Ginny crashed out of the grounds of Malfoy Manor, Disapparating as soon as she set foot outside the grounds. When she re-materialised, it was outside the gates of Hogwarts. She flung the heavy iron barriers open and ran full pelt towards the castle entrance. Before she could raise her hand to batter on the oaken doors, they opened. Ginny stopped with her hand half raised, mouth slightly agape.

"Hello, dear. I foresaw your coming."

"P-Professor Trelawney," Ginny sputtered, catching her breath. "What – what do you mean?"

"The hand of power has been grasped, has it not? He is trying to return, to take young Mr. Malfoy for his own. Do you know what you must do?"

"Yes, yes," she rushed. "Ron told me about it years ago. I haven't forgotten."

"Good, good. Minerva is in her office; theft will not be necessary."

Ginny blinked, shook her head and muttered, "Of course not."

Despite her hurriedness, it was impossible for Ginny not to drink in the safe and familiar walls of Hogwarts. The suits of armour were once again standing proudly on their plinths; the moonlight cascaded through the draughty windows, dropping light upon the cold stone floor like scattered Sickles. Even the smell was a comfort – the scent of potions wafting from the dungeons, and the wholesome waft of dinner being served in the great hall. Ginny did not stop to savour them. She rushed through the frigid halls, skidding to a stop at the stone gargoyles that guarded the Headmistress' chambers.

She stopped short.

"Shit," she murmured to herself. "Password."

The gargoyles were stock still and unblinking.

"You must let me through," she pleaded. "It's an emergency!"

Still they were unmoved.

"OPEN UP!" she shouted, losing her patience. "Open up, you hideous swine!"

"Miss Weasley! Is that you?" Minerva McGonagall's voice interrupted from behind her.

"Professor! I need your help!" Ginny blurted, whipping around to face her old Head of House.

"What on earth are you doing here?"

"No time to explain. Can I borrow the Sorting Hat?"

McGonagall blinked at her. "I'm sorry?"

"Can I borrow the Sorting Hat? It's an emergency. Draco is in terrible danger!"

"I beg your pardon! Master Malfoy, you say? If you're willing to save him from danger, you certainly must be a Gryffindor. I'm not sure you need the Sorting Hat!"

Ginny cracked a small smile at the indignant tone of McGonagall's voice. Of course she would always belong to Gryffindor; that was without question.

"Professor, I will always be a Gryffindor, and if you let me have that hat, I'll prove it beyond doubt." Her earnestness showed in the set lines of her face, and McGonagall softened.

"Come up, Miss Weasley. I expect a full explanation."

"I promise I will explain after I have saved Draco. He is ... a good friend," she finished lamely.

McGonagall nodded sharply and spoke the password to the gargoyles (Oddment). She swept Ginny onto the rising golden steps and into the circular office beyond. As soon as Ginny stepped foot off the staircase, she bolted to the cabinet holding the Sorting Hat. Fumbling with the catch, she flung the glass door open and snatched the hat from its stand. Ramming it onto her head, she squeezed her eyes together and thought loudly for the hat to hear.

Minerva watched in bemusement at the scene before her, letting out a gasp when the hat performed a familiar contraction atop Ginny's head. Understanding lit her eyes as she looked intently at Ginny.

"Who?" she asked.

"Lucius," Ginny replied as she withdrew the gleaming Sword of Gryffindor from the hat's unfathomable depths.

She nodded her thanks to the Professor and withdrew the used port-it note from her pocket. "Hope this still works..." she said, as she tapped her wand to the paper.

A flash of bright blue encompassed the room and she was whisked away, the sword clanking against her leg as the world whizzed past her.

The Jester was speaking again, from its own mouth now.

"She left you, Draco. She saw what you are and she ran! Wise girl, for a Mudblood lover."

"No, no, no," Draco muttered. "She knows. She knows what I am."

"It is what you have always been, deep down."

"Stop it," he begged. "Leave me alone."

Hunched in the armchair, he looked like a frightened child. Blaise was at a loss. As soon as Ginny had left, Draco had retreated into himself. This schizophrenic exchange had been going on ever since. He had tried shouting, cajoling, even firing spells. The puppet had no interest in Blaise; its attention was focused solely on Draco and his worsening mental state. It would break him soon, if Blaise could not stop it.

One last try, he thought.

Creeping to Draco's side, he slowly reached out a hand to the Jester, intending to rip it from his partner's hand. In a flash, Draco was atop him, pinning him to the ground. Blaise's vision filled with the leering face of the Jester and he struggled against the abnormally strong grip around his throat. He strained against the weight of Draco's body, his hands clawing at the Jester, at Draco, at anything around him that he could use as a weapon. Remembering his wand, Blaise tried to reach the holster on his left arm.

"I will have him."

The Jester's whisper in his ear was like an icy wind. Black dots sprung to life in front of Blaise's eyes, joining together until only pinpricks of light remained.

BANG

The last thing Blaise saw before the darkness took him was Ginny Weasley's flaming hair streaming through the door, a large ornate sword grasped in her hands.

Draco stood abruptly, staring in disbelief at the vision before him.

"Ginny," he rasped. "You came back."

"I'm so sorry, Draco." She raised the sword high above her head, bringing it down with a sickening thud on his possessed hand.

A blood curdling shriek rent the air, otherworldly and inhuman. Draco's exhausted body hit the floor, his arm severed from the elbow down.

When Draco awoke it was to the blindingly white lights of a hospital room. His head was aching something fierce and his mind felt clouded, as though a great fog had descended upon it. Searching blearily around the room, his gaze landed on the red-head asleep beside him, clasping his hand.

His hand.

The memories hit him with the force of the Hogwarts Express. The mysterious letter, the box, the Jester – and then his recollection became staggered. He remembered drinking. A lot. He remembered writing reports. He remembered Ginny and Blaise storming his house.

His head whipped down to his arm. It was still there. He leaned closer towards the limb, eyes squinting against the intense glow of the ward. A faint silver scar ran around the skin underneath the elbow, forming a perfect circle around the arm.

"I told you I'd cut your arm off if you did any more work."

Draco turned his head on the pillow to look at Ginny.

"I don't recall working, Weaselby." He coughed as he spoke, throat sore from lack of use.

"Paperwork counts as work where I'm from."

The mischievous light was in her twinkling eyes once more. Draco relaxed into the bed. He tried to use his most snobbish accent.

"Well, you come from a hovel, Weasley. Paperwork is something you probably dreamed of as a child."

"Nah, that was Percy," she joked. "I dreamed of simpler things, like a uniform that hadn't been worn by three older brothers first."

"Urgh," he uttered. "How vile."

This time the haughtiness was not affected.

"How do you feel?" she asked.

"Like I had my body and mind taken over by – well. What was that, anyway?"

"A Horcrux," she whispered, as though afraid to say it aloud. "Your father's Horcrux."

She released a shaky breath.

"Ron told me about the locket Tom Riddle used for his Horcrux: about how it fed on Ron's fears to gain power over him. It brought out the worst of him ... He abandoned Harry."

Draco stared at her before confessing, "I thought you had abandoned me."

"No," she said softly. "I saved you. The Sword of Gryffindor can destroy a Horcrux..." A sob ripped from her chest. "I – I cut off your arm, then stabbed it in its wretched face!"

"Well, I seem to have recovered amazingly well."

She smiled a little, as he had hoped she would.

"Well, I am a Mediwitch. Reattaching limbs is nothing new."

"Still, I reckon I owe you one, for saving my life and all."

She looked up at him through her eyelashes, as though measuring him.

"Take me out for dinner and we'll call it quits," she offered.

"Fine." He exhaled noisily. "But you're not using a knife."