---
Chapter Six
---
“Lavender Brown is crazy! There is no other word to describe her but crazy!” Draco yelled, throwing up another ward and adding a Silencing Charm on the door, which Lavender was hexing and pummeling, asking The-Puddlemere-Reserve-Chaser-Who-Was-Almost-Axed-To-Death for an interview.
Ginny was curled up on the couch, hugging a cushion. She didn’t want to go into her room after what had happened the night before, and was feeling so disturbed and frightened that she was actually glad that Draco was there with her.
“Look, Weasley,” Draco sighed, settling down next to her on the couch, though he kept a respectable distance. After the life-saving incident, they had formed a sort of very awkward, highly unstable friendship, but there was still a legion of kinks that needed to be worked out. “It’s broad daylight, you’re sitting next to the infamous Draco Malfoy, and you’re armed – wait, no you’re not. What did you do with your wand?”
Ginny shook her head.
“You don’t know?”
Ginny nodded.
Draco sighed again. “I’m sure the Aurors will find it. As for you – you can’t sit there like that forever. At least do your shoulder exercises.”
Ginny half-heartedly began moving her shoulder.
Draco’s patience was wearing thin. Everything had been fine until after breakfast. He had offered to wash the dishes, and during that time, he supposed Ginny’s shock wore off, causing her to be hit with the full force of the terror she just went through. He understood quite well that she was terrified, but at least she could speak to him. After all, he had saved her life, and they were supposed to be friends – sort of. “Is there anything you want me to get you?” he asked as nicely as he could.
Oliver. I want nothing more than to bury my head in his chest and have him tell me that everything would be all right. But everything wasn’t all right. With the team’s big match against the Appleby Arrows in less than two weeks, and one of their official Chasers missing, it was no wonder why Oliver’s screech owl (aptly named Bludger) was currently bashing itself against her window, along with all the other owls from friends, family, and reporters wanting to speak with her.
“Did you just say Oliver?” Draco asked in surprise (and hurt, seeing that Ginny was rejecting the company of her savior and friend – sort of – in favor of a brawny Quidditch Captain), but his words were lost to Ginny, who was deep in her own thoughts, and had not realized that she had spoken out loud.
Oliver was probably more concerned about Draco’s absence at practice than hers, because she was a useless, injured player. He was undoubtedly furious, and Ginny was almost surprised that he hadn’t sent Draco a Howler for skipping practice again. She wondered if Oliver had Splinched himself while trying to Apparate into her flat, which was usually warded to allow certain people to visit, but was now closed off against all visitors. She also wondered if his fireplace had spit him back out because hers was disconnected from the Floo network. She wondered what made winning so important that Oliver was skipping practice and floating outside her window to recruit Draco – floating outside her window?
“Hey, look,” Draco said with a strong amount of disdain, glancing at the Man-Who-Women-Liked-Better-Than-Their-Saviors, “Wood’s here.”
But Ginny didn’t care what Draco was saying, because she was more focused on getting his wand. After snatching it away, she pointed it at the window, ignored the waving Scotsman, and transfigured the window into a solid wall, blocking out all owls and Quidditch Captains.
“Impressive,” Draco muttered. “But I thought you wanted to see him. He looks concerned. Aren’t you going to talk to him?”
Ginny shook her head and buried her face into the cushion. Oliver wasn’t here for her – she knew it. Perhaps she was falling into a state of depression, but she felt so useless, and couldn’t think of a single reason why Oliver would talk to her. After all, when Draco had gotten in the way of the axe-murderer, he was almost hurt, and Oliver wouldn’t want to get hurt because of her, would he?
She really hadn’t thought about it for a very long time, but the sudden appearance of a mysterious murderer kept reminding her of the time when she almost died in the Chamber of Secrets. She kept picturing Tom Riddle’s face under the hood, and while she knew that Tom was gone, and would also never do anything so unrefined as to murder with an axe, it was enough to terrorize her into the state of speechless depression that she had fallen into after the incident with the Chamber. For months after Harry had rescued her, Ginny had not spoken a word, isolating herself because she felt that no one would understand, not even Harry. She was feeling the same way again – Oliver would not understand.
“Weasley. Talk to Wood. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” Draco couldn’t hide the bitterness in his voice, but couldn’t understand where that bitterness was coming from, since Ginny was obviously in a very disturbed state, and it was natural for her to prefer the company of an old friend than a new sort-of friend who also happened to be an old enemy, even if it was one who had saved her from what was terrifying her in the first place.
How did he know what I wanted? Must be that stupid Legilimency. She shook her head.
“Weasley.”
Ginny buried her face even more deeply into the cushion. She looked so pitiful, so vulnerable, so different from the real Ginny – the one that was crazy and slightly scary – that Draco couldn’t bring himself to be angry with her.
“Perhaps,” he said thoughtfully, “you need a Pensieve.”
Ginny looked up slowly. Perhaps she did.
---
“Wood!” Draco called. “I don’t think I can make it to practice today.”
Oliver lowered his broom from the fifth story. Draco scowled when he saw a passing woman nearly fall over from swooning at the Scotsman. Nobody – well, except for Pansy Parkinson and Rosalyn Lancaster, but they didn’t really count – ever swooned at him.
“Well, of course,” Oliver said, oblivious to the swooning woman, and interpreting Draco’s scowl as his anguish at missing a wonderful Quidditch practice. “Everything’s in the Daily Prophet. Looks like you had quite a night. I came here to see Ginny. How is she? Poor lass is probably terrified.” Oliver looked gravely concerned, and Draco, for some inexplicable reason, felt a pang of annoyance at this.
“Of course she’s terrified,” Draco said irritably. “Wouldn’t you be, if an axe-murderer was after you? That’s why I’m going to Dervish and Banges (*) right now, to buy her a Pensieve.”
“Good thinking. She’s in there by herself?”
“She wants no visitors. None. Only me,” Draco said, with more emphasis than was strictly necessary.
“Oh. Will she be all right?”
“She’ll be fine. There are more wards around her place than Hogwarts ever had. Nothing, not even a dust mite, can get in. I’m quite talented with wards, you know,” Draco added, without really knowing why he suddenly had the urge to brag.
“Good. Er…” Oliver looked uncomfortable.
“Yes?”
“Er…”
“I do need to get going, you know. Because I, unlike you, care about Weasley’s welfare.” Now, why in the name of Merlin did I say that?
“Er, right. If you say so. Er… We – er – I have decided to replace you with Katie Bell. Our next big game is in less than two weeks, and we need someone who’s more experienced. Sorry.” He really did look sorry, though he had no reason to be, since he was only a Captain making the best choice for his team.
Draco was highly affronted, but nodded curtly and Disapparated.
Once he was in Hogsmeade Village and out of Oliver’s earshot, Draco let out a string of curse words that wished the Puddlemere Captain a very painful death. “Replace me? How dare he replace me! With a Gryffindor, out of all people!” he fumed.
He marched down High Street to Dervish and Banges, and entered. He was greeted by a wizened old woman sitting at the counter. “I’m here to buy a Pensieve,” he said without preamble.
“Very well, sir,” said the old woman, and disappeared into a back room, leaving Draco by himself.
Draco thought about his own Pensieve. His Pensieve wasn’t just a collection of memories – it was the darkest years of his life. He was certain that the Pensieve would answer all of the questions he had about himself, but he was also afraid that he wouldn’t like what he would see. The memories couldn’t be too bad, since the Aurors had seen them and let him go free, but Draco was still apprehensive. The Dark Mark on his arm meant that he had been a Death Eater, but that hadn’t meant anything to him because he didn’t remember what it was really like. He was afraid that seeing his memories would bring a meaning to the Mark.
Draco also did not want to see his parents’ deaths. He didn’t know if he had actually witnessed them dying in the first place, but he wasn’t interested in finding out anytime soon. Of course, he could ask Potter or some other Auror to summarize the contents of his Pensieve for him, but that would mean admitting that he was scared – of himself – and no Malfoy should ever admit to being afraid.
Despite all the apprehension that he had towards his Pensieve, Draco was very, very curious. Other people knew more about him than he did, but he was certain that the people who he associated with now, namely, the Puddlemere United team, weren’t the best people to ask about himself. After all, until the beginning of his fourth year, he had not appreciated the companionship of anyone who wasn’t a Slytherin. And where were all the Slytherins now? Dead, imprisoned, or missing and at large. From what he had heard, the only happily surviving Slytherin was Tracey Davis, who had married Ravenclaw Terry Boot, and was running a small bookshop next to the Post Office right here in Hogsmeade. He had never liked Tracey very much. Not only was she a Half-Blood, she also preferred making friends with Ravenclaws to Slytherins, and hated Quidditch with a passion. So, Tracey probably knew less about him than most Gryffindors did, those in Azkaban weren’t exactly the sanest of people, and those who were dead were, well, dead. He really had no one to ask about himself.
Draco was distracted from further thought by the old woman reappearing from the back room, carrying a wrapped parcel that was the Pensieve. “Three hundred Galleons (**),” she said in her raspy voice.
“Three hundred Galleons? Woman, are you crazy? When my Father bought a Pensieve –”
“That was more than a decade ago, Mr. Malfoy. And, it was before the war. Inflation and post-war taxes are taking their toll,” she said somberly.
Draco couldn’t think of anything to say to that, so he paid, and on the way home, he thought about how Ginny better not collect rent from him for the next six months – if, of course, she let him stay that long.
---
Ginny Weasley’s room was a mess. It had nothing to do with the Aurors who had searched the room, because Aurors were professionals at putting things back where they found them. That was the problem. The Aurors had put the dirty sock on the chair because that’s where they found it, and they had stuffed the – the – half-eaten plant-furball hybrid thing, whatever it was, under the bed because that’s where they found it. Ginny had put them there in the first place, and for what reason, only Merlin knew.
Draco was not particularly interested in Ginny Weasley’s belongings. Though he was dirt-poor at the moment (he was actually three hundred Galleons in deficit, until the redhead paid him back), he had once possessed the finest things money could buy, as well as the things that money could not buy (but blackmailing could), and Ginny’s things did not appeal to him in the slightest. Draco thought that Ginny gave a new meaning to the word ‘priceless’. Her things were so worthless that they did not have a price – they weren’t worth a tenth of a Knut. In fact, if he were Ginny, he would actually pay anyone who was willing to take the broken limited-edition Harry Potter bobblehead.
Even while finding it painful to look at the foul objects in Ginny’s room, Draco made a resolution to clean the place. Ginny had shooed him out of the sitting room while she extracted her memories. Because Ginny happened to live in a one-room flat, he had a choice between going to her room, or sitting in the loo. It was just his bad luck that he had decided to open the door to Pandora’s Box, first. Now that he saw the treacherous filth, he could not ignore it. This room was pure evil, and it needed to be purged.
Not wanting to touch anything, especially not that clump of cloth that looked suspiciously like dirty underwear, Draco magically lifted everything off the floor and placed them on the bed to be sorted. The half-eaten plant-furball hybrid thing didn’t really seem to be alive, but it squeaked unpleasantly when Draco poked it with his wand.
Draco sighed. This was going to take a long time.
During his cleaning, Draco came across Ginny’s underwear drawer, which he definitely should not have seen (though the massive amounts of white cotton told him why she wasn’t married yet), used the Laundering Charm on over twenty articles of clothing, and had sorted a huge number of odds and ends into two piles: one for ‘Broken’, and one for ‘Still usable, but what is it?’.
He still didn’t know whether the lumpy green furball was truly alive or not, and was considering the possibility of burning it, along with everything else in the godforsaken room, when the door opened.
Ginny walked in, holding her Pensieve, and looking much better than she did earlier that morning. What she saw almost made her drop the Pensieve. “Malfoy! What have you done to my room? It’s – it’s –”
“Clean?” Draco supplied.
“Horrible! Who gave you the permission to ransack my stuff?” Ginny demanded.
“Ransack? I believe I have done the opposite of ransacking, which is organizing very neatly.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Malfoy. How will I ever be able to find anything in here? Nothing is where I left it!”
“Your clothes would either be in your closet or your dresser, which are the places where most normal people keep their clothes, though I am in no way implying that you are normal. Your Quidditch- and school-related awards and trophies are now out on display instead of hiding in some dark corner, which really was an insult to them – I wouldn’t be surprised if one of your trophies were trying to kill you for shoving it under a pile of unwashed socks. Your other belongings are sorted into various drawers based on what they are. This pile is for things that are broken and need to be tossed out. That pile is for the things that I have deemed usable, but have no idea what they are. I suppose this furball –”
“Stop poking Arnold Jr.!”
“Arnold Jr.? If this great monstrosity is Arnold Jr., then I definitely wouldn’t want to meet Arnold Sr.!”
Ginny put down her Pensieve and cuddled the lumpy, misshapen, Quaffle-sized furball in her arms. “Arnold Jr. was Fred and George’s first attempt at trying to create a Pygmy Puff Plant, where Pygmy Puffs grow on trees. As you can see, it didn’t work out right, and after my Pygmy Puff named Arnold died, I adopted this little critter.”
“Ah. So that mutant furball is your pet?” Draco looked both disgusted and amused. “What does it do? Other than squeak when poked, I mean.”
“It eats the dead things in my room.”
Draco grimaced. “You make it sound like that’s a good thing.”
“It is,” Ginny insisted. “When Arnold Jr. wasn’t around, the dead things started decomposing, and it smelled sort of bad.”
“Really? Bad, you say? I can’t imagine your room smelling anything but heavenly,” Draco said sarcastically. “Enough talk of furballs and bugs. How was the Pensieve?”
Ginny grinned widely. “I’m tons better. My head is cleared, and I don’t feel so miserable anymore. Thanks for buying me the Pensieve.”
Draco opened his mouth to say that he did not buy her the Pensieve, because she would be paying for it, but Ginny looked so thankful, and no one had ever been thankful to him before, and the Pensieve really did seem to have helped her a lot, so when he spoke, instead of saying a nasty comment on how she was indebted to him forever and ever, he ended up saying a simple, “You’re welcome,” which, of course, was the first time he had said that to anyone.
Ginny smiled again, and her eyes lit up in such a way that Draco did not ever want to see that light go out, not if he could help it. “Do you think we should go to practice now?”
Draco swore inside his head. Count on Ginny to ruin the mood, Draco thought, though what mood she was ruining, he didn’t know. “No,” he snapped. “Termite-home replaced me.”
“Termite-home?”
“Wood. That ruddy piece of firewood replaced me with Katie Bell. Apparently, she’s more experienced than I am, even when I practically lived on a fucking broomstick while I was in bloody Switzerland.”
Ginny laughed. Her laughter sounded sort of like Ron’s chortle-guffaw mixture, and rather unladylike, but it was still nice enough to lift Draco’s spirits a fraction of an inch. “Are you jealous of Katie? And you’re mad at Oliver?” She laughed some more. “He was sorry, wasn’t he? Even though he shouldn’t be. He’s always so sorry when inconveniencing other people, unlike some people who barge into other people’s homes and demand to live there.” Ginny said this in a teasing sort of way, but Draco was annoyed. He had never liked the old Gryffindor Keeper. He was too much of a gentleman, the ladies loved him too much, and he was just too bloody, noble, honest Gryffindor.
“He’s only doing his job. That’s what he’s supposed to do, replace those who skip practice with those who don’t.”
“And why did I have to skip practice?” Draco snarled, angry with the fact that Ginny was defending Wood, even after he, Draco, her new sort-of friend, had bought her a Pensieve. “Was it for my own convenience? I don’t think so!”
“But Oliver only meant the best –”
She was still defending Wood! What was wrong with her? “I only meant the best too! I only wanted to help the stupid chit who had to go and bother some crazy axe-murderer! I almost got killed while trying to save a worthless thing like you!” Draco realized, a moment too late, the impact of the words he had just shouted.
The happy light in Ginny’s eyes flickered off, and Draco inwardly swore even more. “Well,” she said coldly. “Did I ever ask you to get involved in my business? I truly thank you for saving my life, but remember that it was completely your choice, so you really shouldn’t blame anything on me.” Ginny tossed him a bag of Galleons. “Here’s the money for the Pensieve, Malfoy. I was going to give it to you at dinner tonight, but consider that canceled.” She whirled around and headed out the door, but paused to drop one more comment. “And you know what? Oliver didn’t take you off the official team because you missed practice. It’s because you absolutely stink at being a team player.”
Ginny left, and Draco’s anger fizzled out. He felt like the biggest loser in the world. Their sort-of friendship had fallen apart at the seams after just three hours, and it was all his fault. How did he always muck things up like this? He poked Arnold Jr. It squeaked. Draco picked it up and buried his face in its surprisingly warm fur. It made a content sort of purring noise, and Draco decided that if his friendship with Ginny wasn’t going to work out, he would, at the very least, make friends with Arnold.
---
Katie was playing very well. It was almost as if she had never taken time off from the sport to work at Gringotts. Rosalyn actually seemed to like Katie, and everything was going smoothly. Oliver kept giving Katie two thumbs up, and Ginny had yelled at him to keep at least one hand on his broomstick. Now, he was grinning at Katie instead, and Ginny thought she was going to be sick.
Ginny was furtively glaring at Katie, who was hovering near her, and waving for Ian to pass her the Quaffle. Katie caught it successfully, and zoomed away, just in time to miss the Bludger that was flying towards her. If Ginny had paid more attention to the game as a whole, instead of focusing her glare on Katie, she would have noticed that the Bludger switched its target to the nearest available player, who, unfortunately, was her.
The only person who noticed was Antonio Rabnott, the Reserve Beater who had sent that particular Bludger. By the time he yelled, “Ginny! Look out!”, the Bludger had already knocked Ginny unconscious.
When Ginny came back to her senses, there was a dull ache in her head, and she was being lifted up by her teammates. Someone was saying something about St. Mungo’s, but stopped when Katie yelled, “She’s awake!”
Ginny had no idea what was going on. She had been glaring at Katie, and the next thing she knew, her teammates were fussing over her, and Katie’s face was two inches from hers. “Ginny!” Katie cried. “Are you okay?” Katie was shaking her shoulders, and Ginny could feel her brain rattling.
“I’m fine!” she yelled. The pain Katie was causing her shoulder was worse than the pain in her skull, and Ginny decided that this week was definitely not her week. “What happened?” she asked, after slapping away Katie’s hands.
“I’m really sorry,” said Tony, looking more scared than sorry. The last time he hit Ginny with a Bludger, she had yelled at him for hours, and Merlin knew that an irate Ginny was more terrifying than a Death Eater. “I – IhityouwithaBludger.”
Ginny sighed, and it was only after breathing in the scent of wood and grass that she realized that the person holding her up was Oliver. It’s pathetic, Ginny thought, that I can recognize Oliver’s wood and grass smell while sitting in the middle of a grassy pitch, surrounded by more than a dozen broomsticks. She sighed again and said, “It’s all right, Tony. This is Quidditch. Quidditch and injuries are like potions and cauldrons.”
“Are you sure you’re all right, Ginny?” asked Oliver softly, and Ginny felt a surge of anger. If only he hadn’t grinned at Katie, then she wouldn’t have been glaring at her. But who was she to decide who Oliver smiled at?
Feeling rather dejected, Ginny stood up and reached for her wand, only to remember that it was still missing. “I’m fine,” she repeated, and shrugged off Oliver’s hand. “I just need to go home and sleep. Today really hasn’t been the best of days.”
“Right, then. I’ll walk you to the Coach’s office.”
Ginny was suddenly too tired to argue, and let him follow.
Halfway to the office, Oliver spoke again. “Ginny, if it’s all right with you, I’d like to take you to my place for some soup. There’s nothing better than my Mum’s Scotch Broth to make you feel better.”
Ginny didn’t know what was what anymore. She missed the days when Oliver was simply her best friend. But a Scotch Broth did sound good. “But you’ll miss practice,” Ginny protested.
“I don’t need practice,” Oliver replied with a cheeky wink, then put on his professional face. “No, I wasn’t being serious, so never tell anyone I said that. You can never have enough practice, but I think everyone’s worn out for today. After confirming that you were alive, half the team called it a day and practically ran home. I have been working them a bit hard these days,” he admitted.
“Well then, how about some good old Scotch Broth?” Ginny said, approaching the fireplace.
Oliver grinned. “After you, milady.”
---
Draco was pacing. Practice should have ended hours ago, but Ginny was yet to come back. If there hadn’t been an axe-murderer on the loose, he would have assumed that Ginny was just trying to avoid him because of their earlier spat, but Ginny was too sensible a person to be doing that when her life was under threat.
She didn’t even have her wand, for Merlin’s sake! He shouldn’t have let her leave the safety of the flat at all. What good would wards around her flat do when Ginny insisted on leaving said flat?
What was she doing? Where was she? Who was she with? If it was Oliver bloody Wood, Draco swore to become the next axe-murderer, and Wood would be his target.
Draco didn’t know exactly what it was that he had against the Scottish Keeper. He was chipper and courteous to everyone (unless you were on the opposite Quidditch team – then he’d knock you off your broom without a second thought), but of course, the women took this the wrong way. They fawned all over him. Draco believed that he, himself, was strikingly gorgeous, and most (several – some – a handful – oh fine, two) women inclined to agree, until Wood showed up. At school, during his first Quidditch match, Draco had stalked onto the field, and Pansy had been screaming and waving at him… Until Wood came out, and Pansy was momentarily stunned into a dreamy-eyed expression. Then she received an elbow in the ribs from Blaise Zabini, and realized that it was a Gryffindor she was drooling over. Draco honestly did not think that Wood was so attractive that his fellow Slytherins could overlook the bloody scarlet robes of the Gryffindor team, but he wasn’t the most objective person to ask.
Rosalyn had also shown some interest in Draco, but that was only because as a Chaser on the official team, it wouldn’t do for Rosalyn to hover around her own team’s Keeper when the goalposts were on the other side of the field. With Wood too far away to look at, she had considered dropping back to the Reserve team, but then Draco showed up, and she had taken to appreciating the next best thing. Draco was infuriated with being second-best. He was only second-best to Harry Potter, and now Wood was reminding him of that bespectacled git.
Someone knocked on the door, and Draco was jerked out of his thoughts. Was it Ginny? Was it the axe-murderer? No. It was the bespectacled git that he had just been mentally cursing. Well, speak of the devil – or the hero, in Potter’s case.
“Potter,” Draco snapped, opening the door. “What are you doing here?”
Harry was halfway between amusement and irritation. “I thought I heard a bag of Galleons dropping out of the sky, but I suppose I was mistaken.”
“Oh. That. Well yes, that bag of Galleons officially belongs to me, so hand it over.”
“Polite as always, Malfoy.”
“Of course.”
“Where’s Ginny?”
“I don’t know.”
Harry raised both his eyebrows. He had never been able to master the art of raising just one eyebrow. “What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“I mean I haven’t a clue.”
“Malfoy!”
“Potter.”
“Did you kick her out of her own flat?”
“No, Potter!” Draco snapped. Why did Potter insist on thinking that he was so ill-mannered that he would kick a woman out of her own house? He may not be the next Oliver Wood, but he was still an aristocratic gentleman – sort of. “She walked out herself. She went to Quidditch practice and never came back.”
Harry suddenly blanched. “Malfoy.”
“What, Potter?”
“Pansy Parkinson was just released from Azkaban this evening. You don’t think…”
Draco raised a delicate eyebrow (contrary to popular belief, he did not pluck his eyebrows; they were naturally thin like that). “Nonsense, Potter. It’s not that I’m defending her, but if she just got out today, how has she been making those previous attacks?”
“She was probably in contact with someone else.”
“Not me!” Draco said defensively.
“I know it’s not you. But… oh, why haven’t I realized this before?” Harry asked, his green eyes lighting up with his sudden realization.
“Because you’re a completely hopeless dunderhead?”
“Did you know that we never caught Blaise Zabini?”
“I’m not surprised. He always was a slippery one.”
“He never was much of a threat, and there was nothing suggesting he was related to Death Eater activities, so we kind of dismissed him.”
“You know,” said Draco thoughtfully, “Ever since that Chamber incident, Zabini’s regarded Weasley with some kind of awe…”
“Merlin,” Harry breathed, his pickled-toad eyes going wide. “I know what he’s up to! He thinks Voldemort’s soul might still be in Ginny! He’s going to kill Ginny using non-magical means so Voldemort’s soul wouldn’t be harmed, and it would be magically transferred to him! Zabini’s trying to resurrect Voldemort!”
“And is this possible?” Draco asked, feeling slightly alarmed.
“Of course not! The only reason Voldemort is dead is because all seven parts of his soul are destroyed, and Ginny is definitely Voldemort-soul-free! But Zabini doesn’t know this! He’s going to kill Ginny, and it would be for nothing!”
“I see. So what happens next?”
“I’m going to have to get Zabini before he gets Ginny!” Harry declared, then Disapparated.
“Hey!” Draco exclaimed to thin air. “You didn’t give me my bag of Galleons!”
---
To be continued…
---
(*) Dervish and Banges is a ‘magical equipment’ store, and I figured that a Pensieve would go in that category.
(**) I really should have mentioned this ages ago, but according to the HP Lexicon’s currency converter, 100 Galleons = 500 UK Pounds = 741 Euros = 993 US Dollars.
Chapter Six
---
“Lavender Brown is crazy! There is no other word to describe her but crazy!” Draco yelled, throwing up another ward and adding a Silencing Charm on the door, which Lavender was hexing and pummeling, asking The-Puddlemere-Reserve-Chaser-Who-Was-Almost-Axed-To-Death for an interview.
Ginny was curled up on the couch, hugging a cushion. She didn’t want to go into her room after what had happened the night before, and was feeling so disturbed and frightened that she was actually glad that Draco was there with her.
“Look, Weasley,” Draco sighed, settling down next to her on the couch, though he kept a respectable distance. After the life-saving incident, they had formed a sort of very awkward, highly unstable friendship, but there was still a legion of kinks that needed to be worked out. “It’s broad daylight, you’re sitting next to the infamous Draco Malfoy, and you’re armed – wait, no you’re not. What did you do with your wand?”
Ginny shook her head.
“You don’t know?”
Ginny nodded.
Draco sighed again. “I’m sure the Aurors will find it. As for you – you can’t sit there like that forever. At least do your shoulder exercises.”
Ginny half-heartedly began moving her shoulder.
Draco’s patience was wearing thin. Everything had been fine until after breakfast. He had offered to wash the dishes, and during that time, he supposed Ginny’s shock wore off, causing her to be hit with the full force of the terror she just went through. He understood quite well that she was terrified, but at least she could speak to him. After all, he had saved her life, and they were supposed to be friends – sort of. “Is there anything you want me to get you?” he asked as nicely as he could.
Oliver. I want nothing more than to bury my head in his chest and have him tell me that everything would be all right. But everything wasn’t all right. With the team’s big match against the Appleby Arrows in less than two weeks, and one of their official Chasers missing, it was no wonder why Oliver’s screech owl (aptly named Bludger) was currently bashing itself against her window, along with all the other owls from friends, family, and reporters wanting to speak with her.
“Did you just say Oliver?” Draco asked in surprise (and hurt, seeing that Ginny was rejecting the company of her savior and friend – sort of – in favor of a brawny Quidditch Captain), but his words were lost to Ginny, who was deep in her own thoughts, and had not realized that she had spoken out loud.
Oliver was probably more concerned about Draco’s absence at practice than hers, because she was a useless, injured player. He was undoubtedly furious, and Ginny was almost surprised that he hadn’t sent Draco a Howler for skipping practice again. She wondered if Oliver had Splinched himself while trying to Apparate into her flat, which was usually warded to allow certain people to visit, but was now closed off against all visitors. She also wondered if his fireplace had spit him back out because hers was disconnected from the Floo network. She wondered what made winning so important that Oliver was skipping practice and floating outside her window to recruit Draco – floating outside her window?
“Hey, look,” Draco said with a strong amount of disdain, glancing at the Man-Who-Women-Liked-Better-Than-Their-Saviors, “Wood’s here.”
But Ginny didn’t care what Draco was saying, because she was more focused on getting his wand. After snatching it away, she pointed it at the window, ignored the waving Scotsman, and transfigured the window into a solid wall, blocking out all owls and Quidditch Captains.
“Impressive,” Draco muttered. “But I thought you wanted to see him. He looks concerned. Aren’t you going to talk to him?”
Ginny shook her head and buried her face into the cushion. Oliver wasn’t here for her – she knew it. Perhaps she was falling into a state of depression, but she felt so useless, and couldn’t think of a single reason why Oliver would talk to her. After all, when Draco had gotten in the way of the axe-murderer, he was almost hurt, and Oliver wouldn’t want to get hurt because of her, would he?
She really hadn’t thought about it for a very long time, but the sudden appearance of a mysterious murderer kept reminding her of the time when she almost died in the Chamber of Secrets. She kept picturing Tom Riddle’s face under the hood, and while she knew that Tom was gone, and would also never do anything so unrefined as to murder with an axe, it was enough to terrorize her into the state of speechless depression that she had fallen into after the incident with the Chamber. For months after Harry had rescued her, Ginny had not spoken a word, isolating herself because she felt that no one would understand, not even Harry. She was feeling the same way again – Oliver would not understand.
“Weasley. Talk to Wood. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” Draco couldn’t hide the bitterness in his voice, but couldn’t understand where that bitterness was coming from, since Ginny was obviously in a very disturbed state, and it was natural for her to prefer the company of an old friend than a new sort-of friend who also happened to be an old enemy, even if it was one who had saved her from what was terrifying her in the first place.
How did he know what I wanted? Must be that stupid Legilimency. She shook her head.
“Weasley.”
Ginny buried her face even more deeply into the cushion. She looked so pitiful, so vulnerable, so different from the real Ginny – the one that was crazy and slightly scary – that Draco couldn’t bring himself to be angry with her.
“Perhaps,” he said thoughtfully, “you need a Pensieve.”
Ginny looked up slowly. Perhaps she did.
---
“Wood!” Draco called. “I don’t think I can make it to practice today.”
Oliver lowered his broom from the fifth story. Draco scowled when he saw a passing woman nearly fall over from swooning at the Scotsman. Nobody – well, except for Pansy Parkinson and Rosalyn Lancaster, but they didn’t really count – ever swooned at him.
“Well, of course,” Oliver said, oblivious to the swooning woman, and interpreting Draco’s scowl as his anguish at missing a wonderful Quidditch practice. “Everything’s in the Daily Prophet. Looks like you had quite a night. I came here to see Ginny. How is she? Poor lass is probably terrified.” Oliver looked gravely concerned, and Draco, for some inexplicable reason, felt a pang of annoyance at this.
“Of course she’s terrified,” Draco said irritably. “Wouldn’t you be, if an axe-murderer was after you? That’s why I’m going to Dervish and Banges (*) right now, to buy her a Pensieve.”
“Good thinking. She’s in there by herself?”
“She wants no visitors. None. Only me,” Draco said, with more emphasis than was strictly necessary.
“Oh. Will she be all right?”
“She’ll be fine. There are more wards around her place than Hogwarts ever had. Nothing, not even a dust mite, can get in. I’m quite talented with wards, you know,” Draco added, without really knowing why he suddenly had the urge to brag.
“Good. Er…” Oliver looked uncomfortable.
“Yes?”
“Er…”
“I do need to get going, you know. Because I, unlike you, care about Weasley’s welfare.” Now, why in the name of Merlin did I say that?
“Er, right. If you say so. Er… We – er – I have decided to replace you with Katie Bell. Our next big game is in less than two weeks, and we need someone who’s more experienced. Sorry.” He really did look sorry, though he had no reason to be, since he was only a Captain making the best choice for his team.
Draco was highly affronted, but nodded curtly and Disapparated.
Once he was in Hogsmeade Village and out of Oliver’s earshot, Draco let out a string of curse words that wished the Puddlemere Captain a very painful death. “Replace me? How dare he replace me! With a Gryffindor, out of all people!” he fumed.
He marched down High Street to Dervish and Banges, and entered. He was greeted by a wizened old woman sitting at the counter. “I’m here to buy a Pensieve,” he said without preamble.
“Very well, sir,” said the old woman, and disappeared into a back room, leaving Draco by himself.
Draco thought about his own Pensieve. His Pensieve wasn’t just a collection of memories – it was the darkest years of his life. He was certain that the Pensieve would answer all of the questions he had about himself, but he was also afraid that he wouldn’t like what he would see. The memories couldn’t be too bad, since the Aurors had seen them and let him go free, but Draco was still apprehensive. The Dark Mark on his arm meant that he had been a Death Eater, but that hadn’t meant anything to him because he didn’t remember what it was really like. He was afraid that seeing his memories would bring a meaning to the Mark.
Draco also did not want to see his parents’ deaths. He didn’t know if he had actually witnessed them dying in the first place, but he wasn’t interested in finding out anytime soon. Of course, he could ask Potter or some other Auror to summarize the contents of his Pensieve for him, but that would mean admitting that he was scared – of himself – and no Malfoy should ever admit to being afraid.
Despite all the apprehension that he had towards his Pensieve, Draco was very, very curious. Other people knew more about him than he did, but he was certain that the people who he associated with now, namely, the Puddlemere United team, weren’t the best people to ask about himself. After all, until the beginning of his fourth year, he had not appreciated the companionship of anyone who wasn’t a Slytherin. And where were all the Slytherins now? Dead, imprisoned, or missing and at large. From what he had heard, the only happily surviving Slytherin was Tracey Davis, who had married Ravenclaw Terry Boot, and was running a small bookshop next to the Post Office right here in Hogsmeade. He had never liked Tracey very much. Not only was she a Half-Blood, she also preferred making friends with Ravenclaws to Slytherins, and hated Quidditch with a passion. So, Tracey probably knew less about him than most Gryffindors did, those in Azkaban weren’t exactly the sanest of people, and those who were dead were, well, dead. He really had no one to ask about himself.
Draco was distracted from further thought by the old woman reappearing from the back room, carrying a wrapped parcel that was the Pensieve. “Three hundred Galleons (**),” she said in her raspy voice.
“Three hundred Galleons? Woman, are you crazy? When my Father bought a Pensieve –”
“That was more than a decade ago, Mr. Malfoy. And, it was before the war. Inflation and post-war taxes are taking their toll,” she said somberly.
Draco couldn’t think of anything to say to that, so he paid, and on the way home, he thought about how Ginny better not collect rent from him for the next six months – if, of course, she let him stay that long.
---
Ginny Weasley’s room was a mess. It had nothing to do with the Aurors who had searched the room, because Aurors were professionals at putting things back where they found them. That was the problem. The Aurors had put the dirty sock on the chair because that’s where they found it, and they had stuffed the – the – half-eaten plant-furball hybrid thing, whatever it was, under the bed because that’s where they found it. Ginny had put them there in the first place, and for what reason, only Merlin knew.
Draco was not particularly interested in Ginny Weasley’s belongings. Though he was dirt-poor at the moment (he was actually three hundred Galleons in deficit, until the redhead paid him back), he had once possessed the finest things money could buy, as well as the things that money could not buy (but blackmailing could), and Ginny’s things did not appeal to him in the slightest. Draco thought that Ginny gave a new meaning to the word ‘priceless’. Her things were so worthless that they did not have a price – they weren’t worth a tenth of a Knut. In fact, if he were Ginny, he would actually pay anyone who was willing to take the broken limited-edition Harry Potter bobblehead.
Even while finding it painful to look at the foul objects in Ginny’s room, Draco made a resolution to clean the place. Ginny had shooed him out of the sitting room while she extracted her memories. Because Ginny happened to live in a one-room flat, he had a choice between going to her room, or sitting in the loo. It was just his bad luck that he had decided to open the door to Pandora’s Box, first. Now that he saw the treacherous filth, he could not ignore it. This room was pure evil, and it needed to be purged.
Not wanting to touch anything, especially not that clump of cloth that looked suspiciously like dirty underwear, Draco magically lifted everything off the floor and placed them on the bed to be sorted. The half-eaten plant-furball hybrid thing didn’t really seem to be alive, but it squeaked unpleasantly when Draco poked it with his wand.
Draco sighed. This was going to take a long time.
During his cleaning, Draco came across Ginny’s underwear drawer, which he definitely should not have seen (though the massive amounts of white cotton told him why she wasn’t married yet), used the Laundering Charm on over twenty articles of clothing, and had sorted a huge number of odds and ends into two piles: one for ‘Broken’, and one for ‘Still usable, but what is it?’.
He still didn’t know whether the lumpy green furball was truly alive or not, and was considering the possibility of burning it, along with everything else in the godforsaken room, when the door opened.
Ginny walked in, holding her Pensieve, and looking much better than she did earlier that morning. What she saw almost made her drop the Pensieve. “Malfoy! What have you done to my room? It’s – it’s –”
“Clean?” Draco supplied.
“Horrible! Who gave you the permission to ransack my stuff?” Ginny demanded.
“Ransack? I believe I have done the opposite of ransacking, which is organizing very neatly.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Malfoy. How will I ever be able to find anything in here? Nothing is where I left it!”
“Your clothes would either be in your closet or your dresser, which are the places where most normal people keep their clothes, though I am in no way implying that you are normal. Your Quidditch- and school-related awards and trophies are now out on display instead of hiding in some dark corner, which really was an insult to them – I wouldn’t be surprised if one of your trophies were trying to kill you for shoving it under a pile of unwashed socks. Your other belongings are sorted into various drawers based on what they are. This pile is for things that are broken and need to be tossed out. That pile is for the things that I have deemed usable, but have no idea what they are. I suppose this furball –”
“Stop poking Arnold Jr.!”
“Arnold Jr.? If this great monstrosity is Arnold Jr., then I definitely wouldn’t want to meet Arnold Sr.!”
Ginny put down her Pensieve and cuddled the lumpy, misshapen, Quaffle-sized furball in her arms. “Arnold Jr. was Fred and George’s first attempt at trying to create a Pygmy Puff Plant, where Pygmy Puffs grow on trees. As you can see, it didn’t work out right, and after my Pygmy Puff named Arnold died, I adopted this little critter.”
“Ah. So that mutant furball is your pet?” Draco looked both disgusted and amused. “What does it do? Other than squeak when poked, I mean.”
“It eats the dead things in my room.”
Draco grimaced. “You make it sound like that’s a good thing.”
“It is,” Ginny insisted. “When Arnold Jr. wasn’t around, the dead things started decomposing, and it smelled sort of bad.”
“Really? Bad, you say? I can’t imagine your room smelling anything but heavenly,” Draco said sarcastically. “Enough talk of furballs and bugs. How was the Pensieve?”
Ginny grinned widely. “I’m tons better. My head is cleared, and I don’t feel so miserable anymore. Thanks for buying me the Pensieve.”
Draco opened his mouth to say that he did not buy her the Pensieve, because she would be paying for it, but Ginny looked so thankful, and no one had ever been thankful to him before, and the Pensieve really did seem to have helped her a lot, so when he spoke, instead of saying a nasty comment on how she was indebted to him forever and ever, he ended up saying a simple, “You’re welcome,” which, of course, was the first time he had said that to anyone.
Ginny smiled again, and her eyes lit up in such a way that Draco did not ever want to see that light go out, not if he could help it. “Do you think we should go to practice now?”
Draco swore inside his head. Count on Ginny to ruin the mood, Draco thought, though what mood she was ruining, he didn’t know. “No,” he snapped. “Termite-home replaced me.”
“Termite-home?”
“Wood. That ruddy piece of firewood replaced me with Katie Bell. Apparently, she’s more experienced than I am, even when I practically lived on a fucking broomstick while I was in bloody Switzerland.”
Ginny laughed. Her laughter sounded sort of like Ron’s chortle-guffaw mixture, and rather unladylike, but it was still nice enough to lift Draco’s spirits a fraction of an inch. “Are you jealous of Katie? And you’re mad at Oliver?” She laughed some more. “He was sorry, wasn’t he? Even though he shouldn’t be. He’s always so sorry when inconveniencing other people, unlike some people who barge into other people’s homes and demand to live there.” Ginny said this in a teasing sort of way, but Draco was annoyed. He had never liked the old Gryffindor Keeper. He was too much of a gentleman, the ladies loved him too much, and he was just too bloody, noble, honest Gryffindor.
“He’s only doing his job. That’s what he’s supposed to do, replace those who skip practice with those who don’t.”
“And why did I have to skip practice?” Draco snarled, angry with the fact that Ginny was defending Wood, even after he, Draco, her new sort-of friend, had bought her a Pensieve. “Was it for my own convenience? I don’t think so!”
“But Oliver only meant the best –”
She was still defending Wood! What was wrong with her? “I only meant the best too! I only wanted to help the stupid chit who had to go and bother some crazy axe-murderer! I almost got killed while trying to save a worthless thing like you!” Draco realized, a moment too late, the impact of the words he had just shouted.
The happy light in Ginny’s eyes flickered off, and Draco inwardly swore even more. “Well,” she said coldly. “Did I ever ask you to get involved in my business? I truly thank you for saving my life, but remember that it was completely your choice, so you really shouldn’t blame anything on me.” Ginny tossed him a bag of Galleons. “Here’s the money for the Pensieve, Malfoy. I was going to give it to you at dinner tonight, but consider that canceled.” She whirled around and headed out the door, but paused to drop one more comment. “And you know what? Oliver didn’t take you off the official team because you missed practice. It’s because you absolutely stink at being a team player.”
Ginny left, and Draco’s anger fizzled out. He felt like the biggest loser in the world. Their sort-of friendship had fallen apart at the seams after just three hours, and it was all his fault. How did he always muck things up like this? He poked Arnold Jr. It squeaked. Draco picked it up and buried his face in its surprisingly warm fur. It made a content sort of purring noise, and Draco decided that if his friendship with Ginny wasn’t going to work out, he would, at the very least, make friends with Arnold.
---
Katie was playing very well. It was almost as if she had never taken time off from the sport to work at Gringotts. Rosalyn actually seemed to like Katie, and everything was going smoothly. Oliver kept giving Katie two thumbs up, and Ginny had yelled at him to keep at least one hand on his broomstick. Now, he was grinning at Katie instead, and Ginny thought she was going to be sick.
Ginny was furtively glaring at Katie, who was hovering near her, and waving for Ian to pass her the Quaffle. Katie caught it successfully, and zoomed away, just in time to miss the Bludger that was flying towards her. If Ginny had paid more attention to the game as a whole, instead of focusing her glare on Katie, she would have noticed that the Bludger switched its target to the nearest available player, who, unfortunately, was her.
The only person who noticed was Antonio Rabnott, the Reserve Beater who had sent that particular Bludger. By the time he yelled, “Ginny! Look out!”, the Bludger had already knocked Ginny unconscious.
When Ginny came back to her senses, there was a dull ache in her head, and she was being lifted up by her teammates. Someone was saying something about St. Mungo’s, but stopped when Katie yelled, “She’s awake!”
Ginny had no idea what was going on. She had been glaring at Katie, and the next thing she knew, her teammates were fussing over her, and Katie’s face was two inches from hers. “Ginny!” Katie cried. “Are you okay?” Katie was shaking her shoulders, and Ginny could feel her brain rattling.
“I’m fine!” she yelled. The pain Katie was causing her shoulder was worse than the pain in her skull, and Ginny decided that this week was definitely not her week. “What happened?” she asked, after slapping away Katie’s hands.
“I’m really sorry,” said Tony, looking more scared than sorry. The last time he hit Ginny with a Bludger, she had yelled at him for hours, and Merlin knew that an irate Ginny was more terrifying than a Death Eater. “I – IhityouwithaBludger.”
Ginny sighed, and it was only after breathing in the scent of wood and grass that she realized that the person holding her up was Oliver. It’s pathetic, Ginny thought, that I can recognize Oliver’s wood and grass smell while sitting in the middle of a grassy pitch, surrounded by more than a dozen broomsticks. She sighed again and said, “It’s all right, Tony. This is Quidditch. Quidditch and injuries are like potions and cauldrons.”
“Are you sure you’re all right, Ginny?” asked Oliver softly, and Ginny felt a surge of anger. If only he hadn’t grinned at Katie, then she wouldn’t have been glaring at her. But who was she to decide who Oliver smiled at?
Feeling rather dejected, Ginny stood up and reached for her wand, only to remember that it was still missing. “I’m fine,” she repeated, and shrugged off Oliver’s hand. “I just need to go home and sleep. Today really hasn’t been the best of days.”
“Right, then. I’ll walk you to the Coach’s office.”
Ginny was suddenly too tired to argue, and let him follow.
Halfway to the office, Oliver spoke again. “Ginny, if it’s all right with you, I’d like to take you to my place for some soup. There’s nothing better than my Mum’s Scotch Broth to make you feel better.”
Ginny didn’t know what was what anymore. She missed the days when Oliver was simply her best friend. But a Scotch Broth did sound good. “But you’ll miss practice,” Ginny protested.
“I don’t need practice,” Oliver replied with a cheeky wink, then put on his professional face. “No, I wasn’t being serious, so never tell anyone I said that. You can never have enough practice, but I think everyone’s worn out for today. After confirming that you were alive, half the team called it a day and practically ran home. I have been working them a bit hard these days,” he admitted.
“Well then, how about some good old Scotch Broth?” Ginny said, approaching the fireplace.
Oliver grinned. “After you, milady.”
---
Draco was pacing. Practice should have ended hours ago, but Ginny was yet to come back. If there hadn’t been an axe-murderer on the loose, he would have assumed that Ginny was just trying to avoid him because of their earlier spat, but Ginny was too sensible a person to be doing that when her life was under threat.
She didn’t even have her wand, for Merlin’s sake! He shouldn’t have let her leave the safety of the flat at all. What good would wards around her flat do when Ginny insisted on leaving said flat?
What was she doing? Where was she? Who was she with? If it was Oliver bloody Wood, Draco swore to become the next axe-murderer, and Wood would be his target.
Draco didn’t know exactly what it was that he had against the Scottish Keeper. He was chipper and courteous to everyone (unless you were on the opposite Quidditch team – then he’d knock you off your broom without a second thought), but of course, the women took this the wrong way. They fawned all over him. Draco believed that he, himself, was strikingly gorgeous, and most (several – some – a handful – oh fine, two) women inclined to agree, until Wood showed up. At school, during his first Quidditch match, Draco had stalked onto the field, and Pansy had been screaming and waving at him… Until Wood came out, and Pansy was momentarily stunned into a dreamy-eyed expression. Then she received an elbow in the ribs from Blaise Zabini, and realized that it was a Gryffindor she was drooling over. Draco honestly did not think that Wood was so attractive that his fellow Slytherins could overlook the bloody scarlet robes of the Gryffindor team, but he wasn’t the most objective person to ask.
Rosalyn had also shown some interest in Draco, but that was only because as a Chaser on the official team, it wouldn’t do for Rosalyn to hover around her own team’s Keeper when the goalposts were on the other side of the field. With Wood too far away to look at, she had considered dropping back to the Reserve team, but then Draco showed up, and she had taken to appreciating the next best thing. Draco was infuriated with being second-best. He was only second-best to Harry Potter, and now Wood was reminding him of that bespectacled git.
Someone knocked on the door, and Draco was jerked out of his thoughts. Was it Ginny? Was it the axe-murderer? No. It was the bespectacled git that he had just been mentally cursing. Well, speak of the devil – or the hero, in Potter’s case.
“Potter,” Draco snapped, opening the door. “What are you doing here?”
Harry was halfway between amusement and irritation. “I thought I heard a bag of Galleons dropping out of the sky, but I suppose I was mistaken.”
“Oh. That. Well yes, that bag of Galleons officially belongs to me, so hand it over.”
“Polite as always, Malfoy.”
“Of course.”
“Where’s Ginny?”
“I don’t know.”
Harry raised both his eyebrows. He had never been able to master the art of raising just one eyebrow. “What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“I mean I haven’t a clue.”
“Malfoy!”
“Potter.”
“Did you kick her out of her own flat?”
“No, Potter!” Draco snapped. Why did Potter insist on thinking that he was so ill-mannered that he would kick a woman out of her own house? He may not be the next Oliver Wood, but he was still an aristocratic gentleman – sort of. “She walked out herself. She went to Quidditch practice and never came back.”
Harry suddenly blanched. “Malfoy.”
“What, Potter?”
“Pansy Parkinson was just released from Azkaban this evening. You don’t think…”
Draco raised a delicate eyebrow (contrary to popular belief, he did not pluck his eyebrows; they were naturally thin like that). “Nonsense, Potter. It’s not that I’m defending her, but if she just got out today, how has she been making those previous attacks?”
“She was probably in contact with someone else.”
“Not me!” Draco said defensively.
“I know it’s not you. But… oh, why haven’t I realized this before?” Harry asked, his green eyes lighting up with his sudden realization.
“Because you’re a completely hopeless dunderhead?”
“Did you know that we never caught Blaise Zabini?”
“I’m not surprised. He always was a slippery one.”
“He never was much of a threat, and there was nothing suggesting he was related to Death Eater activities, so we kind of dismissed him.”
“You know,” said Draco thoughtfully, “Ever since that Chamber incident, Zabini’s regarded Weasley with some kind of awe…”
“Merlin,” Harry breathed, his pickled-toad eyes going wide. “I know what he’s up to! He thinks Voldemort’s soul might still be in Ginny! He’s going to kill Ginny using non-magical means so Voldemort’s soul wouldn’t be harmed, and it would be magically transferred to him! Zabini’s trying to resurrect Voldemort!”
“And is this possible?” Draco asked, feeling slightly alarmed.
“Of course not! The only reason Voldemort is dead is because all seven parts of his soul are destroyed, and Ginny is definitely Voldemort-soul-free! But Zabini doesn’t know this! He’s going to kill Ginny, and it would be for nothing!”
“I see. So what happens next?”
“I’m going to have to get Zabini before he gets Ginny!” Harry declared, then Disapparated.
“Hey!” Draco exclaimed to thin air. “You didn’t give me my bag of Galleons!”
---
To be continued…
---
(*) Dervish and Banges is a ‘magical equipment’ store, and I figured that a Pensieve would go in that category.
(**) I really should have mentioned this ages ago, but according to the HP Lexicon’s currency converter, 100 Galleons = 500 UK Pounds = 741 Euros = 993 US Dollars.
Author notes: A/N: I am really, really, really sorry for the lack of updates this past year! Life has been ridiculously hectic. I am terribly sorry for keeping you all waiting for so long, but please understand. I had school, a job (with a mean boss!), my sister got married, and there were just so many things going on! Please forgive me! I will make it up with quality chapters and frequent updates!
~ Sheriden
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