rodolphus added, “Learn to control your wife, Lestrange.”

He swept out of the room before either had a chance to respond.

•••

The Gold Room was strictly reserved for what Draco liked to call his ‘conquests,’ and his uncle should have known that. The horror of entering, his arms entangled around the form of his newest girl, and finding the bruised and bleeding form of a Weasley on the bed was enough to wrench the girl out of her erotic stupor to slap him and shriek obscenities in his ear. She left, of course, after pulling her clothes back on and cursing him wildly.

His disappointment was tempered with his assumption that a girl who shrieked so much out of bed would be too noisy in it. He rather preferred his women silent.

The sight of Ginny Weasley lying half-dead on his bed was more than enough to bring the blood from his cock back to his head. With a sigh, he considered his options. She was either asleep or unconscious, and he didn’t want to have to deal with her awake. But he also very much wanted her out of his second room. What his uncle had meant to do by bringing her there was unfathomable to him.

Watching her prone form, he wondered idly how much she had cried when she heard her beloved Potter had died.

He vaguely recalled having heard his father make mention of the fact that he wanted the girl to be taken as a servant. Draco thought this a bad idea – a stupid one, really. With house elves who obeyed without question, there was no need for a girl who would no doubt only disobey whatever orders she could. He had not, of course, told his father this, but he had secretly sided with his aunt when he heard her later saying the girl would be more than useless.

Of course, none of this gave his uncle any reason to have brought the girl to the Gold Room. For now, she was a prisoner, and she should have been kept in the dungeon.

That thought firmly in mind, he decided his best course of action would be to tell his father, and have the girl moved immediately.

His hand was on the doorknob when he heard her give a tiny whimper. He turned back to see her crying in her sleep, her body wracked with silent sobs.

If his uncle had put the girl there, far be it from his place to question him.

He sighed and left the room. There was just enough time for a flight around the grounds before dinner, if he hurried.

Ginny woke to the sound of a distant bell clanging the hour. Her heart leapt to her throat and for a moment, she didn’t know where she was. With an inadvertent look down to see her bloodied robes staining the sheets, she remembered, though she could hardly say that abated her fears. She could feel her heartbeat behind her eyes, slowly darkening her vision. A few deep, shaky breaths calmed her rapidly beating heart.

It was dark and her vision was grainy; she could see only weak spots of colour alongside the darkness. The bloodstains on the sheets appeared only as darker swatches that seemed to swirl before her eyes, moving as she watched them. Her eyes burned and her whole body ached. There were no deep and steadying breaths that could help her with that pain.

The bell had ceased its tolling, and in the darkness, Ginny’s mind flew through every horror she had witnessed.

It was impossible to keep the tears back, as much as she tried. She choked on them, her breathing uneven, and tried to muffle the sound with her hands, shoving her fists in her mouth to keep everything inside.

But it was too late at night. She felt sick, her stomach growling against her will, and her mind, with a sick volition of its own, was determined to linger only on thoughts of her mother. Nothing could remove the image of her, fighting, screaming, bleeding, from her mind.

She wanted to die.

It wasn’t like at Hogwarts, where she knew what she was fighting for, where she knew that her defiance meant something. Everyone she ever loved was dead, and there was nothing to be gained from fighting.

She wished she knew how to give in.

•••

“Good morning, Draco,” Narcissa said, setting her teacup down with a soft chink. “You’re late.”

Draco looked down at the table piled high with food. His stomach writhed. “Bitsy was late waking me up,” he said, pulling out his chair.

Narcissa’s icy eyes regarded him sharply, as if looking for signs he was lying. If he was, he gave none, and she returned to taking dainty bites of her egg.

“Where are Father, Aunt Bellatrix and Rodolphus?” Draco asked, waving away an elf attempting to ladle porridge into his bowl.

His mother didn’t deign to look up. “Your father and your aunt were called away this morning. Rodolphus,” she sneered his name, “has yet to come down.”

He made a noncommittal noise and motioned for an attendant elf to serve him. When it had bowed back to its place by the wall, he spoke again, slowly this time, weighing his words. “I don’t suppose you know what Father was planning with the Weasley girl?” He kept his tone neutral, studying his mother for any sign of interest.

She stiffened. “The Weasley girl? I don’t know what you’re talking about, Draco.”

This was a sign of interest. He moved a piece of egg around his plate absently. “Never mind, then.”

Silence overtook the table for only a brief moment. “What exactly are you talking about, Draco?” It was her most commanding tone, the one with a dagger’s edge embellishing her words.

He flicked his eyes up to hers, measuring. “Nothing at all.”

She put her fork down quietly. “No, of course not,” she murmured, too much mockery in her voice.

So she had known less about the girl than he. Draco opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the arrival of his uncle.

Narcissa flicked her gaze towards him. “So nice of you to have joined us, Rodolphus.”

A half smirk twisted his face in two. “So nice of you to have me, Narcissa.”

Draco watched the exchange with interest. It wasn’t often he got to see his mother and her least favourite relative in close contact. He had never really known why the two didn’t get along; Rodolphus, while Pureblood, was of a decidedly less prestigious family than either the Malfoys or the Blacks, but that sort of distain didn’t quite encompass enough.

His uncle turned to him. “Draco,” he said, with all the sarcastic grandeur of a vagabond.

“Uncle,” Draco returned, giving him the barest nod of recognition. “Mother was just asking about the girl.”

Rodolphus smirked. “Were you, Narcissa? I hadn’t known you were so interested in my work.”

She levelled him with an icy gaze. “I had no idea it was your work, Rodolphus.”

He pulled out a chair and sat down. “I shouldn’t have expected you to,” he said, a hint of something dangerous behind his words.

Narcissa made no response, and the rest of breakfast passed in silence.

•••

Ginny awoke from her tormenting dreams when a shaft of cruel light sliced across her eyes, tingeing the scene of death with pink and yellow.

Her throat was raw and dry, and the soft whimper that escaped her lips as she attempted to sit up clawed harshly at it. Even breathing hurt. Her eyes still burned, though she thought she must have slept more than twelve hours. She raised a cold hand to soothe them and relished in the small joy of simple respite.

She struggled onto her elbows, ignoring the way her body screamed in protest. From there, she managed to push herself into a sitting position, leaning her bruised back lightly against the headboard for support. The room looked the same as it had yesterday; she noticed, with a flutter of mixed fear and disgust, that just below the shut curtains was a spatter of dried blood.

Terror froze her.

The curtains were shut, but she knew they had been open yesterday – and then she felt her heart leap to her throat and her stomach coil tightly shut; she had been on the floor yesterday. She had no memory of either shutting the curtains or entering the bed, which meant someone had done just that when she had been unconscious. And if they had done that, she knew they could have done any number of things as well.

Hot tears trailed down her flushed cheeks, dropping and darkening the sheets below her. A thought flashed suddenly and mutinously before her – the memory of how mediaeval wizards tested for the purity of their wives; the fingers that reached and searched for proof. The thought made fresh tears fall. It was too disgusting, too horrifying, too real; to think that it may even be necessary—

She fought the idea back, trying to think logically. The only pain was where she had been hit, she reasoned; there wasn’t enough blood to think it was even a possibility. But this logic only made her cry harder, her throat constricting around the sounds she didn’t dare let out.

She was choking back feverish tears when she heard the sound of a man’s walk outside her door. Hands clasped desperately over her mouth, she froze; the old childish idea that if she stayed still enough, quiet enough, inconspicuous enough, she’d be let alone resurfaced. She hardly dared breathe as the footfalls became louder. She bit down on her fingers, forcing back the tiny noises that threatened to squeeze their way out.

The footfalls halted just before the door.

She bit down harder, willing whomever was outside not to enter. For a moment, it seemed as though they wouldn’t. The seconds ticked by in silence.

And then, the soft creak of the knob turning. She was too taken by fear to move; her cheeks were wet with tears, but her hands wouldn’t move to wipe them away.

The door was pushed open and the dark haired man who had taken her from her mother entered. Sickeningly handsome, with a disgusting half smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Sleep well, Ginevra?” he said, in an almost pleasant voice.

She gave no response; he didn’t deserve one.

He took a few languid steps towards the bed, and Ginny, her frozen limbs finding movement again, scrambled back.

He chuckled and caught her wrist in his hands. “Crying, Ginevra? What a pity,” he murmured. “The poor girl is sad.”

A flash of hatred burned in her eyes, and he felt her muscles twitch and quiver. A silent spell and a flick of his wand froze her limbs again. The smile he entered with returned and he released her wrist. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he turned towards her and began conversationally, “So, you refuse to speak to me. Understandable.” Here he paused a moment. “Or do you have anything to say?”

She opened her mouth experimentally, and finding that only her arms and legs were frozen, growled, “I will never have anything to say to you.”

He chuckled again. “Making a liar out of yourself already, Ginevra?”

She glowered at him, shaking in mixed fear and rage, and said, “Why are you here? What do you want with me?”

“Ah ah ah, little girl,” he said. “I hope you’re not forgetting who’s in charge here.” She gave no response, and he smiled. “Much better.” He said nothing for a time, taking pleasure in the fact that she would not ask again. Finally, he said, “I’m bringing you downstairs. Someone wants to meet you.” His lips curled upwards in amusement.

She shook her head fiercely. “No. No! I’m not going anywhere with you!”

He sighed. “You silly, silly girl. I wasn’t giving you a choice.”

An intricate motion with his wand and a softly muttered spell loosened her limbs and bound her hands before her. “Get up,” he said. “I’m taking you downstairs.”

Her lips quivered and her voice shook, but she said, “No.”

“Oh, Ginevra,” he murmured, “you are a stupid little girl.” He put a hand on her shoulder and pushed her robes down, baring her bruised skin. “Lucius?” He asked.

She nodded reluctantly.

“His cane?”

“Yes,” she muttered.

He drew his hand away and pulled her robe back up. “So crude,” he said. “I would never do something like that.” She looked up at him. “No, I really much prefer the Cruciatus.”

He spoke conversationally, but there was no mistaking the meaning behind his words. “Coming, Ginevra?”

She remained still for a moment, then, taking a ragged breath, she pushed herself off the bed and walked slowly around to him.

He smiled. “Good girl. If you’re good on the way down, you might even get some breakfast.”

He put a hand around her upper arm and led her out of the room. She was led through winding halls and down a vast marble staircase; quickly finding herself lost, she gave up trying to map her way through the Manor, instead looking at the grandeur around her.

When they reached what she assumed was the kitchen, bustling with elves and smelling of something heavenly, she was having trouble staying upright. The man seemed to realise this, and pulled out a wooden chair from the table laden with peeled vegetables.

“Sit,” he said, “and don’t move.”

She didn’t think she would be able to get far even if she did move, and watched him move deeper into the kitchen, speaking brusquely with what appeared to be the head elf.

He returned a moment later with a tinier, shaking elf by his side. “For her,” he snapped at it.

The elf climbed onto a stool beside the table and slid a plate before her, bowing low as it stepped down and backed away a few steps.

“Get away from us, vermin,” he snarled, giving it a kick.

The elf didn’t even whimper as it bowed again and hastened away.

He pulled up a chair across from Ginny and sat down, lazily slinging an arm across the back of it and twirling his wand in the other. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

“I can’t,” she said.

His eyes flicked up to hers before he chuckled. A flick of his wand and the ropes around her wrists fell away, only to bind her legs to those of the chair. “Now, are you going to eat that, or shall I have one of these elves throw it out?”

“Is it…poisoned?” she asked.

“If we wanted you dead, you would be already.”

She looked up at him mutely, as if trying to gauge the veracity of his words, before taking the toast on her plate and biting it. She ate it quickly, followed by two slivers of carrot and half a hard boiled egg.

She cleaned her hands on the napkin just as the elf who served her returned with a small glass of water. She drank it eagerly.

The man flicked his wand to free her legs and took her by the arm once again. “Now,” he said, “Let’s go see the lady of the house, shall we?”

•••

Draco was seated opposite his mother, toying with a handful of grapes – a habit he got from his aunt, though he didn’t know it. Narcissa had expressed her interest in seeing the Weasley girl after breakfast, and Draco wasn’t about to let this opportunity go. He was certain this would give him more information on her sudden appearance at the Manor.

His mother had said nothing to him since breakfast; she was, he assumed, too caught up in trying to understand the situation.

The sound of footsteps startled mother and son out of their respective reveries. Narcissa rose gracefully to greet them as they entered.

“There,” Draco heard Rodolphus say in undertone, motioning to where the girl should stand.

Draco sat up straighter, taking in the tableau spread before him; the brief thought that someone should paint it flickered through his mind – it would make an interesting subject for a painting. His mother in her silken dove-grey robes looked down haughtily at both Ginny Weasley – her robes torn and bloody – and Rodolphus, standing authoritatively beside her.

“Are you the Weasley girl?” his mother asked.

She muttered something unintelligible.

“You’d do well to treat your betters with respect,” she said coldly. “Look up when you speak to me, and don’t mutter.” Ginny looked up at her with something dark and fierce in her eyes. “Now, let’s try that again. Are you the Weasley girl?”

“Yes,” she said with exaggerated enunciation.

“And your name is…?”

“I don’t see why that shou—”

Rodolphus gave her a little prod in the side and hissed, “Answer the question.”

She glared at Narcissa. “Ginny,” she snapped. “My name is Ginny.”

Narcissa’s nose wrinkled slightly in delicate distaste. “Ginny? What a horridly common little name.”

Draco thought she looked about ready to launch herself at his mother. “It’s short for Ginevra, mother,” he said lazily.

Ginny’s eyes snapped to his in mixed surprise and fear.

Silence blanketed the room. Ginny flicked her eyes away from Draco’s, settling them on the mantelpiece behind him. In that moment of sudden tension, no one seemed willing to speak.

It was Narcissa who spoke first, once again taking control of the room. “Well that name is hardly any better,” she spoke derisively, but the words held no real cruelty. When it seemed silence would once again overtake them, Narcissa hastened to speak, this time cutting directly to the point. “Why were you brought here, Ginevra?”

Ginny looked up at her, shocked. “I—What do you mean why?”

Narcissa seemed to remember Rodolphus was in the room and turned quickly to him, saying, “Leave us.”

He spoke mockingly. “Don’t you want to know why she’s here, Narcissa?”

“I said leave us, Rodolphus.”

He ran his eyes around the room, settling briefly on Ginny before crooking his lips up in a half smile. “I do wonder what you stand to learn from her, Narcissa,” he said as he left.

She waited until his footfalls had quietened before she returned her gaze to Ginny and said, “Tell me why you were brought here.”

Ginny mumbled something quietly, then, remembering Narcissa’s words, said again, with hyperbolized care, “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? What do you mean you don’t know?” There was something vaguely hysterical in her tone. “What did they say at your trial?”

The corners of her lips curved downwards as she fought back a sudden wave of emotion. “I never had a trial!” Her voice shook. “All I got was a l-letter!”

“A letter?” Narcissa asked. “What letter? What did it say?”

“Why don’t you ask your husband?” Ginny snarled.

Draco could see the shine of tears in her eyes; as his mother strode towards he stood up, not certain what he meant to achieve by it.

Narcissa slapped her loudly, branding her cheek red.

“Answer the question!” she snapped.

Ginny opened her mouth to speak but was interrupted by a cold voice saying, “Well well, what have we here?”

Narcissa stepped away quickly, in a moment seeming to shrink into a trembling schoolgirl. “Bella! I didn’t know you’d be home so soon! Is Lucius…?”

“In the foyer, little sister,” Bellatrix said. “Does he know you’ve taken his little pet for a walk?” She walked towards Ginny with a dark smile playing on her lips.

Narcissa shook her head.

“Well, that is a problem, isn’t it? I don’t believe he even told you of the girl, did he?” Her tone was too sweet.

“No,” Narcissa said quietly.

“And little sister wanted to know all about it, didn’t she?” Bellatrix took Ginny by the arm. “Well, we’d better put the pet back in her cage,” she said, beginning to pull at her.

“No, no, let Draco do it.”

“Draco?”

“Lucius will be suspicious if you’re gone.”
Bellatrix laughed. “Well then. You heard your mummy, Draco. Put the girl back where she belongs.”

Draco regarded at the three women before him and gave a lazy sigh. “Come, Weasley.”

Ginny looked desperately between the three of them.

“You heard him,” Bellatrix whispered, releasing her arm. “But don’t worry, we’ll have time to play together soon.” Her words sounded like a threat.

“Come, Weasley,” Draco repeated.

Ginny, flicking her eyes up towards Bellatrix, smiling cruelly down at her, followed him to the doorway. “I hate you,” she hissed.

Draco ignored this and, taking her by the wrist, led her out of the room.