It was two weeks since Draco had visited St. Mungo's, and Ginny Weasley was beginning to grow concerned. It was not unusual for him to be absent for months on end, but usually when he visited for her services, he would keep her informed of his progress. Not only because they were almost friends, but because her advice was usually invaluable.

She had not heard from Draco since the day after he was sent on sick leave. He had sent her an owl telling her that a mysterious letter had arrived, foretelling doom and other such dross. Though she had thought nothing of it at the time, she was beginning to worry that perhaps it had been a threat after all. She had sent a number of owls in the intervening weeks, but none of them had been returned. If she hadn't known better, she'd have thought he had injured his writing hand. Even then, Malfoy knew how to use a Dictate-a-Quill.

It was with these niggling worries on her mind that she paid a visit to the Auror Headquarters in the Ministry of Magic. She went under the pretence of visiting Hermione, who worked in the Law Enforcement department. After a brief chat about the possibility of self-writing paperwork, during which Ginny mostly glazed over, she positioned herself near to Blaise Zabini, who she knew to be Draco's partner.

"Hey, Zabini," she called.

"Hi there, Weasley. I should thank you for getting Draco signed off; it's been ever so peaceful without his pompous preening."

She laughed. "Ah! I can only imagine. Does he file his nails after or before a raid?"

"Both," Zabini said, poker faced.

Ginny let out a slight giggle. "I can believe it."

"Have you heard from Draco lately?"

The question reaffirmed Ginny's unease.

"That's what I was going to ask you. It's been almost two weeks since I've had word."

"Oh, I've heard from him," said Blaise darkly, "but something seems amiss."

"Amiss?"

"We have been sending Malfoy the odd bit of paperwork to finish off, while he's away from the office. He started sending it back daily, filled in as diligently as usual."

"I sense a 'but' coming," Ginny prompted.

"But," said Blaise pointedly, "they have been returning less frequently, and they're not... well. They're not Draco's usual style."

"I can't imagine Draco not being thorough." She frowned. "He's always struck me as being very professional."

"Maybe you should take a look from a, ah, medical perspective."

Ginny's eyebrows shot into her hair. "Is it that bad?"

"Come have a look."

________________________________________

Draco's head swam as he opened his eyes. The skin on his arm was raw and blistered from where he had tried to prise the hand puppet away from the flesh. It itched furiously. In an effort to ignore the pain, he took another swig of whiskey.

"Pathetic boy, drinking away your problems."

He ignored it, leaving the offending arm dangling from the arm of his chair. The sling was off, which was for the best. He could not do anything with his good hand unless he wanted the puppet to do it for him. He had tried it a few times, and it had ended badly.

Last week, he had tried to fill in some crime reports. It had taken all of his strength of will to manoeuvre the quill with his fingers stuck in the traitorous cloth of the jester. He had managed, mostly, to work as normal. It was only when he read through the reports that had been sent back by an irate Blaise Zabini that he saw the influence his 'other half' was having over him. In random places throughout the report, phrases were written that he was sure were not his own.

He deserved it, the dirty Mudblood.

They were scattered throughout the whole damn thing. He knew it was true, what the puppet had told him. It was him. He thought those things sometimes, even after the terror of the war. Still, somewhere deep inside him was the old burning hatred.

We should have killed them all.

"STOP IT!" he screamed, throwing the glass against the wall where it shattered into a myriad of pieces. "Stop making me think these things! Putting those thoughts into my head!"

He glared at it, knowing he should do something. I should go see Ginny.

"Filthy blood traitor!"

He said it aloud. For the first time it was he that spoke, not the puppet.

"I wouldn't go see Ginny if I were you," its poison dripped into his ear. "Who knows what we might do to her?"

A sob tugged in his chest. He mustn't go near her, at all costs.

"Have another drink, you pathetic excuse for a Malfoy."

Draco dragged the bottle to his lips. Might as well, he thought. At least I won't be able to think.

"Good boy," the jester whispered.

He sank into oblivion.

________________________________________

Blaise was looking at the latest report to come from Malfoy Manor.

We should have killed them all.

He looked up at Ginny. "We have to go over there. Now."

She wore an alarmed expression. "Do you think that's wise?"

"I don't really see that we have a choice. Something is wrong. Coming?"

He held out a white post-it note, with 'Malfoy Manor' scribbled on the top.

"We have emergency port-it notes," he explained. "Just in case..."

She grasped it as blue light surrounded them both, the familiar tug beneath her naval sending her into swirling oblivion. When her feet slammed into the ground, it was not the relenting earth that she had expected. The solid marble floor beneath her caused her knees to buckle, and she was caught just in time by Zabini, whose Auror reflexes were clearly up to scratch.

"Draco?" she questioned into the stagnant air.

There was no reply.

"Where are we?" she whispered at Zabini.

"The main entrance hall of the manor. If I know Draco, he is either in his bedroom or the study. We'll try the study first."

"How do you know?" she whispered again.

"You don't need to whisper, Weasley. It's not a library."

"You don't need to be an arse, Zabini, but it clearly doesn't stop you."

Ginny headed up the grand staircase, her feet surprisingly light and nimble as she took the steps two at a time. Blaise's long legs soon caught up with her and they fell into step together, peering through open doors as they travelled along a dingy corridor. Small puffs of dust rose from their feet, the particles tickling Ginny's nose.

"He hates the house," Zabini said abruptly.

"I gathered that from the fuss he made when I signed him off."

Ginny's tone was light and jovial. When she looked over to Zabini, she saw that his mouth was set in a thin line and there was a crease between his brows, showing his severity.

"No, Weasley, he hates this house. He won't spend more time in it than necessary. There are dark ghosts of memories lingering here…"

Ginny did not respond. She quickened her pace, trotting down the dimly lit halls. Halting suddenly, she realised that she had reached a dead end. Blaise was still halfway down the corridor and had stopped; he was staring into one of the open doorways, a look of trepidation dancing across his usually strong features. She crept towards him, footsteps muffled by the dense, dirt encrusted rug, which swept the length of the floor.

When she peered around the gap in the door, her jaw dropped and remained limply hanging open as she took in the sickening sight before her.

________________________________________

"There are intruders in our ancestral home."

"This isn't a home. It's a hellhole."

"Do not besmirch your family, disgusting filth! You would be nothing, nothing without the legacy of this estate!"

"Legacy!" Draco spat on the floor. "Old crones and evil masters, that's all this manor has ever held."

"Enough!"

The Jester hissed the word, its treacherous eyes boring into Draco's own fatigued ones. Draco turned his head away from it, as though looking elsewhere would lessen the intensity of its hatred.

"They're approaching."

Faint footfalls padded past the study, their pace quick and nimble.

"The dark one has seen you. He can see your evil, your boiling rage. You are full of it, from crown to toe. Full of fell purpose and dire cruelty."

Draco's eyes were closed tight, and he had his arm covering his ears in an attempt to block out the haunting accusations. It was no use. They were spilling from his mouth, rattling up his throat to reverberate in his head like the bellman; a death knell.

A gasp echoed through the open door. Draco's head whipped around, an unnatural light shining in his frantic eyes.

"Who is there? Show yourself!"

Ginny tried to rush forward, desperate to help her most troubled friend, but Zabini held her back. He whispered in her ear, "I will go first, just in case."

"In case of what?" She sounded hurt on Draco's behalf, as though she believed he could not possibly do any harm.

"In case that thing, whatever it is, has taken him over completely. He might try to harm you."

"Why would he?"

"Because of who you are; because of who he thinks he is."

"I don't understand." Her eyes were clouded with confusion. "Who he thinks he is?"

Blaise sighed. "He thinks he is his father, incarnate. Bad blood begets bad blood."

Her mane of flaming hair shook in her disbelief. She motioned to Blaise to go forward. They crossed the threshold.

"Here comes the traitor! All talk and no action, Zabini. Idle defectors against the mighty cause, you and your family were. You dare to walk in my house?"

A change had come over Draco's voice. It no longer held its usual dulcet, mellow and seductive tone; it was cracked and gravelled. There was menace trailing under his words: an evil spirit waiting to strike out. His hair was matted and dishevelled, and his cheeks gaunt and covered in ragged stubble. The eyes were not his own. Ginny was struck by his resemblance to Lucius in the final days of the war.

The hate-filled eyes widened when they saw her.

"OUT! Get out!" His eyes narrowed in rage. "I should kill you where you stand, Weasley."

It was the way he said it: cold, calculated. It was then that Ginny knew this was not Draco, not any part of him.

"He is his father," she breathed. "I have to go. I have to go right now."

She fled, leaving Draco and Blaise behind to fight it out on their own.