Disclaimer: All characters contained herein (except the ones I invented! All bit players though) are copyrighted J.K.Rowling. The storyline is mine.

Rating: PG

Main Characters: Ginny, Draco, though probably every character in the books will traipse through and then some.

Spoilers: All four books

Summary: Virginia Weasley drowns in an accident. But is that the end of her story? Evil plots abound and Ginny, dead or not, is stuck right smack in the centre of them -- along with Draco Malfoy.

Thanks to my reviewers: EarthAngel, RagingConfusion(*winks* You'll see, though you'll probably figure it out by this chapter's end), The Goddess of Caffiene, Lily_Cat, Evil*Fairy, cooldot, Deepu(subtle humor? *looks at fic*, really?), Asanya
Chapter 1 – Summer of Darkness

It was the end of the school year for Hogwarts, the time of summer vacation for its' students. Draco had barely finished directing the house elves in unpacking his trunks when his father summoned him for his annual post-school talk. Draco straightened his robes and made sure every strand of hair was in place before walking at a fast, but not too fast pace – father would frown on such bad manners – to his father's private study. Draco took a deep breath to steady his nerves before knocking twice on the door.

"Come in." Draco quietly opened the door and walked slowly in, careful to keep his back straight and his face expressionless. His father was seated behind his desk, a grand monstrosity of polished rosewood, Draco's report card a cream coloured square of contrast to the dark shine of the elegant surface. Lucius' face was as expressionless as Draco's, his grey eyes shuttered and blank. He waited until his son was standing a respectful three feet from his desk to speak.

"Another year has gone by. Looking at your results, your studies have not improved at all. The mudblood took top place as usual, I presume?"

"Yes, father." Draco mumbled, almost cringing.

"Speak louder when you address me! I did not spend hundreds of galleons having your stutter trained out to have you mumble and mute your words!" Lucius' words were clipped and low with anger, but his expression did not change one iota.

"Yes, father." Draco repeated louder, trying not to flush. Stupid! Already he's angry with you! Why can't you do anything right?

Lucius shook his head in disgust. "Pathetic, really. I spend so much money giving you the best tutors and the best books and still Miss Granger manages to beat you by more than a narrow margin. Eleven OWLS that filthy mudblood got! And you? A miserable eight. When I was your age twelve OWLs was a walk in the park to me!"

It was eight and a half. "I'm sorry, father. I'll do better for the NEWTS."

"I've been hearing the same thing since your first year. I don't even want to think about your quidditch. Most boys would be trilled to have a Chudley Cannons seeker as a personal coach – instead I have complaints that you weren't paying proper attention during lessons."

I don't like the Chudley Cannons seeker. He's always going on about that blasted Potter and how I'd have to work my arse off to even come close to his 'natural grace in the air'. "I apologize for that. I'll endeavor to pay more attention."

Lucius just snorted. Draco bowed his head slightly – not completely; father said that it made him look a whipped dog, inappropriate of a Malfoy – waiting for his father's next words. Lucius kept silent for an instant, but Draco felt his eyes boring into him as he inspected him from the top of his head to the tips of his polished boots.

"Your collar is undone. Do you think exposing your neck makes you look sexy? There're no girls here for you to flirt with." Draco hastily straightened it. "And why do you insist spilling on food on your clothes? I see biscuit crumbs on your tie – does the school not feed you enough that you have to snack on the way home?"

The criticisms went on and on. Lucius was merciless, picking at every flaw; every mistake Draco had made over the school year. Draco felt more and more ashamed as his father coldly went on, his face not changing expression, but his voice conveying his utter disappointment at Draco's many mistakes and failures.

Why can't I please him? He's done so much for me and I always fail him. It isn't fair that I try so hard yet others always beat me. Draco felt like crying but easily suppressed the emotion. Malfoys do not lower themselves to crying.

"It's a wonder that Voldemort requested you be initiated. I almost feel too embarrassed to present you. You'll let down the Malfoy name. No, you're not ready at all."

Draco's head snapped up at these latest words. "You-know-who asked that I be initiated?"

"Voldemort! Must you insist on using that plebian term!? It shows how childish you are – sixteen and still not yet acting like a man!"

"B-but he really did request I be initiated? You-Voldemort thinks I'm ready to become a Death-Eater?"

"If he saw you right now he'd change his mind!" Lucius sneered. "My fellow Death-Eaters would snigger at us – the Malfoy heir is a stupid, over-excited little brat! You'd make us a laughing stock!"

"No! No, I won't!" Draco protested loudly before he remembered himself and visibly clamed himself down. "I mean – I will not let you and the family name down, father. I will prove that I am worthy to be a Death-Eater. Please – let me be initiated!"

Lucius' eyelids lowered a fraction, as if he was thinking. Draco stood there, ramrod straight, hardly daring to breath.

"Very well, since you obviously want it so much. Perhaps you won't disappointment me this time – "

"I won't! I won't, father, I promise!"

"I will bring you into the fold tonight. Go and mentally prepare yourself. I won't have my son embarrassing himself on his most important night of his life!"

Draco nodded eagerly and spun around, almost – almost – running out in his excitement. I won't disappoint you father. I'll finally make you proud – I'll be the best Death-Eater you-kno—Voldemort has ever seen!

The study closed behind him with nary a sound. Leaning back in his chair, Lucius allowed himself a smile.

***

Under the light of a half-moon a ring of Death-Eaters gathered. Lord Voldemort stood tall and proud at the head, his gaunt body swathed in velvet robes, wand held ready. In the center of the circle stood a tall, handsome, silver-haired boy, his face blank, his eyes blanker though a sharp-eyed observer would have seen his fingers tremble slightly.

He did not react as the Dark Lord advanced on him and gripped his shoulder. His expression did not change when he whispered evil things, ugly promises into his shell-like ear. He did not hesitate when the Dark Lord ordered his lift his left sleeve and bare his arm.

Most Death-Eater initiates did not remain conscious throughout the branding of the Dark Mark. Draco Malfoy did not even scream, the sizzle of his own burning flesh loud in the still night air. The rest of the Death-Eaters except two murmured admiringly or jealously amongst themselves of the boy's strength and fearlessness. They hoped their own sons or daughters could be the same when it came time for them to join the service.

Lucius merely nodded and accepted the envious looks as his due.

Severus Snape was silent under his mask. No one saw his troubled look until he went back to Hogwarts to report the latest news of Death-Eater movements to Headmaster Dumbledore.

***

The mark still hurt a bit, even after a week, there was a touch of soreness when his sleeves brushed against it. Draco ignored the pain as he ran a brush through his hair, tapping it with his wand to set the gel.

Father had not given him any work to do the last few days; he had not even pressured him to finish his school homework (not that he hadn't already finished it). Instead the house had been slowly emptied – the human servants sent packing or to the summerhouses, only a few essential house elves remained. The tutors hadn't appeared. Just last night mother had gone on a long vacation to Paris to visit relatives. Now it was only he and his father and the house elves in the house.

The quiet was almost disturbing. Malfoy Manor usually bustled with activity. Narcissa Malfoy was always throwing parties or balls and Draco couldn't remember a day when there weren't guests in the house or relatives dropping by. In turn, when he was at school Hogwarts was full of students and things to do and school work to finish. He'd always had something to do.

Draco found that he was bored.

A house elf popped into view. "Master Draco, Master Lucius wishes to see you in the foyer." Draco nodded and the elf disappeared to do its' other duties. At last, something to do! I wonder what father has in mind?

Lucius was dressed in sturdy outdoor robes, a pair of leather gloves on. Beside him were a shovel and a large trunk. Once he saw Draco he snapped. "Change into work robes. I'll be at St. Paul's Cemetery. Bring the trunk." He disappeared with a slight 'popping' sound.

When Draco finally apparated at the gate of the tiny, ancient cemetery, his father had already gone inside. Draco hurried after him, the trunk floating behind. Finally Lucius stopped beside a grave, the newest one in the cemetery.

Draco eyed the tombstone with a start. "What's going on father? What is this all about?"

"Lord Voldemort himself commanded this." Lucius said curtly. "I'll tell you everything you need to know tonight." He gestured at the grave. "What are you waiting for? Start digging!"

Draco nodded. Without hesitation, shovel hit dirt.

***

He caressed the diary, white fingers gently rubbing the coarse black cloth of the cover, the tarnished brass lock. Rub, rub, rub. The burnt, ink-soaked pages were wrinkled and stiff, but he carefully turned each one, a skeletally thin finger running down slowly, as if he could read the invisible words there.

Occasionally he sighed, a dreamy rasp of madness that made Peter shudder as he milked Nagini with a silver bowl, the giant snake's tongue flicking restlessly as pearls of milk white venom slowly dripped from her fangs. Lord Voldemort reclined against a chaise, red eyes blank as he stared at out the window at the grounds of Malfoy Manor, white hands slowly rubbing the thin, ancient diary. Rub, rub, rub.

"Such a beautiful manor, isn't it, Peter?" The icy rasp, startled Peter and he stared at the Dark Lord, surprised. Lord Voldemort smiled absently, the expression at odds with his usual dark countenance. "The Malfoys have always been powerful, elegant creatures. Such wealth, such influence. One wonders what they would do to keep it."

"I don't understand, my lord." Peter mumbled softly, tense. Sensing his unease, Nagini hissed insolently, her tail curling tightly around his ankle. Lord Voldemort just tilted his head, his look turning thoughtful, his hands splayed wide across the deteriorating book. Rub, rub, rub.

"Of course you don't, you're just a stupid, spineless, traitorous little – rat." Lord Voldemort chuckled dryly at Peter's wince. "Oh, you've got a bit of brain, I'll give you that, Peter. But you're not clever at all. Not like the Malfoys."

"Of course not, my lord. I live only to serve you." Peter mumbled, irritated. Beside him, Nagini seemed to chuckle with malicious amusement, pearls of poison dropping rapidly into the bowl. Unwrapping herself from Peter, she slithered towards Voldemort, insinuating herself around the chaise, scraping her great head against Voldemort's chalk-white hands. Rub, rub, rub.

"I wondered at first why Lucius didn't give this back to me, you know." Voldemort held the book up in the light, its' tattered condition made more obvious in the light. "I thought he was planning something, something underhanded, traitorous, by keeping this to himself. I cursed him until he bled with the pain." He smiled at the memory, tongue touching thin upper lip, as if to savor the taste of blood. "But I realized something, Peter, do you know that?"

Peter didn't dare speak this time. Anger, malevolence, sudden violence he was used to from his Dark Lord. Not this languor, not this dreamy, vague mood. He kneaded the nub of flesh where his right hand used to be, feeling phantom fingers clench and wriggle. Rub, rub, rub.

"All things are fated. This diary wasn't the key to Potter's downfall." Voldemort continued. "It's something more important. Do you know, Peter, that never in my life have I ever found someone worthy of my regard? Tell me -- do you know what love feels like?"

Peter's jaw dropped open slightly. "Well – I've had a few crushes back in school, my lord…" Voldemort laughed in amusement, head slightly thrown back, eyes closed. In his lap, Nagini seemed to laugh with him, her wide body wriggling sinuously against him. Rub, rub, rub.

"Fool." Lord Voldemort opened the diary; the pages crackling as he slowly turned them, one by one. "That isn't what I meant…" He looked out the window once more. "… I mean to make her mine, you know. She'll be like a devoted wife; she'll care for me and serve only me. My one truly loyal subject…Lucius has pledged to help me. Trying to prove his loyalty. He's even willing to sacrifice his son to do it. If only all my servants were like he…"

Peter curled his nails into his fists, phantom fingers clenching along with real; jealousy flaring. Malfoy, it was always Malfoy! Or LeStrange, or Crouch or any other Death-Eater except him! He had always been there, he had been the one to betray his friends, he'd sacrificed his own flesh to resurrect him. He was the loyal servant. Anger rose, chafing against the self-serving cowardice he'd lived with all his life. Rub, rub, rub.

"…She'll be my queen, my best, most loyal, most devoted servant…"

Rub, rub, rub.

***

The weeks seemed to fly by. Time was liquid to Draco, grains of sand running unnoticed through his fingers. The only thing that mattered was he complete what father had told him to do, to succeed and gain his approval.

Once back at Malfoy Manor his father had led him back to his study and told him many things. If Draco had thought any part of the entire situation strange he kept silent on it. After the talk Draco had sequestered himself in his suite of private rooms with trunks upon trunks of ancient, moldy books full of dark knowledge – and the body. He only ate when the house-elves brought food, slept when his body collapsed of exhaustion.

At first the desire to succeed and please his father was what drove him. Later, as he continued to decipher ancient magics, cast mind-numbing spells and dizzying charms, a sort of urgency crept over him. As the weeks went on by he found himself gulping energy potions to keep awake so he could complete just one more incantation, he'd curse the dawn when the sun's rays flooded through the windows, hurting his eyes.

When he slept, he dreamed. He never remembered those dreams but a feeling of uneasiness would come over him every time he looked at the girl – he didn't know when he'd stopped thinking of her as the body – with flame hair and beautiful cinnamon eyes. Dark patterns would swim over his vision and he'd feel giddy and have to sit down. He would tell himself it was tiredness and gulp down another energy potion.

Sometimes, late at night when his tongue was numb and his mind worn-out but still pacing around in circles, a tiny little voice would chide him, like a wise old man shaking his head at a rebellious young brat caught playing with fire.

This is real dark magic, you know. Not like the petty spells and curses you're used to doing. This is serious stuff – right along the lines of avada kedavra and imperio and crucio. Only – I think this is much worse than that. You might lose your freedom over the Unforgivables, if you get caught. This might lose you your soul.

He brushed everything aside. Nothing mattered at this point. Not his father's approval, not the little guilt-trips his conscience would send him through, not the side effects of too many spells, too much magic, all swirling around inside his rooms, inside his body, inside his mind.

He began to hallucinate – at least, he thought was. He'd dream he was dreaming he was awake, doing the strangest things. He once saw a house-elf coming in, tray of food in hand, and suddenly it turned into a potted plant. He would dream he was flying high, higher than any broom would go. He'd be floating when he opened his eyes, head bumping the ceiling. Once, he'd dreamt that he was dancing with the flame-haired girl, her body light enough that he could whirl her around and around. He'd woken up with her in his arms, his mouth mumbling nonsense.

Things had to come to a head. It finally did, one morning when the sky was clear, just a few days before school term was due to start.

He'd been standing at the girl's feet, chanting, chanting what he didn't know; he'd almost stopped caring. The air was almost toxic with magic; a thin mist of gold seemed to permeate it. Sunlight shone through a window, a thin beam of light hitting his eyes – and his tongue stumbled over a syllable, his teeth snapping together with a click.

He remembered nothing of what happened. He wasn't told the details, though when he woke, he did wonder why all the windows in Malfoy Manor seemed so new and why none of the house-elves would come near him. All he remembered – sometimes, when he dreamed  -- was a fleeting glimpse of flame-red hair and a pair of cinnamon eyes staring at him with surprise, recognition and horror.

***

"You're finally awake, my dragon."

Draco opened his eyes. He was in bed; coverlets tucked up to his armpits, his mother stroking his hair. He wondered what day it was. Had he finished his homework yet?

"Good morning, mother. What are you doing here, so early?"

Narcissa smiled indulgently. "Holidays are over, Draco. Don't you remember; today's the day you go back to school. You're a seventh year now, can't miss the train now, can we?"

"Oh – of course, mother. I'll get ready." Narcissa nodded and rose. Draco didn't notice the tip of her wand peeking from her left sleeve. Draco closed his eyes the moment he was settled into the enchanted car that would take him to King's Cross Station. He slept the entire journey and did the same on board the Hogwarts' Express. When his fellow Slytherins asked him about his holidays, the only thing he could recall clearly was getting the Dark Mark.

Something told him he should have questioned that lapse of memory. Something else firmly said there was nothing wrong. Eventually, the stresses of Seventh year caught up to him and he thought no more of it – except at night, when he dreamed.

But he never remembered his dreams.

************

Wheee, chapter 1 is finally done!! ::grins::. Hope it's not too criptic/obvious/ridiculous, I keep on looking at it and think I'm being all three at the same time. Looking at your own work at 2:30 in the morning can to that to you. ^_^

[A/N] - Yes, I know Draco was never mentioned as having a stutter. But his childhood before eleven has never been mentioned so let me play around with it a bit, 'kay? : ) And yes, Draco can apparate. Just take it that his father taught him how to illegally. Evil Malfoys and all that, right?

Authors are like plants, plants need water. So, water an author today. Please, do review.:)