Disclaimer:  Any characters, places, or events that you recognize in this story most likely belong to JK Rowling and Warner Brothers.  I am in no way associated with either entity.  I'm just borrowing the characters for a bit, and am making absolutely no money off them.  In addition, at the beginning of each chapter I use lyrics from the song "Girl" by Tori Amos.  She wrote the song, and again, I am not making any money off it by putting it in my story.  So, if by any spectacularly odd trick of nature one of the people I have named read this, please don't sue me.

Author's Note:  Ginny makes her grand entrance.  Thanks to my happy beta-reader Kel, and… everyone else.  I've decided I don't thank my reviewers enough, so if you review you will be rewarded with a thank-you section!  (Not a good bribe, but the best I can do.)  By the way, after this bit it'll most likely be rated PG-13 for substance abuse, snogging and violence - oh my!

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And in the shadow she crawls,

Clutching her faded photograph

My image under her thumb

Yes with a message for my heart…

Yes with a message for my heart….

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Part One:  Forgotten

          Three years can dull pain but not erase it.  I have tried so hard to forget that night and everything that went with it.  I have found, however, that it is nearly impossible to toss out the bad memories and keep the good ones.  As twisted as it sounds, in some ways that was the best night of my life.  Everything is bittersweet and since I can neither forget the past nor continue to live in it, I shall write it down instead.

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          On that godforsaken night, I heard her long before I could see her.  For someone so petite, she made an amazing amount of noise crashing through the underbrush of the Forbidden Forest.  The branches swished, the dried leaves crackled under her step, and there were a good number of muffled curses to be heard.

          I began to see her shape forming from behind the trees.  First, a flicker of red hair caught my eye and then a flash of pale skin.  Then she stepped out, cloaked in shadows and still partly hidden by stray branches.

          Ginny Weasley was no longer a little girl.  I am sure that the transformation didn't happen overnight, but I hadn't paid much attention.  She was taller than I remembered, and her face looked older, although I couldn't say exactly why.  She still had the same button nose and the mischievous eyes that she had always had.  Her hair was still very obviously red in a way that only the Weasleys have perfected.  However, where one would think her hair would have turned blonder during the summer, it had instead darkened a bit.  It was longer and curled down her back in ringlets.

          At this point, I must set the record straight.  Ginny Weasley was not beautiful.  She was still cute in almost the way that the little girl in pigtails had been cute.  I found her attractive because she was so completely different from anyone else I knew.  I suppose I had tired of all the Pansy Parkinsons and Fleur Delacours of the world.  I was tired of doing what everyone had planned for me, and Ginny Weasley was definitely not what anyone had in mind when they thought "Draco Malfoy's Girlfriend."

          Another point I need to make clear is that I did not fall in love at first sight.  Being the cynical creature that I am, I have never believed in that sort of thing.  Nevertheless, I had to continue to remind myself that she was a Weasley in order to keep from looking like an utter fool.

          These last three paragraphs of observation, they happened all within the blink of an eye.  One minute she was standing there across the clearing and the next minute she was on the forest floor.  Apparently, the one thing that hadn't changed about Ginny over the years was her total lack of grace.  As she stepped out of the shadows, her foot caught on a root and she went sprawling into the leaves. 

          Some small part of me wanted to help her up, to take the noble course of action.  There has always been a bit of me that wants to play hero.  I suppose this is part of the reason I can hate Harry so much; I have smothered the part of me that can identify with him.  I almost stepped out of the trees and helped her, and it would have been, up to that moment, the most out-of-character thing I had ever done.  I restrained myself, for if there is one thing we Malfoys have (besides money), it's self control.  I reminded myself that her falling down was the least of her problems.

          Ginny pushed herself up slowly, and stood.  I was still hidden in the shadows so she was unaware of my presence.  I observed her silently, noticing the leaves now tangled in her hair, and the streak of dirt across her cheek.  Now she was not a poor Weasley, she was also a dirty Weasley.  I should have been repulsed, but I was intrigued.

          I waited there, and watched emotions chase each other across her face.  As she looked around the clearing for me, I could almost read her mind.  I could tell when she began to think that the meeting was all a joke, and at that point, I stepped forward to meet her.

          I have many virtues, but modesty is not one of them.  I must have made quite a picture standing there in front of her, my hair silvery in the moonlight.  I was dressed in my usual uniform of expensive tailored black clothing.  Her taste probably runs towards faded jeans and flannel shirts, but I couldn't stoop so low.  Besides, I had set this whole thing up for her first impression of me, and the black worked so much better against the background.  I had calculated this, and I could tell it had paid off; the silly thing practically swooned.

          Her hand shaking, she handed me a piece of paper.  I unfolded it, and could see that it was the same letter I had sent to invite her to our little get together.  The paper was creased, almost falling apart, as if it had been read a hundred times.  That was highly unlikely though, because I had sent it to her that very morning.  I already knew what it said, and so I handed it back to her.  I let my hand linger on the paper so that our fingers touched.  She actually blushed at that point and ducked her head.  So typically Ginny, I thought, but when she raised her head, she looked me straight in the eye.  She was searching for something I suppose, and I have no idea what she found. 

          Then, in a manner completely different from her usual, she began to interrogate me.  She gestured to the letter in her hand.

          "Did you write it?  Did you really owl it to me this afternoon?"

          I couldn't believe she was questioning me, and answered accordingly.

          "I believe so.  We could have it analyzed for handwriting if you like."

          She actually had the nerve to scowl at me. 

          "You didn't have to be smart about it.  I just wanted to make sure it wasn't some sort of joke.  I'm not as stupid as everyone thinks.  Just because I'm quiet doesn't mean I don't notice things.  I noticed you, didn't I?  And playing some sort of joke on me over this wouldn't be completely out of character, would it?"

          "You have my word as a gentleman, this is no joke."  Then I smiled slightly, a smile completely without humor, although she no doubt found it  charming.  I was, in actuality, grimly acknowledging the truth of the matter.  This wasn't a joke, and if it was, I wasn't truly the one playing it on her. 

          My answer, however ironic, seemed to be enough for her.  The slightly bitter edge in my voice was obviously lost on her as she raised her eyes to mine and smiled warmly at me.

          I smile very rarely, and I am aware of the fact that my smiles never reach my eyes.  But Ginny's smiles, they light up her entire face.  I think it was the first time anyone had ever smiled at me like that, except maybe my mother when I was a very small child.  But she is dead now. 

          I digress.  As Ginny and I stared at each other for a few moments longer an awkward silence settled over us.  This whole situation was rather odd considering we had never actually had an entire decent conversation.  The extent of my kindness towards her had been to help her pick her books up off the floor one afternoon when I was a seventh year.  Of course, my intent had really been to sneak a look at a note Hermione had written to her, so I could use its contents against them both.  But she never found that out.

          I moved my gaze away from her and produced a blanket from behind a tree.  I spread it out on the ground, picnic style, and gestured for her to sit down.  I then produced a bottle of fine champagne and two small lumps of crystal, which I promptly transfigured into glasses.  Sitting down by her side, I offered her a glass, which she accepted.

          My intention was to get her as drunk as possible before Voldemort and his cronies arrived, in order to lessen the unpleasant shock of betrayal.  My father would be slightly miffed that I had not enjoyed Ginny's pain to the fullest, but in the long run it wouldn't matter.  Incidentally, my father had supplied me with the alcohol in the first place.  He was of the elk of upper class parents who encouraged their children to drink at home instead of elsewhere.  As a result, I had spent many a summer vacation getting thoroughly wasted in an effort to forget my life.  My father found this distasteful but never forbade it, for which I was grateful.

          Ginny sipped the champagne slowly and never took her eyes off me, which I found extremely unnerving.  Uncomfortable, I tried to make small talk about school and how she liked her seventh year.  She answered me in monosyllables, not wanting to discuss Hogwarts at all.  Obviously the place didn't hold the same kind of magic for her as it had for the Fantastic Three.  And who could blame her?  After all, her first year there she had done all sorts of horrible evil things while possessed by Tom Riddle.  I had envied her so at the time, wishing that I could do the bidding of the Dark Lord's younger self.  Back then the future did not seem as desolate as it does now, and the prospect of following in my father's footsteps was exciting.  I was mad at him for slipping the diary into her things and not mine.  I felt cheated.

          Evidently she wanted to talk about the world outside of Hogwarts, or "real life" as she called it.  She wanted to know whether I had a job yet, and if living on one's own is really all that it's cracked up to be.  As if I would know, cooped up in the Manor day after day and occasionally venturing to my father's office at the Ministry to help him with paperwork.  I shouldn't have told her any of the truth; I should have lied about everything.  But I didn't; my reasoning was that in a few hours she'd either be dead or have her memory modified anyway.  And so I told her the truth, about how utterly boring my aristocratic teenage existence was.    By the time I was finished ranting (somewhat maniacally) about the evils of new Quidditch rules forbidding the pursuit of a casual game in one's back yard, I was surprised to find that she hadn't died of boredom.  Instead, she was still staring at me with that same intense gaze as before.  It was beginning to make me feel as though I no longer had the upper hand.

          My anxiety mounting, I gulped down an entire glass of champagne, and moved to refill my glass.  I refilled her as well.  I began to believe that she had the same idea as me, that if she got drunk she would stop being nervous or something.  I saw her hand shake slightly as she brought the glass to her lips, I saw her eyes begin to glaze over.  She probably didn't notice, but as a seasoned drinker I observed that she was well on her way to intoxication.

          Slowly she began to get less tense and talk more freely.  She confessed that she had been too nervous to eat dinner, which accounted for her low tolerance for alcohol; it would hit her hard on an empty stomach.  We chatted amiably until we ran out of champagne.  I learned that she was very intelligent and had a sense of humor that ran towards dark.  Although nothing we talked about was truly important, it wasn't the meaningless drivel I discussed with Pansy either.  I learned how sorely I missed intelligent conversation that wasn't centered around taking over the world.  We discussed various spells and charms and compared notes on books that we had read.  I learned, much to my surprise, that if it weren't for her impending doom, her questionable breeding, and a thousand other things, I might have become friends with her.  We had an astounding number of things in common, and most of our differences were the result of radically different upbringings. 

          All in all, our discussion veered away from three essential things.  The first was any mention of the Dark Lord whatsoever.  The second was any comment about matters regarding wealth or muggles, both being sensitive topics.  The third was the complete and utter neglect to mention anything about emotions.

          Our conversation must have lasted about an hour, and although I knew more about Ginny's views on the current Minister of Magic, I was no closer to finding out why she had really come here for me.  Once I found out that vital piece of information, my work was essentially over.  All that would be left for me to do was to distract her until the others arrived.  They had not told me what time that would be, ostensibly so they could test my loyalty by seeing how long I would keep her there.  Personally, I felt it was simply because they couldn't be bothered with being on time.  All the Death Eaters were like that; they could never admit to being wrong about anything.  I possessed that same quality, but found it incredibly irksome in them.

          When the bottle was empty, Ginny was noticeably tipsy.  I suppose I was as well, although my mind seemed relatively clear at the time.  We had each had half a bottle, which wasn't by any means enough to get us drunk, but I had put a handy charm on it to amplify the effects of the alcohol. 

          Ginny hiccuped uncontrollably a few times and turned bright red.  Feeling that since I had dragged her out here on the pretense of being madly in love with her it was my duty to do something sentimental, I leaned closer to her and put my index finger to her lips, hushing her.  I muttered something utterly foolish about how cute she was when she hiccuped and kissed her gently on the lips.  I then sat back and surveyed my progress. 

          She blushed and ducked her head, then peered up at me while hiding behind her curtain of fantastically red hair.  Then she scooted over to sit next to me and leaned back on her elbows to look at the stars.  I followed suit and we both gazed at the stars in silence for a minute.  Then she spoke softly, telling me that she had never been kissed before by anyone who wasn't related to her.

          Although I will never know if she really thought it, I could almost hear her voice in my mind.  It whispered, lamented that I wasn't Harry, that Harry should have been the one to give her her first kiss.  That he had never given her so much as a peck on the cheek in all the years she had known him.  Inside my head, she whispered, Why couldn't you be Harry?  The unspoken words hung in the air between us, or so I imagined. 

          The next minute she was crying, a few tears streaming silently down her face.  She wasn't making any noise, and if I hadn't turned my head to look at her, I wouldn't have noticed.  The tears shimmered slightly in the moonlight as they slid down her cheeks over her numerous freckles.  Acting out of some ingrained aversion to seeing girls cry, I ineffectually tried to wipe away the tears with my thumb.  This simple act caused her to cry harder.  I looked on, not knowing exactly what to do. 

          In my slightly anxious state, I asked the first question that crossed my mind.  That question happened to be "Why are you crying?"  Apparently, it was what she wanted to hear, because she began to talk softly.  That one little innocent question brought forth a torrent of information of the very kind that I had wanted to know.  Had I not asked it, I would never have known about her family or her crush on Potter or her feelings for me, or anything else even remotely personal.  In a way, asking that question was like signing my own death certificate.  But somehow, by asking it, I had saved us both.