Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, and I do not intend to profit from this story.
Note: This story is compliant with all of the books in the Harry Potter series, and compliant with the epilogue that Jo has provided for us. I am merely filling the gap with a highly unlikely event. Haha. But nonetheless, I hope you enjoy it.
Prologue
She was freezing cold.
Father Christmas was well on his way, bringing along thick layers of white snow, bright decorations, and merry tunes. He would bring gifts and laughter, family and cheer. For the first time all year, witches and wizards and muggles alike would all remember to cherish their loved ones, pulling even the most distant relatives into bone-crushing hugs and wishing them a merry holiday. Consciences would kick into full-gear and gifts would be given, solely for the purpose giving. People would be inexplicably happy, just like they had been the year before, and the year before that, and just like they would be every year to come.
But along with the trees and wreaths, Old Kris Kringle would bring the frigid winter air—air that bit at her pale skin, clawed at her round, red nose. Along with gifts and merriment, he would bring the painful memories of lost loved ones, and he would bring the torturous, taunting aromas of Christmas cooking: of roasts, of hams, of mash.
Her stomach gave an unpleasant purr, and she pressed the palm of her hand firmly to it, crinkling her brow. More and more often, her stomach seemed to scream its frustrations and hungry cries at her. It whined like a spoiled child deprived of his favourite toy, kicking and screaming and sobbing, but she, the red-faced parent, did her best to find distractions.
The let out a slow breath, bearing down on an already-agitated spot on the inside of her lower lip.
"Foooooooood," her stomach growled louder, pleading her for relief.
"No," she hissed.
She had always been proud and stubborn.
She slowly and gingerly pushed her body into a sitting position, eyeing the abandoned plate in front of her: the scraps of last night's dinner that someone had shoveled onto a plate and left on the floor for her, like some common cur. She felt her eyes narrowing in contempt for the plate, and for the wizard that had left it there. There it sat, watching her throughout the night, mocking her. It laughed as her body tensed with hunger pains, cackled as her stomach whined. The indistinguishable mass of hardly-edible scraps knew exactly how tempting it was, and reveled in its own appeal, enjoying her inner struggle.
She wanted it. Without a doubt, Ginny wanted to shove mouthful after mouthful down her throat and pacify the guttural rumbling in her torso. She wanted to swallow whatever pride she had left, whatever kept her from the plate. She wanted to submit to its will.
Carefully, she picked the plate up off the floor, momentarily transfixed by it. She couldn't help herself. She pinched a chunk of meat between her thumb and her forefinger, silently apologizing to herself before ravenously tearing off a hunk of it with her teeth. She hardly even chewed it before it slid down her throat and she tore off another. Even her own sudden self-loathing couldn't stop her: she tore hunk after hunk of what she could only assume was a leftover pork-chop and sucking what she could off of the bone before dropping it back onto the plate.
Merlin, she was weak.
With a sudden cry of anger and disgust, and with a sudden rush of adrenalin, Ginny hurled the plate across the room, relishing in the sound of it shattering against the opposite wall of her dark, dank prison.
But her stomach moaned in return, pulling another pained moan from her mouth.
Her elbows gave in underneath her weight and, utterly drained, she collapsed back onto her cot. She pressed her eyes closed, listening to the quickened hammering of her pulse in her ears. She sighed, glancing across at the opposite wall at the food which clung to the wall and dripped noisily to the ground. Even somewhat satiated by the protein, her body yearned for that food, even if it came from the soiled, stone floor. And if she had had the strength, she might have crawled across the floor and scooped up the discarded goop with her dirty hands.
She closed her eyes again, letting out another soft groan. The aching only got worse as the time passed, and the more often she gave in to it, the more often she forced herself to resist, simply restarting the torturous cycle.
She peeled her amber eyes back open, silently watching the faint fog of her spent air rise toward the ceiling.
There was no word for this. There simply wasn't one.
Ginny wasn't even angry anymore, and she was no longer afraid. She had been desensitized to anger and fear, and even sadness, from the very beginning, leaving her with little but contempt to dwell upon. The red-hot coals of loathing still burned in the pit of her stomach, driving her derision and defiance. They had tried to blow it out, but she still retained her fire.
In many ways, she was still strong.
She still fought them, every step of the way. She had long given-up on the hope for escape, even for rescue. She knew. She knew that she would rot in this hole, that she would be dead before anyone ever found her—but Ginny Weasley wouldn't go down without a bloody fight.
Once, she had been an athlete. She had been beautiful, fair, strong. And now, she was reduced to a wilting stem of a dead flower. Her arms and legs, pale and devoid of muscle, hung loosely from her center while her bones protruded offensively beneath her pallid skin. She had been through plenty of abuse: insulting slurs concerning her sex, her affiliation with muggles, and her family's reputation. She had lived through more sessions of torture than any other witch she had ever known. All she could do now was lie on the rickety cot they'd provided and stare daggers at the darkness. Now, her toes hung dangerously over the line between life and death, and she was simply waiting for one of them to shove her forward.
But Harry kept her upright, kept her gripping the earth with her feet. He didn't deserve the guilt any more than she deserved the death sentence.
According to Ministry protocol, Ginevra Molly Weasley would have been presumed dead six months after she was filed as 'missing.' Searching would have ceased. A memorial service would have been held. The Wizarding World would have mourned the loss of Harry Potter's wife-to-be and the best Chaser the Holyhead Harpies had ever seen, and slowly, one by one, each fan, each friend, and each member of her family would have given up on her. But if she knew him like she thought she did, Harry never would. Harry would keep looking. Convinced that her relationship with him was the cause of her disappearance, Harry would search on. Even with a trail that had gone cold just short of nine months ago, Harry would search for her until he either found Ginny or he found her body.
She owed it to him to put up a fight.
She had tried—she had tried so hard, and so many times—to escape. And she had come so close.
Her eyes narrowed into slits at the mere thought of escape: the thick drumming of her heart in her ears as she listened for unfriendly footsteps, the amazingly light sensation of hopeful anticipation as she fled, and then the sickeningly bitter taste of failure. She was anything but a compliant prisoner, reduced for a time to being chained to her cot, until her dwindling muscle mass rendered her just about as threatening as a pygmy puff.
Ginny glanced suddenly down at her wrist, the raised, white scar tissue just barely visible in the darkness. She had fought off these men for over a year—a year-and-a-half, now, with the approaching winter. Ginny was, and always had been, a fighter. And she would be a fighter until the day she died, however soon that day came. As much as she just wanted it to end, for death to sweep her into its warm embrace and carry her away from this ruddy place, Ginny wanted to prove her strength to herself even more.
A lock suddenly rattled, and her eyes flew toward the door.
She tried to push herself back up, but once again, she collapsed, pressing her eyes tightly shut in frustration. Someone had heard her plate shatter. Someone was coming to punish her for the disrespect she had shown to her host family. Her heartbeat quickened, her breath became ragged.
She listened rather than watched, trembling against the cold as the door swung open.
There was a moment of silence, then a sudden gasp and, "Malfoy... I think she's-"
"Faking," Draco said, clearly amused. "Nice nap, Weasley?"
The man behind him snorted.
"It was," she retorted, peeling her eyes back open to glare up at him. The callow git merely smirked, crossing his arms over his broad chest and stepping into her little prison. The pair of them had never been particularly friendly. Aside from the childish, conspicuous coughs of, "bouncing-ferret!" in the corridors at Hogwarts, the glares from across the Quidditch pitch, or the nicely-aimed Bat-Bogey hex in her fourth year, Ginny had very little intentional interaction with the graduated Slytherin. It was mutual, of course. She received the occasional, "blood-traitor," in response to her taunting and, thanks to Malfoy, she had been forced to dodge loads unnecessary bludgers during matches against Slytherin. And then, of course, there was the very correct assertion that she had sent Harry his Singing Valentine in her first year. But that was the extent of their relationship: cool disregard and occasional snide remarks. Draco Malfoy was a bully, but she never would have pegged him for a kidnapper. Amycus Carrow stood, leering, beside him. She felt her eyes suddenly twitch narrower at him. Amycus Carrow, whom she'd once been forced to call Professor in her sixth year, as he lewdly looked her up at down in the middle of Dark Arts class or as he issued the most degrading detentions she had even had the misfortune to serve.
She inhaled sharply, tightly pressing her lips together.
Malfoy stepped forward and squatted down in front of her, grey eyes narrow with what she assumed was scorn. "Get up," he ordered. Ginny didn't move, just stared at him, eyes smoldering with contempt. Malfoy's presence was a rare occurrence; if she did see him, it was only as he silently slammed a plate of food in front of her, or when he left her a rare change of clothes. He had once brought down an article from the Daily Prophet, detailing the Ministry's Missing Persons list, which no longer read her name. He was cruel to her, yes, but Draco Malfoy was the least of her worries; he didn't dare dirty his hands with filth like Ginny Weasley.
"I said get up!"
Once again, she remained still. "I would rather not."
He narrowed his eyes. He pursed his lips. He set his jaw. "You insolent little-"
"Hey, Malfoy. When you're done bickering with the little bint, maybe you ought to look around." His grey eyes rolled toward the ceiling as he stood back up, ready to retort. But the other man went on. "You know what this is?" Her honey gaze drifted toward Carrow: he knelt down on the floor, studying the remains of her dinner plate. She felt herself wince. Malfoy glanced over his shoulder and clicked his tongue at her.
"Mother will be very displeased," he drawled, grabbing her roughly by the arm and dragging her suddenly to her feet to look at her mess. "You think you're funny, don't you, Weaslette?" He released his grip on her and she fell dully into the mess below. He knelt down beside her, taking a handful of her copper hair and wrenching it upward, forcing her face to his. She involuntarily cried out, earning a triumphant smirk from him. "Oh, yes. You're incredibly funny." He released her hair and he and Carrow both returned to their feet, smirking down at her. "Clean up your own mess, Weasley."
She said nothing, and did not look back up at him, merely laying helplessly in the mess she had made. Without even having to look up, Ginny could see that arrogant expression on his pale, angled face: those thin lips, curled upward at the corners; that square jaw, set; those light brows, drawn and shielding a pair of cold, hard eyes.
"Go on, Weasley. Clean yourself up."
Normally, she might have snapped back at him—said something witty or clever enough to pacify his blatant love for conflict—but she didn't respond.
Malfoy, however, found her silence equally as amusing as any of her retorts would have been. "Given up, haven't you? That fire's finally gone out?" She could hear the smirk in his voice, and suddenly wished for the strength to slap it off of his smug face. "Come on, Weasley, for old time's sake," he took her chin, forcing her face back upward, "call me a toerag, a git. Give me a good excuse to use this on you," he hissed, running the tip of his wand from her temple to her jaw.
Her body gave a sudden shudder and she turned her head, wrenching her chin from his grasp. "Sod off, Malfoy," she said through a set of tightly clenched teeth. "And leave me the hell alone."
He glared at her, drawing his wand to her forehead. "That's what you want?" he teased, drawing circles in the air with the tip of his wand. "For us to, 'leave you the hell alone?'" He glanced over his shoulder at Carrow, who chuckled lightly at his interpretation of her voice. "And to think, we had such an extravagant surprise for her. She hardly deserves it." His icy eyes returned to her as he wordlessly sent a single pulse of pain through her body with his outstretched wand. Though her body involuntarily stiffened, she remained silent, simply glowering up at him. "Now get up, Weasley."
She didn't say a word, and nor did she move to fulfill his command.
"Come, now, Weasley. What ever would that blood-traitor mother of yours say if she could only see you now?"
Probably that I could use a second helping of supper, she thought to herself, the corners of her mouth suddenly curling upward. But her smile merely seemed to infuriate the young Malfoy.
"I told you to GET UP!"
"No," she said bravely, smiling to herself, proud of her defiance.
His brows shot up, his jaw fell slack, his lips parted. He stared at her incredulously. She waited to hear the familiar curse, to feel the sudden indescribable pain pulse through her once again. "You know, Carrow, I'm beginning to think that we shouldn't send the ungrateful, little wretch home."
"Home?" she whispered suddenly, her smile faltering.
"Home," he repeated.
She swallowed back the cold, hollow excitement rising in her throat, pursing her lips. What, exactly, was that supposed to mean? Very slowly, her glare faltered as well, only to be replaced by slow realization. "You're going to kill me," she said finally. Seeming to delight in the surprise on her freckled face, he merely lifted an eyebrow, smirking down at her.
So, today was the day. Cold relief washed through her, though the familiar, bitter taste of failure suddenly filled her mouth, turning the corners of her mouth downward.
"Go to hell, Mal-"
"Crucio!"
She didn't even have time to be surprised.
The pain erupted through her, and voluntary or not, a scream tore through her throat. She fell fully to the stone floor below and into her mess of discarded food scraps and broken plate, effectively cutting and slicing at her exposed flesh as the muscle spasms overcame her. She never even felt them. She was far too engrossed by the exploding, the ripping, and the burning pain that blasted through her. Malfoy didn't falter; the pain was consistent, never once slipping away enough for her to get a proper breath. She screamed until her throat was raw, and then she screamed some more. Her back arched off of the floor, tears streamed from her eyes, and steadily, she began to feel herself floating away. When her spent body could no longer take it, she went limp, the sight of Draco Malfoy's narrow, grey eyes fading into blackness.