Living the Legend Chapter I: Secrets Marie McKinnon

Mrs. Weasley and the others were so numbly shocked the next morning that they hardly noticed when Ginny slipped out the back door into the garden, a small leather-bound book clutched tightly in her hand. Draco followed her after a little while, still worried that she would do something rash.

Searching the grounds for her, he didn't see anyone even remotely resembling a pretty fifth year. Then, of course, he noticed a suspiciously silver tree that thrashed about violently, and looked up between its branches for a glimpse of red hair. He berated himself for letting Ginny out of his sight and letting her do something so obviously stupid. What if the Weasleys decided to come outside? What if they had neighbours? And, more importantly, what if Death Eaters were patrolling, watching for proof of Ginny's power? He rose steadily in the air, ducking the flailing branches. It registered in his mind that the tree was a weeping willow, which didn't seem as remotely ironic as it would have, were he not furious with certain witchlings.

He finally saw a delicate red ponytail lash out with the tree's limbs. Weaving through them, he watched her scribble furiously in her "little black book," forehead furrowed. His landing was ignored, but not purposefully; she was so absorbed in her writing that she didn't see, hear, or feel his sudden appearance.

"Lovely day, isn't it?" He said. "Perhaps your family should speak to the Ministry about this silver tree, though. I'm rather sure it's a rarity."

Ginny's tense muscles overreacted at the speech, causing her to slip backwards off of the branch. The willow's limbs ceased moving immediately as silver sparks created a pillow to catch her and slowly bring her back to her seat. She snapped her fingers and the sparks vanished, probably, Draco thought, back into her blood. When she'd fallen she'd released her hold on the leather-bound book, which he had pocketed on a hunch.

"Well, good morning to you, too," she gasped, catching her breath. "Was it that obvious?"

"The tree was lashing out at everything, howling, moaning, trying to kill people, and it was silver," he replied flatly. "No, of course it wasn't obvious. Your family's inside, don't worry," he answered to her unspoken question.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I just - I just - I didn't think-"

He laughed, an unusual thing for him to do. "That was obvious as well."

*

After a very quiet meal of roasted chicken the mass of Weasleys went outside to play and attempt to forget their sorrows. No one seemed to notice that Draco wasn't accompanying them; he remained locked up in the attic with the ghoul, who was temporarily silent. He fished the small book out of his pocket, looking at it from all angles and watching the light, made oily by the leather cover, play across its surface. It took a great initiative to open it, but he managed it, looking at the rounded letters filling the front page.

THIS BELONGS TO VIRGINIA WEASLEY. ANYONE WHO IS *NOT* VIRGINIA WEASLEY SHOULD NOT HAVE OPENED IT IN THE FIRST PLACE! Thank you for your cooperation.

He couldn't help but smile. The paper, creamy in the half-light, almost shouted that the words written on it were not intended to be spoken or seen by anyone other than, of course, Virginia Weasley. Flipping through the first few pages, he caught snatches of poetry, dialogues, and several very good drawings. His mind reeled over her talent. A beautiful, though upsetting, drawing of a photograph's image being washed away was accompanied by a depressing stanza, the second in her previous poem.

"Pictures are yellowing inside their frames/ spidery writing obscuring the names/ of the pictured ones laughing/ and playing their games," he read aloud, the words fitting perfectly in the rhythm of his speech. They hung in the air for a moment, then vanished.

He turned more pages, halted, and stared in amazement. A perfect likeness of himself smiled back at him lazily, leaning against a stone wall and holding a long, glimmering blade. He pinched himself to be sure that he was still awake, not dreaming, because his image on the page was colored and drawn to such perfection that he couldn't be sure it wasn't real. Written in a fancy script at the bottom was a tiny inscription, labeling the person not as Draco, but simply as "Dream Knight." So she had had dreams as well, he thought, hoping that hers were clearer than his misty, cloudy visions of lightning and thunder.

The newest entry, dated July 5, 1997, was splotched with tears. It had been written much more quickly than many of the previous ones, the words almost illegible because of their sloppiness. He tried to make out the idea of the entry, squinting down at the page, but he didn't understand it at first. Then he hit himself over the head, annoyed at his idiocy, and waved his hand over the page. It was still tear-stained, still sloppy, but it looked like English.

D*** Voldemort (he read), d*** him to Hell! Never will I call him You-Know-Who, because that gives him the pleasure of knowing he is feared. I will deny him all the pleasure I can, because he has denied me the pleasure and the luxury of spending time with my family and friends. How did he do that? If he had only captured them, I would have done anything to get them back from him. But no, he had to take them to the one place I can't return from. Death. How dare he take others' lives when his has continued for far too long, when his is controlled by a spell? He has only a semblance of life, not even a true one, and when he doesn't live, he has no right to kill.

I live, and I will kill him. His spell can only last so long, and when the time is right, my dagger will shatter that spell into millions of tiny shards. Then I will remove what remains of his miserable heart and toss it, still beating, on the floor, as he has done to me.

"Bloody Hell," Draco murmured into the previously empty attic, now full to bursting with Ginny's fury and loathing. That was right, he realized. They'd all forgotten, idiots that they were, that Voldemort had possessed her in her first year and used her to open the Chamber of Secrets. To do that, he'd had to pour secrets into her, and they hadn't vanished with the destruction of the diary. Which meant that she still harbored some memories and, more importantly, knowledge of his weaknesses.

The door creaked open a crack, just wide enough for Ginny to slip into the attic. "I thought you might have that," she said into the taut silence. There was a slight edge in her voice that told him that he had made a mistake. "Find it interesting?"

"You draw beautifully," he replied, changing the subject adroitly. "Did they all come from dreams or were you just sketching from real life?"

She leaned her shoulders against the rough wooden wall, arms crossed. "Don't change the subject. You read the last entry, didn't you?" Looking at him from under her eyelashes, she watched his visible nervousness and thought, for the thousandth time, how amazingly handsome he was. His dark gray polo shirt had the top buttons undone and his light summer trousers looked crisp and pressed. Elegant fingers turned the pages anxiously, trying to seem nonchalant.

He stood in one fluid motion. "Do you know what your information could do for us?" He asked, handing her her diary reluctantly. "Voldemort would be dead much sooner if you told the Ministry. They'd send a special team out, do whatever was needed, and he'd be gone."

"After what he's done to me," she hissed, "I want to be the one to kill him."

Shaking his head, he asked "What about Harry? The first eleven years of his life were hell because of Voldemort. Don't you think he deserves to finish the b****** off because of that?"

"Harry," she said, voice soft and dangerous, "never got to a place he thought he'd belong to and found himself instantaneously shunned. It took me years to get the Gryffindors to trust me, and as soon as I found friends, they were taken. Harry never knew his parents, so he was spared the pain of missing the care they'd given him. I've been given a small lifetime to meet and love people, and when I do, they're killed. Don't you think I should be able to avenge those deaths? Don't you think I should cut off his unnatural life as soon as possible so he doesn't cut off more?" She was ramrod straight, eyes cold and hard with icy anger.

"And don't you think," Draco replied, "that I would rather die a thousand deaths than see you dead and know I could have at least helped?" He felt helpless, knowing that he wouldn't stop her from trying to save the world and feeling sure that she would be returned to him in a matchbox.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her anger having left her as quickly as it had come. "I can tell you what I know, but it has to wait until we get back to Hogwarts. Harry needs to hear it as well, and I don't think I could tell the story twice."

A slow smile lit his pale face. "About that 'Dream Knight' picture. what sorts of dreams is he in?"

"Well," she said slyly, "He's extremely--"

She got no farther than that, attacked by a barrage of questions and several accusations of being mentally unfaithful. However, Draco remembered some of his dreams, and shut up before they could be brought to light. A moment later the ghoul came out and chased them downstairs, throwing random pipes and howling, voice less intimidating, they thought, than the shrill of Pansy Parkinson when she was told she'd done something wrong. Which, he recollected, was very often.