Chapter Six: The Book of Dreams.

Friend, many and many a dream is mere confusion, a cobweb of no consequence at all. Two gates for ghostly dreams there are: One gateway of honest horn, and one of ivory. Issuing by the ivory gate are dreams of glimmering illusion, fantasies, but those that come through solid polished horn may be borne out, if mortals only know them.
---Homer, The Odyssey

A/N: Thanks to all the reviewers. You will be individually named in the next chapter!! JKR owns what you recognize, I or history own what you don't. Lord Morpheus, Dream of the Endless, is Neil Gaiman's and is from the Sandman series. Crossover alert! But if you haven't read Sandman (although everybody should!) it won't make any difference at all. The idea that Draco's an artist came from somebody on a board at fictionalley; if I could remember who, I'd thank her! Damn. I'm really proud of this chapter.

8:30 p.m.: Malfoy Manor

Draco sat up with a gasp. The sound of a door creaking shut died away, somewhere ahead of him. For a moment, he had no idea where he was. He stared wildly around the thick, heavy tapestry hangings of the dark oak four-poster bed, at the Turkish carpets,the massive, ponderous furniture, the rows of bookshelves. There was a framed pastel sketch on the wall of the grounds about Malfoy Manor, the long gray grasses waving gently in the wind. A pen and ink of Apple, his old Shetland pony, asleep in a stall. A pencil portrait of his mother, her grave Madonna-face in profile. Wait... those drawings were his, he knew the hours and hours he'd spent on them... and this was his room, at Malfoy Manor. Draco lay back down, staring up at the familiar pattern of the ceiling above him. How many, many nights he'd spent this way. And this looked to be another one of them. The Ginny-dream wouldn't stop wafting through his head, and Draco knew he'd get no more sleep this... night? day? The landscape outside the swagged velvet curtains at the bay window was dark, but it didn't feel late to him.

He got up and padded over to the bedside table, pouring himself a glass of water from the crystal pitcher. He could tell now that it was mid-evening, perhaps a bit after eight; he could just see Venus rising over the full moon. He put the empty glass back down, and his eye was caught by a large book lying on the tabletop.

Draco's fingers traced the embossed cover as he picked it up. The leather was delicately tooled into an elaborate colored pattern, inset with a mosaic of tiny jewels. It was obviously art, but unlike anything he'd seen before, shaped into a geometric pattern rather than being a recognizable picture of anything. It felt brittle and unimaginably old. The blank pages fell open to one spot, which had been marked by a quill pen, a tassel of gold and little rubies at its end. He'd seen this before, or a picture of it anyway. But where? Draco closed his eyes for a moment, remembering.

"And now we must turn our attention to the curious question of enchanted diaries," Professor Binns was droning in History of Magical Artifacts class. It was an unseasonably warm day in the late autumn of his fifth year, the faint scent of apples from the enchanted orchard drifting in on a soft breeze. Perhaps ninety percent of the class was fast asleep. Draco was awake, although looking back on it now, he wasn't sure why. He'd already started to have trouble sleeping through the night by then. Perhaps it was simply that what Binns said next had captured all his attention.

"The dangers of common artifacts of this sort are well known," said the professor. "Several incidents have occurred in recent years. There is the case of the Bavarian diary, which caused Maria von Hesseldorf to become possessed by an evil spirit at Durmstrang. There is the Napoleonic diary, which captured Amalie de Marchais at Beauxbatons last spring. And even here at Hogwarts, there has been... " His words trailed off. The entire class snapped awake.

"Yet there is another sort of diary as well," Professor Binns said almost hurriedly. The roomful of students let out its breath in a collective sigh. Everyone knew what had not been said. Nobody ever mentioned the subject above a whisper. But the Hogwarts gossip network knew, or thought they knew, all about Tom Riddle's enchanted diary, and Ginny Weasley. Draco, however, was the only one who really did know.

Even he hadn't found out the truth easily. Lucius Malfoy had never told him, and his father's face would grow livid with rage every time the subject was brought up by anyone. Draco had picked up what he knew by listening to snippets of gossip from house-elves talking when they didn't know he was around, and piecing together hints and clues. It had been an embarrassingly failed attempt to gain power, and, as such, none of the Death Eaters was very eager to discuss it. And, of course, it was another attempt that Potter had thwarted, another chance for him to play the hero-- and to rescue Ginny Weasley.

Sometimes, in those nights of increasingly broken sleep in the Slytherin dormitory that autumn, Draco had dreamed that he'd found his way into the Chamber of Secrets, and he'd been the one to rescue her. Except that it wasn't when she was twelve and he barely thirteen, but now. She wasn't a child, but a beautiful girl, and there was something other than scorn and dislike in her golden eyes when she looked at him. Draco always found it extremely difficult to get back to sleep after one of these dreams.

"These are known as Morpheus Librum, or the Books of Dreams," Professor Binns was saying in his flat, grey voice. "The most obvious difference between these and the other sorts of diaries is that in these cases, the originating writer must be a living person, not a spirit or a memory. This person speaks to the reader in a dream state, communicating directly and without conscious thought. For this reason, a Book of Dreams actually poses a greater danger to the writer than it does to the reader, as the writer may reveal things he or she would not do if completely conscious and aware. Nor will the writer remember what has been written, upon awakening. The most famous of these books is the so-called Kitap -in Düs of Istanbul. Turn to page three hundred and ninety-four in your textbooks to view an illustration." Draco had flipped the pages, and there it was. A picture of the book he now held in his hands.

"Accendius," said Draco, and the candles around his bedroom lit themselves. He walked to the bay windowseat and sat down in it, curling his feet under him as he had used to do when he was a small child. His old wizard's chess set of green marble was still laid out on the deep windowsill. He played with the pieces a little, thinking.

"It's all very well for you," grumbled the black queen. "Come and go as you please, that's about the size of it."

"I've been at school," he told her absently.

"We were your companions, your brothers-in-arms," the white knight said sadly. "Have you forgotten us already?"

"Time moves on," Draco said, weighing the book in his hands. "Things change."

"Yet we gave you comfort when all comfort seemed lost," said the knight, resettling himself on his dispirited dirty-gray horse. "You whispered to us your childhood secrets, and we alone felt the falling of your tears. Remember?"

Yes, Draco remembered. But he shook his head. He would never give in to memories like these again. They'd only weaken him, and he was, he sensed, moving past all human weakness now. He pushed the board aside.

"He's a spoiled brat, like all the Malfoys," sniffed the queen. "Always was, always will be."

"What do you expect? We're only pawns," sighed a pawn. And then the chess board was silent and motionless once again.

The pages of the book were blank, and they smelled of old parchment and long-abandoned dungeons. He dripped a little ink from the end of the quill, and the black spot vanished instantly. He waited. Slowly, he began to realize that he was waiting for something to happen; no, for instructions of some kind. Far, far away, he felt another mind touching his own, a consciousness far older, far more subtle. Lord Grindelwald.

"So what do I do now?" he whispered.

The mind of Lord Grindelwald seemed to be feeling out his own, attempting to penetrate it, to move through it. Draco tried to tell himself that he was willing. He couldn't balk at whatever was asked of him in the Dark Lord's service. Yet his own mind would not stop rebelling. It threw up a barrier so strong that the Grindelwald-consciousness retreated in shock. Very well, it seemed to say at last. For now, my young apprentice.

Left to his own devices, Draco sighed, staring at the pages. At last, he picked up the quill and did what Ginny Weasley had done with her own, very different diary. I am Draco Malfoy, he wrote. Who are you?

Black, angular words formed on the page. I greet you, Draco Malfoy. I am he who is called Al-laddin al-Rashid.

The flickering candlelight cast shadows on the words. Now what? Draco thought for a moment, and then wrote, Where are you?

I dwell in the city of Istanbul, under the reign of the Sultan Süleyman, Defender of the Faith, the Great Khan, He Who Wields the Sword of Ayub, may he live a thousand thousand years.

But if this Al-laddin al-Rashid lives in Istanbul, thought Draco, shouldn't he be writing in Turkish or something? Why can I read what he's writing? And how can he understand what I'm writing?

The writing, still black and strong, took on a vague quality. What would you with me, Son of the Morning?

What is he on about? wondered Draco. I just told him who I was... it's almost like he was enchanted, or talking in his sleep... Of course. That was the answer. Al-laddin al-Rashid was asleep, and walking through the world of dreams. That also explained why they could understand each other; they were communicating directly rather than using language. Now all Draco had to do was to figure out what the point of this entire exercise was. The book had obviously been left on the bedside table for a reason. The point of these particular types of diaries, the Books of Dreams, seemed to be that the writer had no real idea who they were talking to or even what they were saying, and could be made to reveal anything. It was only logical, then, that there was some secret to reveal. He wondered how the connection was made between reader and writer, but for the moment it didn't matter. Draco picked up the quill and began writing again, choosing his words carefully.

I sense that there is something you wish to tell me.

Yes, my Lord.

Draco paused to savor those words. My Lord. Oh, he could get used to hearing that.

What do you wish to say?

I would tell to you a story.

Then tell it, Al-laddin al-Rashid, Draco wrote.

The words began appearing more quickly than before, as if the writer had been waiting long and long for the secrets of his tale to be told.

In the name of Allah, the all-compassionate, the all-merciful, and the all-wise, the time has come at last for the secrets of Al-Juhara Har-am to be revealed. It is I, Al-laddin al-Rashid, who tells this tale, member of the Ancient Arabic Order of Nobles of the Tower and the Pheonix. Our order was founded by a descendant of Mohammed and a descendant of Abraham in the year that is, by the Western reckoning, 1154. And it is also in that year that my tale of the Jewel of the Harem took place. All praises be upon Allah, and Mohammed, His Prophet.

At the bottom of the page an emblem appeared, like a seal used to mark letters with red wax. It was in the shape of a great bird with arrows clenched in one claw and a spray of laurel leaves in the other. Draco couldn't shake the feeling that it should mean something to him, that he'd seen it somewhere, but he couldn't call up the memory. And that year... 1154-- wait-- Draco's brow wrinkled. That was the year that Hogwarts had been founded by Rowena Ravenclaw, Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, and Salazar Slytherin. Could there be a connection?

In the vast round city of Mansur, the Caliph of Baghdad did dwell, he who was known as al-Hambra the Great. And on one night he did dream a dream of portent. He looked over the high tower of his palace and said, "Behold, and compare. Is there any city on earth like unto my city? Is there any power, any beauty, any majesty that can compare with what I have created?"

And the Lord of Dreams, one of the seven Endless Immortals, he whom the Greeks called Morpheus, did appear to him on the balcony of the high tower, and did say to him, 'No, al-Hambra the Great. There is not."

"In all this city there are riches beyond the dreams of avarice. There is a street whose cobblestones are pure gold, and those who walk upon it shake gold dust from their shoes."

"It is so," said the Lord of Dreams.

"There is a garden where the green jade vines grow from the earth, and their grapes are emeralds," said the Caliph. "The almond trees are wrought of silver, and the rain falls as a shower of diamonds. The apricots, I believe, are topaz."

"This, also, is so."

"In my harem are women of such beauty that a mere glimpse of them has driven mortals mad, and tempted gods to descend to earth for a night of bliss. I, of course, am immune. Unless I choose not to be."

Dream did bow his dark head, and his eyes were like unto pools of black water that have no shore. "All that you have said, o mighty Caliph, is truth."

"Wilt thou, o Lord of Dreams, then tell to me one more truth?"

"That I will."

"In this city of perfection, can there be any who suffers?"

"There cannot."

"However," said the Caliph, "I speak not only of what is, but of what shall be. "

The Lord of Dreams turned aside. "Would you see the far future, that which no mortal man was meant to see?"

"I would."

In answer, the Immortal spread out his arm, and the spell of darkness cast by him did cover all the enchanted night of Baghdad. The silence was broken by destruction greater than in all the wars yet waged by the children of men. In the wake of this darkness Caliph al-Hambra did see things that no man now living may understand. What these things may be, I do not know, and may Allah preserve us from the knowledge of them. And the eyes of the Caliph were as those of a man who has drunk from the waters of living death.

"I would give all that is, and all that may be, to take back my request," he said.

"What the Immortals give, they do not take back," said the Lord of Dreams.

"Yet this future may be changed."

"That power lies always in the hands of man."

"The evil I have seen is undoubtedly caused by demons," said the Caliph.

"Not by demons, but by men," replied the Lord of Dreams, but the Caliph did not hear him.

"The War Chief south of the Rhine, Wulfric Aethelhard, from the barbaric lands far to the west, has this day sent me a tribute." And the Caliph held up his hands, and in them was a great ruby that contained fire and ice within its depths. "I will order my sorcerors to capture the King of the Demons in their webs of spells, and imprison him within this ruby. Throughout the ages, he whom the Egpytians have called Set, whom the Greeks have called Prometheus, whom the men of the far north have called Loki, whom those of the far east have called Susano-o-san, and whom the Jews have called Satan, will be captured within its depths, unable to do harm."

"Do not do this thing."

"I may save mankind," said the Caliph.

"By trapping Lucifer, the Light Bearer, he who fell from heaven, he who was once the King of the Angels and the Son of the Morning? O, do not do so, Caliph al-Hambra." And then a marvel happened that all the worlds of men have never seen before, nor since. One of the Immortals bowed his head, and knelt to man. "I beg you to hold your hand from this terrible thing," said the Lord of Dreams.

But the Caliph commanded that his sorcerors should gather all their powers together. And they stood about the ruby and chanted the forbidden words of the Dark Arts to bring the King of the Demons. A great spirit of light, as of a man falling eternally through fire, howled his anguish throughout the worlds as they imprisoned him within the faceted depths. And they believed that they had conquered evil for all eternity. But even as they rejoiced, a terrible sound of laughter filled the throne room of the Caliph. And a spirit of darkness spread its hand over all the great city of Baghdad. In that darkness, it became as any other city, good and evil alike weighed in its scales. And the spirit flew out into the world, seeking a man to inhabit. Since that day, it has always done so. In trying to destroy evil, the Caliph set loose a greater evil.

And the Lord of Dreams did leave the city of Baghdad with sadness on his face, if sadness there be without human longing or human regret. And the tears that fell from his eyes to the sand became jewels beyond price.

May Allah witness that this tale I have told is truth, for Allah is the best of all witnesses.

Draco took a deep breath. He couldn't really say that he'd fully understood anything he'd just read. But the story seemed to give off a kind of dark light, as if it contained a mystery that drew him in, daring him to learn enough to solve it. On the next page, a full illustration appeared. He studied it closely. A group of men in long, richly colored robes were standing over an immense glowing ruby; they were the sorcerors of Baghdad, he supposed. And seated on a golden throne was a man with a vast jeweled turban. The Caliph. But rising out of the jewel even as the King of the Demons descended into it was-- was--

"Voldemort," he said in a whisper.

Draco had, of course, never truly seen the Dark Lord. But Lucius Malfoy had whispered descriptions to his son a thousand thousand times in the depths of the night, when they were both roaming the halls of Malfoy Manor, sleep denied them; both slumped at the long polished oaken table in the great dining hall, waiting for daylight to release them. The skeletal body; the thin spidery arms and legs; the face, whiter than a skull, with huge scarlet eyes, a flat, slitted nose, and snakelike lips. He was floating up from the jewel.

He blinked. No. It was Grindelwald, exactly as Draco had seen him only hours before. The craggy face, the piercing blue eyes, the colorless hair under its black velvet cap.

And then there were the faces and bodies of others, ones Draco recognized only dimly from their portraits in the books in his father's library, the ones on the history of dark magicians. Their forms flitted through the spirit rising from the jewel. At last, they had all gone out into the world.

And at last, Draco understood.

But the black, thick writing was still appearing on the page, and he continued reading.

And so our order was formed in that year in an alliance between the children of Hagar and the children of Abraham, and we did vow to guard the Jewel so that its power could do no further evil in this world. It was hidden in the high tower of the Great Mosque, which Christians then called the Hagia Sophia, for many hundreds and hundreds of years. When Mohammed the Conqueror, blessed be his memory, did take the great city of Constantinople to rename it as Istanbul, the Jewel was lost for many years, and all our thought and will went to the hunting of it.

Why so? Draco wrote.

This world of man is both good, and evil. But if the man housing the spirit of evil in any day and age did grasp the jewel in his hands, then would the power of evil become absolute. And this man's reign would last until time and times were done. In that day, the Jewel was found, and secreted in the Grand Seraglio of Istanbul. So it is that now it is called the Jewel of the Harem.

Another thought came to Draco. What year is it? he wrote.

It is nearly the spring of that year which is, by Western reckoning, 1566.

Draco dropped the quill to the page. "That can't be," he whispered hoarsely. "Professor Binns said that the writer of the diary had to be a living man. It's almost 1997. That was over four hundred years ago!"He stared over the pages almost unseeingly.

Now-- the writing seemed to hesitate. Now our fear is far greater than it was in the days of Mohammed. For the coming of a great evil to the city of Istanbul and to the Ottoman Empire has been foretold. And our order is waning, waning; we have not the strength to fight it. We have not the strength to guard the Jewel. Either our hope cometh soon, or else all hope's end.

Draco slammed the book shut.

He was not really surprised to see Lord Grindelwald sitting next to him on the window seat. Or perhaps seeing wasn't the right word for it, but Draco sensed him with every nerve and fiber he possessed. His body shrank away from the undead thing, but his will was stronger. "I greet you, my Lord."

"And who am I?" asked Grindelwald.

"You are He Who Cannot Be Named. You are He Who Has Many Names."

"Ah," said Grindelwald, nodding. "So you do understand, my little Drachen." He put his long, long fingers on either side of the silvery blond head. For a panicked instant, Draco had to fight every natural impulse he had. Every single one of them seemed to be screaming No, no! Get away from that thing as fast as you can! For God's sake, run... before it's too late... But it was already too late. He forced himself to stay still by a tremendous effort of the will, and after a few moments it became much easier. The voices were silenced.

"And now, my young apprentice... tell me vat I must know."

In times to come, Draco could never piece together what had happened to him then. It occupied an eternity, and no time at all. Mostly he just remembered the sound of Lord Grindelwald's voice with its low, almost harsh, drawling Bavarian accent, eerily like his mother's voice. It crooned in his ear and asked him questions, and he told all he knew. Draco told the Dark Lord everything he'd heard at the top of the North Tower between Cornelius Fudge, Moody, and Dumbledore, everything he'd seen on that piece of parchment stamped From the Desk of Hermione Granger, every snippet of conversation and expression on everyone's face. Draco said nothing about what he had done with Ginny Weasley. But he was sure that the Dark Lord knew anyway. Long after his conscious mind had run dry, Grindelwald seemed to be tapping directly into his memories, and not only those. Drop by drop, Draco felt thought, sense, and emotion being leached from him. He thought almost dreamily that he could actually feel the last traces of humanity leaving him, draining away. Almost gone.

But then they caught on a snag.

Draco's mind and soul had no real defenses left; he had been too suffused in darkness by a lifetime with Lucius Malfoy for that. But his body remembered, and cried out.

The honey-tang taste of Ginny Weasley's lips.

The feel of her hair, maddeningly soft; the sensation of touching her skin, smoother than silk.

The ripe curves of her body moving against him, under his hands; the little low sounds she made deep in her throat when he kissed her; the whiteness of her shoulders, rising out of a sea of red and gold.

And, above all...

That inexplicable feeling of absolute rightness when she had been in his arms, of safety, of wholeness. As if he had been drowning in a sea of nightmares, and the touch of her hand had awakened him on dry land at last.

"This girl I see..." said Grindelwald, "this Ginny Veasley, vat is she to you?"

"Nothing," said Draco. "She's nothing to me."

The mind of Grindelwald probed his. "I t'ink you are not telling me the truth."

"I am sorry, my Lord," whispered Draco.

The Dark Lord was silent for a moment, and when he spoke again, there was something almost like amusement in his voice. "This is not a matter for sorrow."

And then his spiderlike fingers clutched at Draco's head again, and there was no more room for thought.

A blank shaft of time passed. It could have been seconds or hours or days.

Then there were gentle hands on his forehead, brushing back the damp hair, soothing his aching temples. He knew those cool slim hands with their long fingers. They weren't everyday hands. Those few times he'd felt them wer the only times he used the word that now came to him, their own rare, special word.

"Mutti," he whispered. "Your hands are so cool, Mutti." His beautiful, cold, unattainable mother. She was so like the illustration in his old wizard's fairy tale book of Hans Christian Andersen's Snow Queen in her winter sleigh that when he was a very small child he hadn't quite been able to tell the two apart. Only when Draco was ill and in bed with a high fever did he ever feel her hands on him, her glacial blue eyes turned towards him. She would always call him by his middle name then. Lukas, Lukas, she would whisper, and that he was her liebling, her patscherl, her handerl, in that smooth drawling voice of hers-- surely he'd heard those endearments from her at least once? Then she was eternally moving away from him, only the tips of her long elegant fingers brushing through the hair that fell over his forehead before she retreated into the mists. But his mother was in Bavaria; she'd escaped this. Was out of all this. Was safe. He felt a dim gladness. He told himself that it was because she didn't understand, couldn't really be a part of it. It was better so. Draco opened his eyes.

Narcissa Malfoy was bending over him.

"Mother?" he asked in shock.

"Shhh," she said. "You need to rest a bit more, you should not try to speak."

Draco sat up, rubbing his eyes, and saw the glowing hands of the Muggle watch she wore in the dimness of the room. "It's only nine o'clock?" he asked stupidly. The events of the past half hour felt as if they had spanned eons. "What are you doing here?"

She shrugged slightly, her shoulders moving under the elegant silk robes. "Where else should I be?"

"Well-- Linz--" The words died on Draco's lips as he sat up and saw who else was in the room. He wondered if for an instant he had almost thought all the events of this day some sort of fever dream, vanishing at his mother's touch. Well, they weren't. He got out of bed, standing up, refusing to give in to the last traces of dizzying weakness. There was no time for them now.

Lord Grindelwald was standing by the window, looking more substantial than he had earlier. The mistiness had faded from his outlines. To a casual observer, he must have appeared human, although Draco certainly knew better. He looks more human because of what he took from me, thought Draco with a shudder, which he repressed. He was proud to serve the Dark Lord in this way; he who would command, must first serve. And next to Grindelwald was Lucius Malfoy. He looked at his wife, who said primly, "My place is with my husband and my son." She folded her long white hands beneath the sleeves of her robe. Her face was as immobile as carved marble.

Lucius gave one cold nod, as if confirming a point already made and set in stone. "We are nearly ready to go down," he said.

"Ve need one other. The last," said Lord Grindelwald.

"Who?" asked Draco.

"Ginny Veasley."

"She's-- is she here?" He tried, and failed, to keep the eagerness out of his voice.

Lucius looked at his son sharply. "The girl is at Hogwarts. She will be retrieved and brought back. The nearest apparation point is at the train station, and we have a carriage waiting, so it shouldn't take long."

"Oh, I'm sure she'll cooperate with you, Father," Draco said acidly. "What are you going to do, ask her if she'd like to spend the Christmas hols at Malfoy Manor?"

"It's all arranged," said Lucius, even more curtly than before. "I've just received information from our Hogwarts spy that the Weasley girl is in the hospital wing. Our operatives will use the Kargasa charm to take her out."

Draco had no idea what this might be. But he looked back silently at his father, refusing to give him the pleasure of asking.

"You don't know all there is to know about magic yet, Draco," Lucius continued with a trace of satisfaction in his voice. "It's a Turkish charm. Works through the burning of incense. Very like Confundus, but much more efficient and thorough. They'll Apparate to Hogwarts, then use the tunnel into the school through the basement of Honeydukes."

"There's a tunnel into Hogwarts?" Draco asked in surprise

"More than one. Barty Crouch passed on quite a bit of useful information before the end. I told you, boy..." Lucius continued softly, "you don't know all there is to know, not yet..."

Two massive figures stepped forward out of the shadows of the room. Draco recognized Crabbe and Goyle-- were they ever going to stop growing taller and bulkier? Goyle, in particular, resembled a surly gorilla more than ever. He nodded to them, and they grunted at him. It was the first time they had all even acknowledged each other's presence in well over a year. The insults the three had hurled at Potter and his friends on the train from Hogwarts at the end of fourth year had actually been their last moment as a united front. Draco often wondered if Potter or Weasley or that mudblood Granger ever knew that his desperate taunts that day had been an attempt to convince himself, not them. The Death Eaters had still been concealing the truth then. But over the summer, it had become increasingly, hideously clear. Nothing would restore Lord Voldemort. This being the case, much of the Malfoy power was vanished. Some of Draco's former Slytherin friends had deserted him with the haste of rats leaving a sinking ship once the news got out. Some, like Milicent, Xanthia, and Sadina, had lingered longer. But Crabbe and Goyle's bodyguard duties had ended rather soon. Now, as Pansy had, they were slinking back. His lip curled.

"Ve must have Ginny Veasley," Lord Grindelwald was saying.

Ginny. Ginny in the hospital wing at Hogwarts (was she all right? surely, surely she was,) and Draco could feel the blood pounding in his head. He could see her in his mind's eye, lying peacefully in an infirmary bed in a white nightgown, her hands upon the white sheets, white curtains blowing at the windows, and the purity of the scene only inflamed him the more. He was going to get Ginny Weasley.

"Right then," he said. "Let's go."

"No," said Lucius Malfoy, putting out an arm to bar his son's progress to the door. "We need you here now. Pansy will be the third."

Another figure, much slimmer and smaller, stirred slightly. It threw the hood of its black cloak back, revealing Pansy Parkinson's shiny dark head. "Aren't you glad to see me?" she asked Draco.

"No," he said.

She laughed. "Aren't you going to thank me?"

"Whatever for?"

She indicated the bedside table. "I brought you that book, Draco."

The book. What he'd written in it, what he'd read in it, what he'd learned from it... "Stop that damn laughing," he said to her.

"The Kitap-an-Düs," she said.

"I know that it's the Kitap-an-Düs. Professor Binns talked about it in one of his bloody boring lectures last year, remember?"

Pansy only laughed again. Draco had to remind himself that she must be necessary to this mission, which made it inadvisable to strangle her.

Lucius Malfoy pressed a small, oval metal thing with pierced sides into Pansy's palm. "Remember to light this once you've reached the hospital wing. There needs to be plenty of smoke by the time Madam Pomfrey sees you, or you'll never convince her that you're St. Mungo's aides."

"I don't think she's very bright," said Pansy, with a particularly irritating giggle.

"Nevertheless, make sure it is done correctly." Lucius stepped closer to her. "We're all relying on you, my dear Pansy. Do you really believe I'd trust them--" Lucius pointed discreetly towards Crabbe and Goyle "-- with a task this delicate?" His voice lowered considerably on the last words.

Pansy looked up at him through stubby black lashes. "I'd never fail you, Lucius," she softly said.

Draco's eyebrows raised. So Pansy Parkinson and his father were on a first-name basis now? He glanced at his mother, but Narcissa Malfoy was looking out the window and appeared not to have heard the exchange.

"I'm sure you won't," Lucius continued, then raised his voice again. "Stupefy the Weasley girl once you've got her away from the hospital wing and she's recorded in the log as having gone to St. Mungo's. Then get back here as soon as possible. Rendezvous with the other operatives in the dungeons once you've succeeded in your task, if you can. If it's past ten, however, don't bother. Time is of the essence here. "

"Do you actually mean to tell me," demanded Draco, "that Crabbe and Goyle passed an Advanced Apparation test? That they can bring Ginny Weasley back with them while she's unconscious?"

"Of course not," Lucius Malfoy said impatiently. "Pansy will do it. They've all received private tutoring, however; I'm certainly not going to have Apparation abilities on record for any of them."

Wonderful. What else went on that I wasn't told about? Before I was told anything? thought Draco.

"I've practiced it many times," said Pansy, her dark eyes glittering. "I'll get her back, don't worry."

"Yeah," said Crabbe to Goyle. That monosyllable proved amusing to them for some obscure reason, and they started snickering.

Pansy, Crabbe, and Goyle getting their hands on Ginny Weasley. In a near-empty Hogwarts, with almost everyone gone for the holidays. The thought disturbed Draco very deeply. "Are you sure this is wise?" he asked Grindelwald, who had been standing silently.

"Who are you talking to?" asked Pansy. He ignored her

"Vat is it you fear, my young apprentice?" said Grindelwald.

"Well--" fumbled Draco "-- Pansy Parkinson's always hated Gin-- the Weasley girl, and they--" He jerked his head at Crabbe and Goyle, who were poking each other in the ribs and making obscene hand gestures. "I wouldn't trust them around her as far as I could throw them."

"So you're... concerned about her?" his father asked silkily.

"My Lord," Draco said, speaking pointedly to Grindelwald, "if she's important to the mission--"

He was interrupted by a fresh burst of sniggering from Crabbe and Goyle. They were moving their blocky forefingers in circles around their ears.

"Ready for the nuthatch, in't he?" said Crabbe. At this witticism, Goyle started slapping his knees, too convulsed with laughter to speak.

"What's this all about?" Draco asked. Turning towards them, he caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye. Following it with his head, he saw Crabbe and Goyle's giggling reflections in the window on the other side of the room. And Draco himself, and Lucius Malfoy, Narcissa... no-one else. He swung his head around the other way and saw Grindelwald standing next to the bedside table.

"You don't see him? Lord Grindelwald?" he said incredulously to Crabbe and Goyle. They collapsed in fresh bursts of laughter. "Mother?" Draco asked tentatively. She glanced at him almost fearfully, shaking her head. "...Father?"

"I sense the Dark Lord's presence," said Lucius Malfoy. "And I hear his voice, which is more than anyone else can do."

"But you don't see him?"

"No," his father said reluctantly. "Only you can see him." He set his lips in a thin line, and Draco guessed what it must have cost Lucius Malfoy to admit that his son had a power he himself lacked.

"Do you understand, my young apprentice?" Grindelwald asked softly.

Slowly, Draco nodded.

"This is a privilege you alone possess," the Dark Lord crooned in his harsh yet strangely compelling voice, and Draco felt a warm glow of pride. He felt his old smile stretch across his lips, the smile that went no deeper than his teeth, sardonic, amused. He watched his window-self do the same. There was power in him again, a power he had not felt in nearly two years. Except that when he was fifteen, it had been his father's power. Now, it was his.

Crabbe and Goyle had stopped laughing and were staring at him dumbly, Draco realized. Goyle, in particular, resembled a half-witted bull, with dull eyes and thick lips hanging open in shock.

"What are you lot waiting for?" he asked with a sneer. "Go to Hogwarts and get Weasley. Bring her back, but if any of you lays a finger on her, I'll know and you'll be bloody sorry."

Lucius stepped forward. "I'll decide that. And I'll decide when."

"Will you," said Draco coolly.

"As the head of this mission, I believe I will."

The Malfoys, father and son, flicked their silver-grey eyes to Lord Grindelwald for support.

"Patience, patience, my apprentice, and my friend," the Dark Lord said smoothly. He put a hand on each of their shoulders. It gave Draco some mean satisfaction to know that he felt those bony fingers solidly and his father did not. "Ve must vork together, hein?" Grindelwald continued. "Or our enemies' laughter vill be our only revard."

"But of course, Father," said Draco, settling his face into bland lines. "I only want this mission to be a success. I know how important it is. The book told me so-- the Kitap-an Düs." He emphasized the word "me" very, very slightly.

"So much ambition, Draco. Ambition is a good thing, of course," said Lucius Malfoy, his gaze intent on his son's expressionless face. " But the half-fledged dragon should not try to fly too far, or too fast... or his wings may be clipped. And then he will fall." He turned to Crabbe, Goyle, and Pansy. "Go," he said. "And don't hurt the Weasley girl. That wouldn't suit our purposes at all." The three Disapparated with a pop.

The four left in the room prepared to wait. Grindelwald and Lucius Malfoy began discussing something in low tones, and Draco walked over to the bay window and sat in the soft cushions of the window seat. His mother stood next to him, leaning against the windowframe slightly, as motionless and silent as a waxwork. The moon had risen all the way now and was full. Draco watched its progress across the clouded sky, his mind flooded with Ginny Weasley.

They'd bring her back safely (damn well better be safely. Of all the people to send after her, those Neanderthals Crabbe and Goyle... And especially Pansy Parkinson. She'd just as soon rip Ginny Weasley's face off as look at her. If Pansy touches her I'll--) and she'd be enchanted to stillness, like a fairy princess asleep. Perhaps he'd tell them to lay her on his bed so she wouldn't hurt herself by falling when she came to, her long red-gold locks of hair streaming about her, her snow-white face set and still. He'd murmur "Enervate" and awaken her with a touch of his wand, and her golden eyes would open and look at him; what emotion would be in them?

Fear.

No matter how many times he ran the scene in his head, all Draco could ever see from her was fear. "You're mine, you're for me, not them. There's nothing to be afraid of," he would say to her, and her body would stiffen and her eyes would fill with-- Still fear, still stuck on fear. How did he know there was nothing for her to afraid of, anyway? What was that knowledge, what could it ever be, to him? And as Draco stared out the window and bit his lip, he knew that all of these were thoughts he should not be thinking.

"They draw near," said the voice of Lord Grindelwald. "I can feel it. It is time for us to go down."

Lucius Malfoy nodded, and picked up the Kitan-ap Düs from the table. "The Portkey is ready, my Lord. At the stroke of twelve, the tower awaits."

One by one, they left the room and filed towards the door that led to the dungeons.

A/N:Review! Review! Here are some notes relating to the last 3 chapters:

When Lucius talks about the information Barty Crouch passed on, this relates to the canon fact that, in GoF, the fake Professor Moody had possession of the Marauder's Map for quite some time. I'm assuming that the information that was on it, including the location of the tunnels, got back to the other Death Eaters.

The children of Hagar are Muslims, and the children of Abraham are Jews. This refers to the legend that the religion of Islam was founded by the son of Hagar and Abraham.

Of all the gods that the Caliph of Baghdad mentions as trapping in the Jewel of the Harem, you may not recognize Susan-o-o. He was the Japanese sun goddess Aminaterasu's brother. Supposedly, the Japanese royal family is descended from them.

When Ginny was rescued from the CoS, she was twelve and Draco thirteen because, in my little world, his birthday is December 26, and hers is February 3rd. I'll bet Draco always got those awful combination Christmas and birthday presents from all his relatives. That's enough to turn anybody towards ultimate evil. ;)

Basically,in the previous chapter, Ginny's been committed (and very improperly, too.) JKR never goes into details about the process in canon, of course, so I extrapolated and came up with my own rules. The situation with involuntary commission of minors in the magical world is very similar to pre-1960's America, and the details are taken from that. The state of mental health care is almost medieval. It's very easy to put someone in a mental hospital and keep them there indefinitely. The administrative details are sloppy, which is why it was possible for Lucius Malfoy to send fake medical aides to whisk Ginny away simply by intercepting the owls to St. Mungo's. Family members aren't permitted to visit for the first few weeks. And yes, before the deinstitutionalization movements of the 1960's and 1970's, that's what it frequently was really like, and worse.