Hi! The word 'late' doesn't even begin to explain the depth and gravity of my lateness, and for that I am very sorry. Things have been absolute pandemonium since about christmas, on the story and muse front as well as on the RL front, but now I finally have a holiday! And a coherent muse! Yay! I hope you enjoy... Reviewers you are gold dust! That is, rare but very valuable. Thank you so much for taking the time to review because it makes me feel like writing this story is all worthwhile and also that I'm maybe writing something decent.

The Dark Is Cold

Chapter Ten – Unexpected...

Draco went to his room, stopping at the bathroom to splash his face with water, ready to collapse with fatigue and the reeling of his mind. He wanted to lie down and attempt to steady the world (and think about Harry and the touch of his mouth and the warmth of his skin and the way he clung to your shirt and you could think about it all day and all night...), but there was someone sitting on his bed.

"Pansy?" He wanted to ask if she was all right, but the words stuck in his throat. Of course she wasn't all right.

"Draco," she said, standing up with a start as if she'd been waiting a long time for him to arrive. Her hands were visibly shaking, and her expression was intense, bleached skin covered in a feverish sheen of sweat.

"What do you want?" he said quietly, hoping to calm her.

"I came to remind you what you have to do." she spoke quickly but her voice was surprisingly steady. She took a gulp of air and continued. "Zabini is so – so stupid ... he doesn't know what to do, he doesn't know how to manipulate people, not like you did, with, with hardly anything only, maybe, a look – he has stupid thugs – like yours, I suppose – but he's trying to terrorize us into submission," She broke off and laughed wildly in rapid bursts, breathing shakily between them. "He he can't make a statement, he has no subtlety––"

"You mean I should overthrow him."

"Yes." Hoarseness overtook her voice with the force of her words and made it drop several octaves. He wondered if screaming had caused it, then felt sick at the thought.

"He can't go on like this. I told you the line had to be drawn somewhere," she shivered, and wiped her mouth with her sleeve. "And I was the one to draw it. Since then – no one's prepared to just surrender anymore – we're not a bunch of bloody Hufflepuffs! Blaise isn't smarter or more determined than us, he was just a lucky, lucky bastard, and lots of us supported him at first, but now, now, we all hate him and we won't do what he says and with enough of us it'll be damn, damn well, bloody easy to chuck him off his little thrown..." she ran out of breath, sweat running down her forehead and nose and into overbright eyes. "We wouldn't need you, even – but then, then, it would all happen again with some other lucky little upstart, because you see, we can't lead ourselves, we can't, not all wanting to climb the ladder to the top and prepared to stand over everyone in our way, because we're no good once we get there. Not – not except you. Maybe it's because you're more even more of a cool detached cunning bastard, but you know how to – to stay at the top once you get there, and , then, what to do." She was speaking faster and faster, cutting off Draco's circulation with her bony fingers. He let her cling on. He hadn't the heart to shake her off; it would be like cutting someone's lifeline.

She had faded – lost a lot of weight, her skin had lost most of its colour except for the unnatural fevered flush of her cheeks, and her hair was lank with split ends. Her skin looked stretched across what had been a rounded face, but was now deeply shadowed where her flesh had been, under her cheekbones and eyes. Her eyes, though – Draco had not expected this. If anything, he had expected her eyes to be dull and lifeless, had expected her to be quiet and withdrawn, not intense, burning hot with the force of her emotions. Her sea-coloured eyes were too bright, and they dominated her face, looking too large beside her other whithered features

He should have expected Pansy to do the unexpected.

What is it?, she said with a searching look and sweaty grip.

"I'm thinking." he said. He needed a plan, and someone – he needed Harry.

"What did you say?" Oh shit. He hadn't meant to say it aloud.

"Harry will help," he said with conviction.

"Why? Aside from you, he hates all of us – though he used to hate you..." she frowned.

"NoYou would know if he hated you – for him, hatred is personal. So he would have come personally and done you in by now if he hated you. He hates Blaise – which is surprising, because Blaise is still alive." He thought for a moment. "So he probably already has a plan."

Pansy turned her head to the side. "He's a Gryffindor?"

"The opposite. He should've been in Slytherin, except his sense of self-preservation is nonexistent."

She started laughing. "The Boy Who Lived, in the Dark Lord's house?" She broke off and looked sharply at Draco for a minute. "Everything might have been – different. Would have been. But you mustn't think about it, no what ifs, only now. Now and you and him and us. That's what's important."

"Yes," he said, the gist of what she meant permeating through fractured sentences. She examined him for a minute longer, then nodded and left. He almost said, she could always come here, to be safe. He might have said it before. But this Pansy, this thin, fragile, fractal, strong, determined Pansy didn't need him to say it, wouldn't want him to say it.

He lay back on his bed, and the world swam into dreams. Dreams in bits and pieces, from the intense ecstasy of kissing Harry to all-consuming terror, lost somewhere in the Manor can't escape can't escape – Blaise dead blood dripping down Draco's hands relief and terror, Pansy together again but scared, scared, running away – no, no a scream and its hers – but she's all right, still there can see the wall behind her through her why she's a ghost, she's dead, she's thin and broken again, but she's not scared anymore, she's stopped running and she tries to hold his wrist – it goes straight through but she's laughing, and it's cold, so cold, can't move can't move –

He woke up, freezing cold with the covers on the floor, still dressed in his uniform.

He had no idea whether the dream was good or bad.

SSSSSSSSS

Harry abruptly shut his book. He was far too distracted to read, never mind retain anything. He ran his fingers over his lips again and closed his eyes, losing himself for a moment. Well, at least he knew the cause of his distraction; He must have conjured the memory of Draco's touch a hundred times over the past hour. It wasn't healthy, he knew – but then he had spent two weeks wishing away every waking moment until Draco returned, so dwelling a little on what had been a moment of pure bliss was forgivable.

He got up, stretched stiff muscles, put away his book and quickly left through the library doors. He made a swift pace in an effort to clear his head, ignoring the turning heads.

"Harry," A voice – he couldn't identify the speaker and there was no time to think – he spun swiftly around to face it and drew his wand in a fiendishly swift motion. When it became apparent that no one was going to attack him, he allowed himself to be angry. Who dared disturb him? Who dared to challenge him? Who dared say his name? Whoever had spoken was not someone who he had alowed to use his name, or to stop him in the corridor.

Ginny Weasley. He lowered his wand. She wasn't likely to hex him, but what did she want?

"What?" he didn't bother to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

She came slowly closer, a wide smile on her face. He started, noticing her dilated pupils and dizzy path. She looked as if she were dreaming. "Harry," she repeated. "I was wondering – would you like to come to the ball with me?"

"The ball?"

She flinched, looking hurt. "Dumbledore announced it at dinner the day we returned. He said it was to raise spirits." Which explained why Harry hadn't heard about it. "It would...raise spirits...if Harry Potter came to the ball and danced." She came closer again and took his hands. "It would make me happy if you came with me."

Draco closed his eyes and turned away, his eyes stinging. He clenched his fists and tried to gain control of himself as he left. He didn't need to hear anymore.

Ginny leaned closer, and Harry realised what she was about to do. He put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her away. "No, Ginny."

"But Harry, I love you; you know that – "

"I won't go to the ball with you. And you may think – you don't know me at all, you're deluding yourself." He looked at her closely, watching the hope and faint delirium on her face. He was barely conscious of using Occlumency and practically didn't have to; her emotions were so apparent.

"Why? Harry, don't you love me? I thought you loved me – are you going with someone else?"

Harry started. He couldn't go with Draco, and he wouldn't want to go with anyone else. "That's nothing to do with you. Suffice it to say that the person I am bears no relation to your fairy tale Boy-Who-Lived. It would be best if you left me alone and didn't talk to me again."

"Harry – "

"Don't call me that. Come out of you silly little fantasy world, Ginevra! Voldemort is back, Tom is back, we are in a War, even though everyone seems to be trying to pretend that it isn't happening. You've got to wake up and realise what's going on! But I don't think I can convince people on my own, and it would be worse anyway if I could..." He broke off.

"I don't understand," she was pleading now.

"No," he said. "Perhaps you don't. Maybe you can't. It doesn't matter – just stay away from me."

He couldn't stand to look into her face, full as it was of conviction, hope, dreamy happiness and now, it was cracked, letting through hurt. It was best she knew now – he had no time to fulfill her happily ever after, and could have done so only with disgust. He couldn't stand the thought of her, of touching her, of being subjected to her adoring gaze. He turned and walked away – he didn't care what she thought of him anymore. It probably wouldn't make any difference anyway, her perceptions were so distorted.

SSSSSSSSS

In her room, Ginevra Weasley pulled out a beautiful dress of floaty white muslin and satin. Tears dripped down her face as she tried to rip it in two, but it was too strong and she screamed her frustration as the material left red marks on her hands. She put it down, but a moment later she picked up her wand and turned it in her hands speculatively. Training her wand on the dress, she transfigured it into a very different sort of dress. It wasn't a dress in which she could have accompanied Harry, but then, that wasn't necessary any more. She could find another escort.

She went to her mirror and wiped away her tears. She covered the tear-tracks, and pulled out her wand again to fix her hair. She was going to stop crying so much. She wasn't going to let anyone know if she hurt.

SSSSSSSSS

Hermione was pulled out of her reverie when she passed a painting that she didn't recognise, to the realisation that she didn't know where she was. It took her a few seconds of thinking to work out that she was going the back way down to the dungeons, although she thought she had been heading for the entrance hall. Not many people used the back way, because it was dark and longer than the ordinary way, with no classrooms, but Hermione came sometimes when she had some extra time: she appreciated the quiet.

Now, however, she could hear voices. They were a few corridors away, but the sound carried in the silence.

"Why are you avoiding me?" She started, and almost dropped the books she was carrying. Harry's voice...but who was he bothering to spend a whole sentence on, when he wouldn't say a single word to his friends?

The response was quick and angry, and it seemed to fade in and out of focus as it became loud enough for her to make out the words, and then muffled again. "You agreed ...didn't even know there was a Ball ... did you kiss her?" She couldn't put name to the voice, and didn't even vaguely recognise it, even though most of the voices in Hogwarts were familiar to her.

"No ...the Ball ...didn't hear it all ..."

"I heard enough!" The voice was louder, but the next few exchanges were inaudible and she wandered closer. She turned a corner, and she could suddenly hear.

"Please, Draco, I – "

"No, Harry. Just – just leave me alone." Hermione dropped her books in shock as she saw Malfoy stumbling backwards and Harry standing, still and uncharacteristically helpless, watching Malfoy leave with a desolate expression. He turned around suddenly when he heard the clatter, and she felt the terrible glare from his eyes seeming to rip her apart.

"Hermione," his voice was completely blank, and that was worse than anything. "You won't tell anyone." It didn't even attempt to be a request. It was an order, and the flat tone in which it was delivered made it impossible for her to even consider disobeying. He swept past her, and by the time she turned round, he had disappeared.