Anyone who was reading this before, you have letylyf to thank for me continuing. I was writing another story, and feeling hugely guilty about stalling in this one, and those two new reviews just pushed me into doing something! I'm still not entirely certain where this story is going, although I have a general idea. Hopefully it will even out.
This chapter is rather dark (another reason for my procrastination: I do not write dark), so be prepared. Bear in mind it pretty much had to be: Ginny had to meet Voldemort eventually.
Draco smoothed his immaculate black robes, twitching the folds into perfect order. He then turned his eyes to the silent woman standing next to him.
"So, Weasley. As you no doubt realise, it is time for you to meet our Lord."
Ginny nodded, her face inscrutable.
Draco couldn't help being rather impressed. She appeared to be adept at hiding emotion, always a good trait.
"Make certain you afford him the proper respect."
That was all that really needed to be said, in Draco's opinion. It was impossible to truly anticipate anything Voldemort said, did, or thought, and he and Snape had put a great deal of effort into the attempt.
They had tried to make a proper science of it: looking for indicators, symptoms, facial tics, wand movement – anything and everything that was habitual and might be used to read what Voldemort's likely next course of action would be.
Unfortunately, he had proven to be a rather unstable subject. Either he had no consistency in action, or the Dark Lord was completely deranged.
Of course, both Draco and Snape had always been convinced that the latter theory was true. And, after all, complete insanity was in this case accompanied by complete paranoia, which was sure to encourage irrational and unpredictable behaviour simply as a safety mechanism.
It was not safe for Voldemort to be consistent, and one thing that COULD be taken for granted about the – man? – was that he was brilliant.
He had to know that it was his very lack of consistency that encouraged such avid devotion in his followers.
Such utter and complete fear.
The moment Voldemort lost his element of surprise and became predictable was the moment he would be defeated, and he knew it perhaps better than anyone.
Draco had been told by someone – he wasn't certain who, and their identity was absurdly unimportant, anyway – that the difference between a psychopath and a sociopath was that a psychopath did not know the difference between right and wrong, and a sociopath didn't care.
Whether this was an accurate interpretation or not, it was something that always came to mind every time Draco was in, or about to be in, the presence of the Dark Lord. He thought it was because he could never entirely decide which term could be used as a more apt descriptor of the man who seemed determined to destroy the fabric of the wizarding world.
Voldemort certainly didn't appear to know the difference between right and wrong – or at least, if he did, it was according to a completely different conception of what 'right' and 'wrong' actually meant. But on the other hand, he didn't care particularly either way.
He was not immoral, nor entirely amoral. He believed in certain virtues, and worked to promote them – it was simply that these virtues were not ones that most would recognise at such, or consider worthy of protection.
And certainly not when the meaning of 'protection' was actually 'attack anything that might conceivably ever threaten what I want'.
The thing about Voldemort was that he could not be made sense of. His entire view of life, of the world, of magic, history, humanity, and possibility was so utterly and completely skewed from reality and common morality that he actually believed his aim WAS moral, right, and just.
At least for those people – or more accurately, that person – who mattered.
As Draco grasped Ginny's impatient hand, ignoring the roll of her eyes that indicated her desire to hurry, he couldn't prevent a rather sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.
Something was wrong about what was about to happen.
He knew it.
And it had something to do with Ginny Weasley.
He hoped she was ready for what she was about to encounter.
They apparated to a small clearing around which ancient oaks towered to the sky. This place was so old, it appeared timeless, and the stench of evil lay heavily, so pervasive and strong that Ginny could almost hear the screams of people being tortured.
She suppressed a shudder, her nervous body already so tightly drawn that she was surprised she could still stand upright.
Darting a surreptitious glance at her companion to ascertain whether he had noticed her slip, she was relieved to see his attention focused on the doorway to an old muggle church a couple of hundred yards distant. Without looking at her, he began to move toward it, his stride reminding her of Snape at his most intimidating.
It was this memory that finally enabled Ginny to calm herself.
Snape was counting on her.
Harry was counting on her.
What she was about to try and do was important, and it could save the world.
She had to do it to the best of her ability.
And, of course, as a final motivator, it was also important to remember that if she did it wrong, she was - pretty much without doubt - dead.
When Draco turned to her, feet from the stone church that seemed so out of place, there was nothing in Ginny's expression to betray the thoughts that had been swirling in her head for the past several minutes. He gave a curt nod, and pushed the door open.
Ginny's moment had come, and she would succeed.
She entered the church behind Draco, head held high.
And almost choked on the pervasive evil that seemed to emanate in thick waves from the red-eyed, serpentine figure seated at a throne seat up where the altar had clearly once been.
Voldemort did not look up immediately, his attention more taken by the figure cowering at his feet. Ginny recognised it as Peter Pettigrew.
"But, Master, I have served you well!"
"It was in your interest. Had you been able, no doubt you would have preferred to slither back to your old friends."
"No, my Lord! I am loyal!"
"You never had much of a choice, did you?" Even Voldemort appeared disgusted by the degree to which Pettigrew was prepared to grovel, as the man wailed, and sank to the ground in front of his master. A large snake unfurled from where it rested next to Voldemort, and wended its way to the prostrate Death Eater, who did not rise, but was clearly attempting to edge away as far as possible from the creature while still maintaining his servile position. Voldemort watched in detached amusement as the reptilian head bent toward the now whimpering Pettigrew, and flicked its tongue out, touching it to the plump man's cheek, licking away a frightened tear.
Voldemort's smile was cruel.
"Nagini can smell the rat, Peter. She eats rats."
Ginny was seized with a certain revolted amusement at that comment. If it were not for the severity of the situation she was in, she might well have giggled.
And after all, Scabbers had never been a particularly GOOD rat. She certainly didn't care if he got eaten by some oversized snake with delusions of grandeur.
Pettigrew still did not move.
"You cannot trust a Gryffindor."
It was then that Voldemort looked up to see Draco and Ginny poised at the end of the aisle.
"Ah, Miss Weasley, I see. You have grown." Voldemort's eyes flicked over Ginny in an assessing manner, recognition in his unnatural eyes, completely ignoring Pettigrew's taking advantage of his Master's distraction to escape. "Draco assures me that you are capable of overcoming the disadvantage of your house. Are you ready to convince me of your loyalty?"
His gaze moved from them to the first pew.
It was only then that Ginny noticed the other occupants of the church.
Four children: one girl, three boys, all with bright red hair.
Hundreds of miles away at Godric's Hollow, in a house so secluded that it might as well not be there, Harry Potter woke abruptly, images of death so fresh in his brain that for several seconds he dared not open his eyes.
Not that it made a difference to what he could still see etched in his brain.
He knew exactly what had just happened, was still happening, and maybe he was responsible.
He had sent Ginny into that. For that his responsibility was clear.
And even now he could not bring himself to regret it.
It was this realisation that was the most disturbing to him.
When had he come to believe that the ends really did justify the means?
If this war was one of ideology, of morality, of protection of all that was good and innocent, did this mean that they had already lost?
Harry's eyes were drawn to the man sleeping next to him, the lean body pressed against his, the eyelids fluttering slightly, the large nose wrinkling with effort as Severus, always a light sleeper, processed the change in tension of the body next to his, and began to wake.
"Wha . . . ? Harry? Is something wrong?"
It took only seconds, but Severus's black eyes gazed directly into Harry's bright green orbs, completely awake.
Harry smiled.
There was no point in mentioning it now. Severus would find out later, when Ginny arrived at their house to cry. He could help her then, but there was nothing to do now.
It would be hours before she even left that church, at the rate things had been progressing, anyway.
There was nothing that could be done.
"Nothing's wrong, Sev."
Harry smiled, and kissed his lover's nose.
"Go back to sleep."
And as the older man slipped back into slumber, Harry's eyes remained open, his concentration total, and focused on something he could no longer see.
Voldemort might have forced the world to stoop to his level, but he was not going to win.
Harry would make sure of that.
And in the meantime, he would wait for the arrival of the friend he had sent into a direct confrontation with evil.
