Disclaimer: If you recognise it, it's not mine.

AN: A nice long chapter this time, in thanks to the people who've kept reading in spite of the inevitable delays. I hope the page-break holds up when I upload this, as there's a POV-switch mid-chapter. I'll reply to reviews in the next chapter, hope you enjoy this one.

The Art of Defection

Dinner at the Hog's Head with the Weasleys was mostly silent, and when it wasn't silent, it was awkward. Hermione and Ron were treating Harry as though he were a bomb, very quietly and cautiously making things easy for him – Hermione filled his glass; Ron pushed the salt towards him when his eyes happened to rest on it – as if they thought suddenly happening on an empty glass or a stretch of table where a salt-cellar ought to be would bring all Harry's losses home to him. He bore it without a word.

The twins were uncharacteristically subdued. Bill drank and Percy stared at his glass. Charlie, whose cheerful good sense could have enlivened the gathering, was still en route from Romania, and Mrs. Weasley's eyes strayed compulsively to the two empty chairs. Behind the silence there was fear, and terrible fury, and – worst of all – doubt.

Harry wished Dumbledore hadn't allowed the students into Hogsmeade, but the parents had insisted that they see their children tonight. Hermione suspected that some students would take this opportunity to leave with their parents; she thought some already had, and pointed out that the Zabinis and Pansy Parkinson hadn't been seen round school for a while. Harry thought of students swelling the ranks of the Death Eaters, filling the places of the fallen, and his heartbeat became the sound of a war-drum.

Hermione was saying something about the eleven o'clock curfew, clinking the crockery in a purposeful manner, when the first scream cut through the night.

Pure, and high, and cold, like stars and ice. Wands out, the Weasley family scrambled pell-mell down the stairs, hearing the other wails rising, the village wakening – the laughter. Drums, and then a real drum, the drumming of feet on staircases, wooden floors, the stone flags outside the inn.

Harry skidded to a halt beside Hermione, feeling the cold absence of Ginny at his side, not transported back to the war, not for an instant, not even when he saw the Death Eaters in a half-circle on the hill. Half of them faced outwards, holding shielding spells against the parents and students, making damn sure Voldemort's attack didn't disintegrate into an aimless, vicious riot – not before he wanted it to. He had a purpose here. Harry realised, sickly, what it was.

"Ginny," Mrs Weasley whispered. "Arthur - "

But the woman kneeling at Voldemort's feet screamed again, shrieked, collapsing and grinding her face in the dirt, trying to burrow away, it seemed, from the pain. Her glasses were gone and her stiff blonde curls were crushed. Voldemort held his wand on Rita Skeeter, and even at this distance, Harry thought he saw a faint smile.

Mr Weasley charged forward, but Bill and Percy grabbed him and one of them said No, you'll hit Ginny. But this felt very far away from Harry, whose eyes had locked on Ginny. Standing at his side in her black robe, they were the only ones not masked, and the show – this terrible show of solidarity, this awful display of vengeance – was having its effect on the shocked spectators. Harry told himself he was too far away to make out her expression – her large, dark eyes could have meant anything.

"It was the picture. He's killing her for the picture," Hermione said, her voice trembling. Harry didn't know, couldn't think, for a second, what she meant. And then the grey newsprint swum up in his mind, unreal as a dream in the face of this autumnal breeze, this blue-black sky, the sound of these torches crackling and the watchful readiness of those robed figures on the hill. And it was a picture. And it moved – wizarding pictures tended to.

Rita screamed again, and Tom Riddle looked up, straight at Harry. His lips moved. There was a flash of bright green light. And as if Rita's cut-off shriek had been the signal, the Death Eaters dropped their wards and turned on the crowd.

The chaos that had been hushed for the execution roared back into being. Parents thrust their younger children into houses, behind carriages or into the arms of older students, and the cries of frightened kids were drowned under the shouting.

Harry and Hermione surged forward, the crest on a wave of Weasleys, throwing curses as fast and hard as they could. Most of Harry's mind shut off, and he was only himself moving through the night, into the picture, shoving the helpless behind him and destroying anything that stood between him and the summit of the hill.

"Protego!" Ron shouted, throwing a shield between Harry and a bolt of purple light fired from his blind spot. Harry didn't stop, but twisted and Apparated behind a Death Eater turning to Hermione. Harry's hex took the man's hood off, and revealed a gory confusion where the back of his head had recently been.

They ducked and dodged in harmony – almost: it was off, there was a voice missing at Harry's ear and he knew they were all hearing its absence, and the loss of it infuriated them. He had lost sight of Ginny in the confusion; the glimpses of red hair he saw were all too far off the ground to be her. The twins, roused from their lethargy, fought like men possessed. Percy, his eyes bloodshot and his voice hoarse, ran past Harry screaming curses that would have got him expelled instantly at Hogwarts.

Dumbledore, Harry thought, but he couldn't see any sign of the teachers. He tripped on a body, and looking down realised it was a Ravenclaw first-year, Marared Robsart. Her open eyes flashed a reflection of the flames around them. Hogsmeade was burning.

A hex hit the wall beside Harry and chunks of masonry exploded, showering the little body with grey dust, and dust went over the eyes. Harry spun around, and sent a jet of orange acid into a Death Eater mask. A woman howled behind it.

And then another woman's scream rose over the din.

"Ron!"

Harry's head whipped around at the voice and he saw Ron throw himself to the ground. A bolt of green light shot over him and hit Seamus in the back. He went still for half a second then crumpled, and Harry knew he was dead. Seamus, dead. But the voice that had warned Ron –

A hooded figure ran towards them, falling to its knees beside Ron, tugging him to his feet. "You're all right, thank God - "

But another Death Eater had been right behind her, and he shoved Ron roughly to the ground, tearing the woman from his arms. He grabbed the smaller figure around the waist and started dragging it away. There was a muffled No but then the struggle was silent, horribly silent, and the taller of the two figures raised his wand against Harry and Hermione.

"Protego!"

"Stupefy!"

Hermione's hex missed and she was struck by a bright blue light. She flew backwards and hit the stone corner of Honeydukes with an awful crunching sound. She fell oddly, brokenly, to the ground and lay still.

Ron ran to her and Harry turned to Malfoy, serpents' curses bitter in his mouth, but they had gone. Vanished. And then he realised that the screams were thinning, that the Death Eaters had Disapparated, and that in the sky above them the Dark Mark glowed as green as death.

Harry found Ron kneeling in her blood, a sticky, dark pool widening rapidly under Hermione's head. He heard her say, faintly, "No - "

Not angrily, not scared, just mildly annoyed and embarrassed - as though she had realised she was going to sneeze at an awkward moment. She lost consciousness.

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The silence, after the screaming and the crackling flames, was sudden and total. Ginny removed her mask and met Tom's gaze. For a moment, they were still points in a sea, Death Eaters swarming around them, house-elves hurrying in to see to the wounded, a loud voice taking head-count in an officious way that reminded her of Percy. She was ready for the accusations. But they didn't come.

No one seemed to have noticed her breaking away from the pack – or if they had, they weren't saying anything. She'd been afraid of the outcry, of having to bend the knee to Tom in front of her enemies, afraid that the humiliation would be too much for her composed façade to bear. But the truth was, Ginny didn't feel anything at all.

In her sitting room, waiting for Tom – she always seemed to be waiting for Tom, and of course he had noticed her absence, and how he enjoyed it when she ran – Ginny sat calmly and collectedly, and didn't feel a thing. Even though there was no one there to see.

She didn't feel in the least dreamy or disconnected now. The opposite, really. Everything was very real now, and very present. She thought of the flicker of her family and of Hermione, how she'd seen her fall and land, dead weight, and how it meant that her friend might be dead. Instead of screaming, Ginny felt quietly ready, like a snake coiled and watchful.

The idea wasn't new. All the Weasleys were good in a crisis, focusing on the task at hand until the worst was over, when they tended to break down, sometimes spectacularly. So a Weasley stoicism, and some sheer Prewett pluck – and something else. Something cool and monstrous in Ginny, that she wanted to call Tom's. Something that stopped her feeling, pressing her humanity down and hiding it far away, keeping it safe and silent. It almost frightened her, but fear was one of those emotions that were irrelevant now. And shame, too, she almost felt – for the falling away of her anxiety and her grief, but shame was also far away and very quiet, kept with the sight of her mother's distant face and Harry's voice shouting her name. Malfoy had been dragging her away as agreed, but galvanized by that voice, for a moment her struggles had become real.

This was the recent past.

Malfoy entered the room first. Malfoy's paleness, his grey eyes and set, bloodless mouth contrasted with the dark shadow of Tom, behind him. So soon?

But she was glad, because this frame of mind couldn't last. It never did.

They sat down, the three of them, at angles that put no two of them before one other. Tom took a cigarette from the silver case in his pocket, lit it, and slowly exhaled. He looked at Malfoy through the smoke, his eyes narrowed against it. Ginny could feel the fear rising in waves off Malfoy, but he was still and silent.

At last Tom said, in no particular tone, "Why did I attack Hogsmeade, Draco?"

Malfoy tried to speak. Cleared his throat. "A show of unity, my lord. We punished the journalist for implying that Lady Ginevra was here against her will. Tonight she was seen with you – to, seen to, approve your actions."

"That was the purpose," Tom said. "Well done." He looked at Ginny, his eyes black and opaque. "I spent much longer discussing the plan with you. So why did you run away from me, into the crowd?"

"I'm sorry," Ginny said, "Someone cast the Killing Curse on my brother. On Ron. I lost control, my lord, and I'm – I'm sorry."

She modulated her voice carefully, trying to project anger at the Death Eater, whoever it had been; anger at herself, for losing control and having him know it, and for the submissive position it forced her into; and yes, most importantly, fear of him. She let herself sound frightened, but raised her chin – held her head high, but dropped her eyes when he looked into them.

And it was an act.

And it was real.

And how much of that Tom understood, or guessed, Ginny didn't know.

But she'd seen the way Tom's lids had lowered, slightly, when she'd said my lord, and knew how he enjoyed the defiance in her deference.

"And you brought Ginevra back before her brother could try to take her. And before too many people saw her – it must have looked like an escape attempt, Draco. Is that how it looked to you?"

"No, my lord."

Tom smoked thoughtfully for a long moment.

"Was it, an escape attempt?" he asked her, in an off-hand manner.

"No, my lord." Ginny met his eyes, and allowed herself to feel – or not quite to feel, because her feelings were still very far away – but to think her love, her hatred, her shame and anger that it had not been an escape attempt, that she had been brought back to him, and that she was glad.

Tom smiled.

"The point," he said, "rather, one of the points, of tonight was to let everyone understand that you stood willingly at my side. That I'm hardly some melodrama villain who goes around kidnapping virtuous young girls. That was what most people saw. Clever of you, Ginevra, to cloak and mask yourself," he added. Before running to your brother's aid, he did not say, and Ginny couldn't know what he meant by it. "But it must have looked very odd to Draco. First that – scene – in the second-floor bathroom, and now this? Almost gothic."

"I had to show resistance when I was at Hogwarts; Draco knows that." Ginny said.

Malfoy looked at her as though he'd quite like to say something cutting but, subdued by Tom's presence, kept his mouth shut. And still looked rather sick.

"Malfoy," Ginny turned to him, "I know you don't know me very well. But . . . I'm sure you've guessed – I mean, from what you've seen here . . ."

Tom watched her, lazily amused by her discomfiture.

"The things I said to Harry were lies. He was talking to Dumbledore, and I couldn't risk it . . . and," her earnest tone wavered, "we were friends. I'm sorry that it turned out this way, but before Tom we really were friends. I did want to spare him. And my – my family, too."

" 'My personal politics have no bearing . . .'" Tom quoted, cynically. "Wasn't that your line, Ginevra?" But he wasn't looking at her. The force of the cold black eyes was trained on Malfoy, and in the silence, the question he had indirectly put to Malfoy resurfaced.

"I – believe I have a better understanding of Lady Ginevra's politics now, my lord." Malfoy said quietly. "I believe I understand Lady Ginevra's politics quite well."

"Do you?" Tom looked at Malfoy for a long moment. The tension in the room swelled, and Ginny's cold resolve held even as she remembered another room, another three people, another odd truce.

And then, a corner of the Dark Lord's mouth lifted. "Yes, I rather think you do. On your knees, Draco."

For a moment Malfoy did not move.

But as Voldemort stood, suddenly he seemed to realise what was required of him. The total lack of expression on his face could have greeted a verdict of execution as appropriately as this, the bestowal of the supreme mark of favour, of confidence. This acquittal without accusal. This bringing in to the fold from which he had been, for so long, excluded.

His eyes were hooded.

Malfoy knelt. Ginny watched him raise his arm, and roll the sleeve back.