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!
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!
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