Dark Directed: Part Three
~*~
Ginny raced up the stairs to Gryffindor Tower, danced impatiently while the Fat Lady grumbled and muttered about being woken up by inconsiderate students out wandering the halls when they should be in bed, and flew up to her dorm without pausing. She flung herself down on her bed and drew the curtains, shutting out the faint sounds of her dorm mates breathing in the easy rhythm of sleep.
Draco Malfoy had kissed her.
Draco Malfoy had kissed her.
Her. Little Ginny Weasley with the funny hair and the too-pale skin and the freckles, who was always fading into walls and going unnoticed and had been, up until very recently, not the sort of girl that any boy even looked at twice, never mind kissed.
Except, apparently, Draco Malfoy. Who had noticed.
Ginny raised one trembling hand to her lips, torn between laughter and outright hysteria. She could still sense his mouth, the feel of it pressed against her own, the taste of him... Ginny shuddered, closing her eyes to draw the memory closer. She'd dreamt of her first kiss for years, but she had never expected the reality would be like this. This trembling, fragile, shaky sensation that settled low in her stomach and made her feel both languid and jittery, hollow and full.
And he knew about Tom.
Knew and didn't pretend it hadn't happened, like her parents, or carefully avoid bringing it up, like Ron, Hermione and Harry. Draco had asked her about Tom, had actually wanted to talk about him. And after everything she had told him, everything she'd said, everything she'd been afraid to admit to anyone about Tom and how she felt about him, Draco hadn't shied away. He hadn't made her feel like she was wrong, or like she was mad for thinking of Tom with kindness.
He had kissed her.
Ginny gave up on sleep, knowing there was no way she would be able to settle to it tonight. She lay on her back and stared up at her bed curtains, her mind wandering in circles. It had been such a relief to be able to talk about it finally, after trying to shove her thoughts of Tom away and pretend she didn't have them. And Draco hadn't even flinched, as though it were perfectly normal for her to be wrapped up in a memory of someone who hadn't even existed. Certainly he'd been nasty, but she was beginning to think that was just because he didn't know how else to be. He had tried to be nice enough in his own way. More than she had a right to expect, really, since she had just collapsed and lost control in front of him, and Malfoy didn't normally let an opportunity like that pass him by.
Ginny took a deep breath, and then another, trying to calm her racing heart. She wondered if the whole thing were nothing more than a very devious plan on Draco's part to get at Harry through her—after all, why else would Draco be trying to be nice to her? She could all but hear Hermione's voice: "You can't trust him, he's thoroughly awful, and he hates us, why is he being so good to you?"
It was a good question. Draco Malfoy wasn't good to anyone without a purpose. He was awful and unpleasant and never did anything that wasn't to his advantage. Except he'd seemed more confused than she was when they finally broke apart, almost vulnerable. He had looked at her, wide-eyed and open, without the mask of arrogance that usually covered his features, had seemed as surprised by the kiss as she was. He'd certainly left fast enough—all but fleeing the classroom without saying a word.
Ginny closed her eyes, confused and unsettled. She'd have a headache tomorrow, from all the crying and lack of sleep, and a part of her was still up in knots, worried that maybe this was all just a big joke on Malfoy's part, but it couldn't quite dull the little glow of happiness.
Draco Malfoy had kissed her.
~*~
Draco wondered if it were possible to die of panic—it certainly felt as though it was. He felt his breathing spike, shallow gasps echoing through the low-ceilinged Slytherin boys' bath, and forced himself to calm down. He was slumped against the far wall, curled in on himself on the cold tile floor—which was reason enough to hope that no one came in. He'd be hard pressed to explain himself, and he had enough to worry about right now.
"Shit," he whispered softly, "shit, shit, shit." This was so bad, so wrong. Wrong on so many different levels he hardly knew where to start.
Father was going to kill him.
Father, Mother, Crabbe and Goyle, Zabini, probably Snape, Pansy—Draco blanched. How would he explain it to any of them? Not that anyone was going to find out about this...this...whatever this was. "Oh shit," Draco whispered again. He'd better make damn sure no one found out; didn't Weasley have something like 12 brothers? If it became public knowledge he was a dead man.
He'd only gone looking for Weasley because he wanted answers. He hadn't asked for anything else. Was it his fault that the girl was made for kissing? That those thick red curls were designed to be wrapped around his hands, that her body fit neatly against his own, that she had an addictively sweet mouth? Kissing Pansy, the few times she'd cornered him and he'd been unable to avoid it, hadn't nearly prepared him for kissing Ginny. Not at all.
Draco groaned and thumped his head against the wall at his back. "I am a dead man," he told the room quietly, and thudded his head against the wall again with a sigh.
Draco took a deep breath and hauled himself to his feet. He'd just have to tell her to leave him alone, that was all. Explain to her that he had a life and responsibilities and a family tradition to uphold, and he wasn't going to ruin it by consorting with a Muggle-loving Weasley like her. "And anyway," he told his wan reflection in the mirror above the sink, "it didn't mean anything."
His reflection didn't look as though it believed him.
Draco glared at himself and straightened his shoulders. He was a Malfoy, see if he wasn't, and this didn't change anything. It couldn't happen again, that was perfectly clear. He'd just have to tell her so.
*
He found her in the DADA classroom again the next night—didn't the girl go anywhere else?—and leaned against the wall by the door. She'd been waiting for him; her papers and things were scattered around her, but his arrival didn't startle her this time.
"Hullo," she said, twisting a red curl around her finger.
"It can't happen again," he said without preamble, and was mildly gratified to see her face fall. Draco refused to allow himself to think in terms of disappointment—there wasn't any reason to feel that way. He had his reputation and his family to think of, and there was no place in his future for Ginny Weasley, even if he did want a future that included her. Which he didn't.
"You're right," Ginny said softly, and she sounded disappointed too. "It's probably best."
"Of course I'm right," Draco said. "It's intolerable, and it can't continue."
Ginny stiffened at that, and cast him an unreadable look from underneath her eyelashes. "All right, then." She looked like she might say something else, but shook her head and turned away, back to whatever it was she was doing here. She picked up her quill, chewing absently on the end of it as she turned a page in her book.
Draco watched her go back to her work, feeling unaccountably let down. He thought she'd be a little more upset. Pansy caused an unbelievable fuss over every little thing; Ginny's calm acceptance of what should have been a major blow seemed sort of unfair. Draco blew out a breath he hadn't been aware he was holding and left the classroom, walking aimlessly in the general direction of the Slytherin common room. At least it was over now. The mystery was solved. He was only disappointed because the denouement wasn't what he'd been expecting.
It only felt unfinished.
~*~
Ginny listened to the sound of Draco's footsteps receding down the hall, unable to concentrate. It can't happen again, he'd said, and of course he was right. What would Ron say if he'd found out Draco Malfoy had kissed his sister? What would Hermione and Harry say? What would Mum and Dad say? Ginny couldn't stop the sick, twisting feeling in her middle as she thought of what their reaction would be. She couldn't deny that Draco was right. It couldn't happen. It couldn't work. There was nothing to work. He'd cornered her, she'd got upset, he'd kissed her. That was all.
If only she could stop thinking about it.
Ginny sighed and gathered up her books. She didn't know what she was thinking, hoping that something good would come of being kissed by Draco Malfoy. She should be grateful he hadn't spread it about the school that she was a sniveling child, or tried to ruin her reputation by saying she lured him into it. She made her way back up to Gryffindor Tower, and spent the rest of the night staring at her bed curtains, trying to forget.
Despite his words, though, Draco seemed to be unwilling to simply let it go. Not a week after he'd made his pronouncement, Ginny felt herself being watched as she sat in the library, nose deep in a DADA book. She looked up and met Draco's eyes; he yanked his gaze away, and she dropped her eyes too, but she knew he was having as a hard time forgetting as she was.
It wasn't as though she'd meant to end up crushing on him—if that was what this was. Ginny wasn't sure. This wasn't how she'd felt about Harry, or when she'd had that short and embarrassing crush on that Ravenclaw in fourth year. It felt like something else entirely, but Ginny had no idea what. She had no experience with this sort of thing. And Draco Malfoy was a snob, a horrible person who delighted in digging up the worst on people, in taunting and tormenting her friends and her brother, who loved nothing more than to hurt people. His family was as horrible as he was—all they had was money and an old name. His father hated hers, hated all Muggles and people who liked Muggles, the worst sort of xenophobe who had bred his hatred into his son. His father had tried to kill her. There was nothing to like about him.
Every single thing about Draco was utterly wrong.
She still watched him though, and he her, whenever they were within sighting distance. Ginny was careful not to be too obvious about it, so that Zoë and Colin wouldn't discover her new fascination with the boy she was supposed to hate, and she guessed Draco was doing the same. Sometimes he wouldn't even look in her direction at all, studiously focusing on something his mountainous bodyguards said, nodding sharply or barking out orders.
Ginny wondered if maybe he was as lonely as she felt most of the time. With only Crabbe and Goyle to talk to, and occasionally that odious Pansy Parkinson and her fawning boyfriend Blaise, Draco couldn't have very many true friends. It was a startling thought, that Draco might be human, that he and she might share something in common besides a fascination with Tom Riddle and a penchant for wandering the halls at night.
Ginny still went out when she couldn't sleep, though she didn't run into Draco, and she didn't go in search of Tom again. It had been a foolish idea and she knew it, and if Draco hadn't stopped her she might be in more serious trouble than she'd bargained for. Even knowing about the boggart in the wardrobe didn't keep her away from her usual haunt; she wasn't going to try that again.
She was pretty sure she was the only person in school to think of the DADA classroom as cozy, but she did, and she liked being able to set up at her usual desk, spread out her things and delve into any one of the fascinating books Professor Delacour had on cursing and hexing.
"I thought you'd given up on coming here."
The slow drawl made Ginny jump, a small squeak escaping her as she whirled around to face the voice. "Malfoy." It was a surprise to see him here—she thought he had planned to avoid her.
"Weasley." Draco sauntered into the room, kicking the door shut behind him as he cast his eyes over the bookshelves. He was impeccably dressed, of course; he always was. His hair neatly brushed, his shoes polished and trousers pressed, his robes hanging just so off the narrow shoulders. Ginny suspected he actually planned out what he was going to wear for his late-night strolls. She kept an eye on him as he made his way toward her, tucked a stray lock of hair behind one ear, and tried to pretend she wasn't sitting here in Ron's old pyjamas and a worn dressing gown.
"This is getting to be habit-forming," she said. "I know why I spend so much time out of bed after hours, but I'm not so sure about you."
Draco leaned against the desk across the aisle from her, raising one eyebrow. "Maybe I can't sleep either."
"My mum swears by hot milk—"
Draco made an impatient gesture and she subsided. "I wanted to talk to you." His face was its normal mask of annoyance, pale brows drawn together as he glared at her.
Ginny lifted her chin. "So talk," she said, and brought her legs up onto the bench, resting her chin on her knees. "I'm listening."
But Draco didn't say anything, just stared at her for what seemed like an age. Ginny shifted uncomfortably, growing more and more aware of her unbrushed hair and worn-out hems. Finally he moved, sliding into the seat across the aisle from her. "Tell me about Tom Riddle," he said.
Ginny froze. That wasn't what she'd been expecting—in fact, it was the last thing she'd been expecting, and for a moment she didn't know how to react. "I—I can't."
Draco's eyebrows pulled together in a dark glower. "What do you mean, you can't? I want to know about him."
Ginny bit at her lower lip, smoothing the feathers on her quill. "I just—I can't. I can't talk about him." And there was no way to make him understand why not. It was one thing to tell him that Tom Riddle had been Voldemort, but to tell him anything more would be almost like sacrilege. Tom was hers.
"You can't, or you won't?" Draco sneered.
Ginny lifted her head. "Does it matter? The result's the same."
Draco scowled again, and Ginny wondered briefly how she'd ever thought he was sympathetic. "Why don't you just tell me what I want to know," he said, biting off each word. "Since you've probably told enough people already, I don't see why telling me will make any difference."
"I haven't told anyone," Ginny said. She wouldn't even have told him, except that he'd caught her when she was off centre and desperately needing to talk to someone.
"No? You haven't shared your little tale of woe with all your little Gryffindor friends? I thought that was what Gryffindors did, sit about and talk about things." Draco's voice was derisive and hard-edged. "I'll wager you have, sat about and talked to Potter and your brother about it. Haven't you?" He snorted as Ginny shook her head. "You've told Harry all about it, I'll bet. Don't tell me you wouldn't rather have him here now, running to your rescue, talking with you."
"No, I wouldn't rather have Harry here!" Ginny snapped. "Harry's too—" too special, she was going to say, but Draco was so prickly he wouldn't take that at all well. Ginny took a deep breath and tried again. "This hasn't anything to do with Harry, and there's no reason why I should tell him anything. He doesn't care, anyway."
Draco laughed harshly. "No, he doesn't, does he? Who would?"
Ginny had vowed she wasn't going to lose her temper, but she was having trouble. Draco could probably argue with a rock. "You're here, aren't you?" she said.
"Only because you're useful to me," he said coldly. "As soon as you tell me everything I want to know, I assure you I won't bother you anymore."
"That's why you're here? Because I'm useful? Slumming?" Ginny asked, tilting her chin. She refused to let that thought hurt. She knew full well that slumming was exactly what Draco was doing. He only wanted her for information—he had his pick of the Slytherin girls for everything else, girls of impeccable breeding, who were decidedly not poor, and mostly a fair sight prettier than she was.
Draco opened his mouth and then shut it again, showing more sensitivity than she would have given him credit for. He spun around and stalked up the aisle to the chalkboard, studying Professor Delacour's neat notes as though they held the answers he wanted. Finally he turned back to face her. "Why do you come here?"
Ginny blinked at the sudden subject change. "Well, why not? It's quiet, it's out of the common room, Professor Delacour doesn't mind...it's a bit cold, but a warming spell or two sets that to rights." She tried to keep her voice light in the face of Draco's shuttered expression.
"That's not what I meant."
Ginny dropped her eyes and shrugged. "Maybe there isn't any other reason."
"Maybe you're just afraid to tell me." Draco approached her desk again, sliding onto the bench of the desk in front of her. He propped his elbows up on the edge of her table and slouched forward. It was the first time Ginny had ever seen him with less than perfect posture. "Maybe," Draco continued, "you don't want to admit why you come here, out of all the places in the castle you could go to hide."
"Oh, and I suppose you know?" Ginny said, needled by his tone. "Why don't you tell me, then, since you know so much."
"It makes you feel powerful, doesn't it?" Draco said softly. "You were blindsided by Dark magic once, and you don't want it to ever happen again. You come here, out of all the places in the castle you could go, because here is where you feel safest."
Ginny stared at him, searching his shielded gray eyes for some sign as to how he had guessed that. Because it was true; she loved the DADA classroom because, encounter with her Tom-shaped boggart aside, it was the one place she didn't feel out of her depth. She cleared her throat and shrugged. "Maybe it is."
"What I don't understand is why you bother," Draco said, his voice tinged with malice. "It isn't as though you need to be good at DADA, is it? You've got a horde of brothers to protect you, as well as Potter, don't you?"
A bolt of rage swept through her. Ginny pushed her bench away from the desk, slamming her feet down on the ground. "I'm not going to spend the rest of my life being someone who needs to be rescued! Just because you are perfectly happy to be spoon-fed ideas and thoughts without ever questioning the direction you're being led in, doesn't mean that I have to be."
Draco smirked, leaning back and tossing his hair out of his eyes. It'd got long and this late at night it had begun to lose its style and fell over his forehead in a pale wave. He crossed his arms over his chest and waited, long enough for Ginny to feel slightly foolish for her outburst. "I'm not being spoon-fed, Weasley."
"No? You're not letting your father lead you around by the nose, believing everything he tells you because you can't think for yourself?"
Draco stood up and came around the desk to lean casually against it. "I expect you'd know a bit more about being led around by someone than I would, Weasley," he said. "After all, it's all you ever do, isn't it? Follow other people around? Harry, your brother, Tom..."
Ginny recoiled, unprepared for the sheer viciousness of what he was saying. "You bastard," she whispered. She'd only told him about Tom because she had no one else to tell. She should have expected him to use it against her.
Draco's nasty smile widened. "Poor, sad little Ginny, who can't do anything for herself. You're going to spend the rest of your life in empty classrooms, hiding behind other people because you can't do anything else."
And the worst thing was, Ginny thought he was right. But she wasn't going to tell him that, wasn't going to give him anything else he could use against her. There wasn't anything she could say that he wouldn't find a way to twist around and use against her later, so Ginny went for a different sort of retaliation.
She hit him.
~*~
Draco bent double around the fist Ginny planted in his abdomen. "You vicious little cunt!" he gasped, when he had enough breath to speak.
Contrary to his expectation, Ginny wasn't looking terribly worried about his well-being. Pansy would have been fawning all over him, concerned that he was going to die. Of course, Pansy would never have hit him in the first place. Ginny, however, was standing over him with her hands on her hips, glaring. "You fucking sod. Maybe if you weren't such a horrible bastard, you'd be someone people actually want to spend time with, did you ever think of that? No wonder you don't have any real friends."
Draco straightened up—painfully—and glared back. "And maybe if you weren't such a horrid bint you wouldn't need to spend all your time hiding out in empty classrooms avoiding people."
"If I'm as horrid as you say I am, why do you keep following me around?" Ginny retorted. "For someone who claims not to like me, Malfoy, you do seem to have made a habit of showing up wherever I am."
"What, you think I'm following you?" He was, actually, but he wouldn't admit it to her. It was hard enough admitting to himself that he couldn't seem to stop watching the bloody girl. Asking her about Tom Riddle was just a convenient excuse. "It's not my fault you're so bloody predictable. No wonder you're so hung up on Tom, he's the only one who'd ever paid any attention to you."
For a moment Draco thought she was going to hit him again, but she didn't. She curled her hands into fists, and her face twisted up into a terrible expression, but she didn't hit him. "I suppose you'd think so," she said. "Though I don't know why you think you're so superior. The only reason anyone pays any attention to you is because your father's well off."
Draco snorted. "That's not true."
She laughed—she actually laughed at him. "Of course it's true. If you weren't a Malfoy and were as horrible as you are, do you really think anyone would ever talk to you at all? Of course not. No one wants to be around someone who's awful, and they only do it because of who your father is, and how much money he's got."
"That sounds a lot like jealousy talking, Weasley," Draco said. "Just because you don't have any—"
"I've got more important things than money," she replied haughtily. "I've got a family who cares about me, and friends—"
"I thought we'd established that you don't have any friends," Draco drawled. He was regaining his footing now, and he wasn't about to let her get the better of him.
Ginny glared at him. "Neither do you."
He honestly didn't know where she got her ideas from. "Of course I do. Everyone wants to be friends with me."
"That's not friends," Ginny said. "That's people taking advantage of you because you're well-off and your father's seen as powerful. Friends is having people you can tell things to without worrying they'll use it against you, it's having people to laugh with and cry with and do things with so you don't have to do it by yourself. Like Harry and—"
"Oh, of course. Like Harry. Because if the wonderful Harry Potter does it, then everyone ought to," Draco snarled.
Ginny's eyes narrowed, but she continued as if he hadn't interrupted her. "—Ron and Hermione. They're real friends, they stick up for each other and share things with each other, and they aren't nasty to each other just for the sake of being nasty. They're not friends just because they think there's something to be gained."
"Not that there would be anything to be gained by being friends with a Weasley," Draco said, stung.
Ginny crossed her arms coolly and leaned back against the desk. "There must be something. After all, Harry isn't friends with you, is he?"
Draco went blank with rage. That she would have the gall to throw that in his face, that she knew about it and dared to bring it up... Draco stalked forward without thinking to grab her by the arms. He shook her, hard, pleased to see that she at least had the wits to look afraid. He wanted to hit her, wanted to hurt her, destroy her, get her out of his life and out of his mind so that he'd never have to think about her or her stupid family or her stupid past again. She was the one that had started all of this, she was the one who had him questioning everything that was right and true in his world, she was the one who made him look at everyone he trusted and see that maybe it wasn't worth trusting at all.
Ginny braced her hands against his chest and tossed her hair out of her eyes, red curls sliding over her shoulders and across his fingers in soft waves. "So what? Are you going to hit me now? Are you going to lower yourself to that, Draco? Hitting a girl?"
Her face was set in defiant lines, and Draco wondered what she'd do if he really did hit her. But he wouldn't. He wouldn't stoop to hitting girls, no matter the temptation. That sort of thing was Not Done. She was so ill bred she didn't know it—her chin was tilted at a confident angle and her body was tense and braced for violence. Draco felt his mouth curl up in a smile, and Ginny blanched. "No, Ginny. I'm not going to hit you."
He yanked her forward—she stumbled and caught herself against his chest—and kissed her instead.
~*~
Ginny had been braced for him to hit her, expecting it—maybe Malfoy wasn't used to physical violence, but she'd grown up with six boys and she knew a bit about fighting. She figured she could take him if she had to.
But she wasn't prepared for this.
He pressed his mouth against hers, hard and angry, but the kiss changed almost at once as something ignited between them. It was like fire, frustration and passion burning through them both, making it impossible to let go, impossible to stop. Ginny barely noticed when Draco loosened his grip on her arms and moved his hands up over her shoulders and down across her back. He pulled her firmly against him, his mouth opening against hers. Ginny moaned softly in spite of herself, and Draco gasped in turn, sliding his tongue along her lip, deepening the kiss.
Ginny clutched at his shoulders, light-headed and unbalanced. He felt so solid, the only real thing in the maelstrom of emotion swirling inside her, his hands and mouth her only anchor. Draco moved his hands to her hips and lifted her up to set her on the desk behind her, his lips never leaving hers. He pushed her legs apart so he could move between her knees. Ginny let her eyes drift closed—having him there made her feel hot, shaken and empty and wanting.
Draco dropped one hand to rest on her thigh, just above her knee. His finger found the worn hole there and slipped inside her pyjama trouser, stroking the soft skin with calloused fingers that made Ginny shiver in reaction. She made a small, helpless noise in her throat and pulled him even closer. She didn't know it could be like this—this sort of passion was what you read about in books, she hadn't ever believed it could be real. She wanted him closer yet, wanted more than just these deep, drugging kisses that left her shaking.
Draco's hand tightened almost painfully on her leg and he pulled away, buried his face in her shoulder with a groan. "Shit," he muttered, his breath hot against her neck.
Ginny shivered at the sensation, even that light touch too much. She felt sensitized, every inch of her skin tuned to Draco's movements, his touch, his smell, his taste. She had never felt anything like this before. Even the first time he'd kissed her, that night he'd found her looking for the boggart, had been nothing at all like this. Draco turned his head and pressed his mouth against the side of her neck, nuzzling her skin. It made her shiver again, and arch her neck to give him more room to explore if he wanted. And he did, trailing little kisses and bites up her neck, tracing a delicate line around the rim of her ear with his tongue, nipping her earlobe and making her squeak.
She felt his soft chuckle, the brush of his lips against her ear, and then his mouth was on hers again, his hands buried in her hair as he tilted her head and kissed her fully. Her own hands traced the firm curves of his shoulder blades, sliding over the soft fabric of his sweater. It felt so good, frighteningly so, left her breathless and wanting more.
And then Draco pushed away from her, backing up a few steps. His hair was disheveled, his normally neat clothes disordered, and he looked as shaken as she felt. "Shit," he said again, and closed his eyes.
Ginny swallowed hard against the desire to pull him back, steadied herself with a deep breath, and slid to the ground. Her knees felt buttery, as though they wouldn't hold her. She clutched the edge of the desk and willed herself to stop shaking. "Um," she said, and cleared her throat. "I don't think—"
"This wasn't supposed to happen again," Draco said. He shoved a hand through his hair and turned away from her.
"You kissed me, Malfoy," Ginny snapped. She couldn't seem to stop her hands from trembling. "Remember?"
Draco spun around, and he looked angrier than she'd yet seen him. "I did not ask for this!" he snarled. "Everything was fine until you came along with your stupid boggart! I should never have gotten involved!"
"Then why did you?" Ginny shot back. "Why didn't you just leave it alone, leave me alone? I didn't ask you to go prying about in my business!"
"Because no one ever tells me anything! Father won't, Snape won't, you won't—"
"Why should I? Why should I tell you anything, when you're just going to use it to be a bastard? Everything that happened with Tom is personal and it's got nothing to do with you. You don't deserve to know!" Ginny brushed her hair out of her face, the anger surging through her putting strength back in her legs. "All you've done is be nasty and insult me, but you seem to think you've got some sort of right to know everything about me! Well you don't!"
"What makes you think I'm really interested in you? All I want is to know about what's going on!" Draco pushed his hair back again; it was irredeemably mussed now, and made him look strangely approachable. "Damn it, I'm sick of being the only one around here who doesn't know anything!"
Ginny laughed shortly. "What, you mean you don't want to be just like everyone else?"
The look he turned on her was vicious, and Ginny wondered if he'd hit her now. But he didn't; he spun around again and kicked the leg of the closest desk, making a huge racket as it skittered a few inches across the polished stone floor. The noise made Ginny glance toward the door nervously. If Filch caught them out here, they'd both get in serious trouble. "Look," she said finally, when Draco showed no sign of moving, "I've already told you everything I'm going to tell you. If it isn't what you wanted to know, that's not my fault."
"Fine," Draco said, and his voice was brittle with anger, "fine." He spun around again, two spots of red on his cheekbones. He glared at her for a moment, then stalked out of the classroom, slamming the door behind him.
Ginny jumped despite herself at the noise and sighed, bending to pick her books up off the desk and put them back in her bag. She'd have to go back to the Tower; it was even odds that Filch would be attracted to the noise, and if he was, she'd lose House points and no doubt have to explain to Ron how she'd come to be out after hours. She shoved the last of her books away and shouldered her bag, slipping out the door to make her careful way back up to Gryffindor Tower.
~*~
Draco spent the whole rest of the week angry and unsettled. It interfered with his studies and threw off his Quidditch game on Saturday—they were only playing Hufflepuff and won easily anyway, but that wasn't the point. It was affecting his flying. If he couldn't even put it aside while he was on the Pitch, then he really was hopeless. Here it was Christmas holidays, and instead of feeling grateful that the year was almost half over and his new life, his real life was approaching, Draco was growing more and more unsure. He sat in his train compartment with a book propped up in front of him that he was only pretending to read; his thoughts returned again and again to Voldemort, to the coming war, to everything Father had ever told him that he'd found out wasn't true.
He was giving Ginny a large berth, too ill at ease to deal with the conflicting feelings she engendered in him. She was so incredibly frustrating; secretive and guarded beyond reason, hiding her secrets so well that Draco didn't think anyone realized she even had any to hide. That he knew she had them and refused to tell him left Draco wanting to shake them out of her. Except the last time he'd tried that tactic...Draco shook his head in frustration. He didn't want to think about it.
The worst of it was she wasn't even pretty. Pansy was far more attractive, but Draco didn't find himself staring at Pansy all the time. Instead he searched the halls for a telltale glimpse of curling red hair, found his eyes drawn to the Gryffindor table at meals where she sat with those little nonentities she called friends, caught himself absently brushing his fingers across his lips at odd moments, remembering what it had felt like to kiss her.
Draco frowned and yanked his hand away for the umpteenth time, glancing out the window of the compartment door for a sign that someone had spotted him. None of his house-mates had said anything abouthis distraction during the game on Saturday, but it hadn't gone unnoticed. Nothing ever went unnoticed in Slytherin; it got catalogued and filed away for future use. Draco clenched his jaw and lifted his book, pushing all thought of Ginny out of his head. He didn't have time for this, not with things the way they were.
And he actually managed it, for a little while; by the time the train pulled into King's cross he'd finished his Potions homework and written a full scroll for his Transfigurations essay. He met Father on the platform, nodded to Zabini, Crabbe and Goyle and they went out to the Ministry car. Father borrowed one every time he needed to travel in Muggle London, and complained bitterly every time he had to.
The trip to the manor was mercifully quiet; Father seemed deep in thought, and Draco wasn't about to disturb him. Mother was waiting for them in the drawing room, and greeted Draco with her usual smiling reserve. "You look well, Mother," Draco said as he bent to kiss her cheek.
"Thank you darling. You look wonderful...look at how tall you've gotten!" Mother replied; she said that every time she saw him. "I had the cook make your favourites for supper."
"Thank you, Mother," Draco replied. "You're too good to me."
"Nothing's too good for my son," Mother said. Her face was as cool and polite as ever, but her eyes warmed as she tucked her arm in his and steered him toward the dining room.
They dined alone, a rare free night in a season that was usually packed with parties and social events, and Mother insisted on hearing about his term in minute detail, following Draco's words with great interest. Father's talk of Ministry business and politics must have been wearing thin for her.
Draco begged off after the meal and retired to his own suite, worn down from the train journey and his own dark thoughts. It was such a relief to be home, with his own room, his own bath, his own huge bed with its down-filled duvet and fine Egyptian cotton sheets, nothing at all like the narrow cots they had at Hogwarts. Draco flopped onto the bed with a satisfied sound, relaxing completely for the first time since...well. In a very long time. Draco sighed and got up, shucking his school robes in favour of pyjamas, and crawled into bed, determined to put all thought of school out of his mind for the rest of his holiday.
*
He woke from a vague, unsettling dream of being caught and tangled in crimson hair, of a cupid's bow mouth so close to his own he could taste its sweetness, of clear brown eyes shining at him as that mouth touched his, long hair brushing his bare chest with a thousand tickling strands—Draco gasped, his hands clutching at the bedclothes, and groaned aloud when they closed on cool sheets instead of soft, warm flesh.
The damned girl couldn't even leave him alone in his dreams.
Draco pulled his pillow over his head and burrowed under the covers, but he knew trying to get back to sleep was pointless. Not when she was lying in wait for him across the border of sleep. Draco unburied his head and glared at his bed-curtains in the weak light that filtered in through his windows. It was barely 7 o'clock and it would be hours before Father and Mother awoke and the servants arrived to build up the fires and serve breakfast. He hadn't been up this early for Christmas since he was a young boy.
He pushed back his covers with a sigh; he could always do the rest of his school assignments while he waited. There was the promise of a trip to the European Quidditch Cup if he did well on his NEWTs, and Draco had no intention of losing out on it.
Father and Mother rose a few hours later, and Draco joined them in the drawing room for breakfast and the ritual of present opening. The excitement of gifts had worn off as Draco got older, but he was still thrilled to find that the long package that clearly held a new broom was, in fact, the very latest model, a Firebolt 2000. Mother smiled indulgently when he couldn't contain a small whoop of excitement. "I thought you'd like that, dear."
"I love it, Mother. Thank you." Draco got up from his seat on the couch to kiss her on the cheek. "And thank you, Father." Father nodded without taking his eyes from the paper. Draco sat back down and ran his hand over the smooth, pale handle, savouring the satin feel of the wood.
"And this will be the last we see of you all holiday unless we're willing to brave the out-of-doors, isn't it?" Mother said. Draco grinned unrepentantly and she laughed. "I thought so. Just don't forget we have dinner with the Gainsboroughs tonight, so do try to be inside and presentable by six."
"Of course, Mother," he said. The rest of Draco's presents were typically boring; new dress robes, a set of monogrammed quills, socks from his grandmother. He spent enough time making small talk with Mother to make her happy, then escaped outside to spend a few hours on his new broom. Draco practiced every move he could think of, pushing the Firebolt as far as he dared with Mother no doubt watching him from the sunroom windows. He couldn't wait to show the new broom to Crabbe and Goyle, couldn't wait to get back to school now, just to see the look on Potter's face when he saw that Draco had the superior broom. Perhaps he'd even manage to beat the speccy git for once, and Draco could end his year on a definite high note—grabbing the Snitch and the Quidditch Cup right out from under the scarred freak's nose.
Draco made it back inside with minutes to spare before they had to leave for the Gainsboroughs' dinner party. He rushed through his toilette and arrived in the foyer slightly breathless but presentable, unable to keep the grin from breaking through. Mother brushed his hair back with an exasperated sigh and Father glared, but it was a small price to pay for an afternoon of absolute freedom.
The party was as boring as Draco had come to expect; he wasn't sure when the endless social whirl had started making him fidgety and longing to be elsewhere, but over the next few days, after seeing the same few people talking about the same boring things, Draco found himself actually longing to be back at Hogwarts. He spent most of his days either outside on his new broom or in his suite, doing homework or the research about Voldemort that he couldn't make himself stop.
Mother forced him into the drawing room after dinner a few days before he was due to return to school. "I haven't been able to talk to you at all, all holiday, Draco. It wouldn't hurt for you to spend one evening with your parents before you return to school."
Draco sighed inwardly. He wanted to get back to his books—even Mother was boring him, though he wouldn't ever admit that out loud. "Of course, Mother."
Mother smiled graciously at him while he settled himself on the sofa. Father was at his desk, reading the evening Prophet, and as soon as the footman had handed Mother her cup of tea, she turned to him. "I hear there's been an attack on Diagon Alley," she said, as though she were commenting on the weather. Draco sat up straight in surprise. Mother lifted her teacup to her lips in a practiced, dainty movement, barely sipping the warm liquid.
"Yes," Father replied. "I hear it was very well planned out." His voice was neutral; Draco guessed he was somehow involved, but Mother didn't like to hear details about Father's activities with the Dark Lord. Draco dropped his eyes, trying not to appear too interested, but he was listening intently. He hadn't heard about any attack.
"How many were killed?" Mother asked.
"Some bystanders, one or two Ministry officials, or so I've heard. And Goyle's son, apparently."
"Greg Goyle?" Draco repeated. He sat up straight, turning to look at Father. How had Goyle come to be there? Surely someone must have told the Goyles about an attack on Diagon Alley. He wanted to ask what had happened, but Father's expression forbade question.
"Oh, his poor mother," Mother said. "She must be feeling terrible. What a pity." She dabbed at the corner of one dry eye with her handkerchief. She probably didn't feel sorry at all—how many times had she complained about having to associate with the Goyles?
"Collateral damage," Father said coldly. "They knew about the attack, and if the boy didn't have the sense to stay out of the way, he deserved what he got."
Draco swallowed hard. Shouldn't Father feel even the slightest bit of remorse? For all his faults, Goyle was one of theirs. He wasn't some random mudblood, some Muggle-loving fool—well, Draco would concede the 'fool' part—Goyle had been one of them. But pity was something Father only did for show. Draco knew it, but it still felt...wrong, knowing Goyle was dead and feeling nothing.
Mother excused herself and vanished into the hall, but when Draco went to follow her, Father waved him to stay. Draco fixed a bland expression on his face and waited as Father paced to the window, brandy snifter cupped in his palm, looking out over the moonlit snow.
"I hear from Basil Parkinson that young Blaise Zabini is stepping out with his daughter," Father said. "Which I find...somewhat unusual."
Draco struggled not to betray any nervousness. "Not so unusual," he said casually. "They've grown quite attached to each other."
"And why," Father asked, his voice acquiring an edge, "would she not have grown attached to you?"
Draco shrugged. "I was bored of her. She's very tiresome, Father."
"Tiresome or no, her father is well placed in the Ministry, and an alliance with their house would have been quite favourable," Father snapped. He looked on the verge of a temper. "How many times have I told you that you must grow out of this childish willfulness? There are important concessions you are going to have to learn to make, Draco, for the Malfoy name to continue to represent the peak of wizarding society."
"I didn't know the Parkinsons were the peak of anything," Draco drawled. If Father thought Draco thought he'd made a mistake with Pansy, Father would leap on the weakness with the ferocity of a thousand dragons. He slouched a little in his chair and tried to look unaffected, watching Father watch him.
"Perhaps they don't have the same sort of lineage that we have, Draco, but they have their uses, which should be cultivated. If you can win the girl back, do so."
Draco nodded because Father expected it. He wouldn't do it, and Father would assume it was some sort of weakness and berate him for it again later, but being lectured by Father now was preferable to being lectured by Pansy for the rest of his life. Ginny, at least, never tried to lecture him—and Draco sat up a little straighter. He was not going to think about her. Not here. Not now.
Father turned to the window again, the diamond panes reflecting firelight back on his aquiline face as he looked out over the Manor grounds. "It's important to maintain appearances," he said softly, "for someday...someday we will rule." His eyes gleamed in the fading light; a faint, satisfied smile lifted the corner of his mouth. "All of Britain will be ours, Draco. All of it."
Draco didn't know what Father expected him to say. He settled for nodding, more out of habit than anything else. Father turned away from the window and gestured at Draco with his glass. "Go back to your studies. I expect you to do well on your NEWTs this year—much depends on you."
"Of course, Father." Draco bowed slightly and made his way out of the study. He went back up to his suite and lay on his bed, but he didn't open his books. He stared into the shadows of his bed curtains instead, and didn't sleep that night.
~*~
Ginny poked at her peas and wondered if she should be worried.
The Great Hall was full of subdued students, talking quietly or eating in silence, an air of suppressed tension about the tables. A curfew had been in place at Hogwarts since Christmas—no students were allowed out of their common rooms after hours or out of doors without a teacher present, and the strain was showing in everyone's faces.
Draco looked as stressed as anyone, white-faced and silent ever since he returned from holiday, three weeks ago. The whole school had heard about Goyle and while no one quite felt sorry for Draco, they still gave him space on the off chance he was grieving the loss of his bodyguard. Both his bodyguards, really; Crabbe had gone off to Durmstrang for the rest of the semester. Ginny dearly wanted to know what had happened, how he was really feeling—it was a strange desire, considering how nasty he'd been the last time they talked, but she couldn't help it.
He never watched her anymore, not so she could catch him, anyway. Sometimes Ginny could feel the weight of his eyes on her, but he always turned away before she could meet his stare.
She didn't know if she were happy about that or not.
Ginny sighed and hitched her bag higher on her shoulder. Colin and Zoë were just ahead, making their way back to Gryffindor Tower before the curfew came into effect, and she listened with half an ear to their soft conversation. She glanced down a side corridor as she passed it, and froze.
Draco was at the far end, alone, striding purposefully in a direction that couldn't possibly lead back to the Slytherin common room.
Ginny wavered, glancing ahead at Zoë and Colin, who hadn't noticed her pause. She should just carry on back to Gryffindor, it wasn't any of her business what Draco got up to on his own, and she couldn't break curfew besides. She looked back down the hall, just in time to see Draco vanish through an archway, his black robes flaring out behind him.
Ginny shouldered her bag, and with a last glance at her friends' retreating backs, raced down the hallway after him.
The archway Draco had passed through led to a short hallway that ended in a set of stairs. There was another hallway at the top, curving slightly away. Draco was nowhere in sight, but there weren't any rooms off this hall, and there was nowhere he could have gone but forward. Ginny shrugged mentally and followed it, her footfalls nearly silent on the flagstones. She stopped short as the corridor straightened out again; Draco was at the far end, and though he hadn't spotted her, if he turned his head even a little he most certainly would.
Ginny hung back as he turned and went through another archway, and moved forward slowly once the edge of his robes had disappeared through the arch. Without stopping to consider, she darted up the hall and onto the staircase, her thin shoes silent on the stone risers. She stayed just out of sight beyond the curve of the spiral, frowning as she climbed. Except for Draco's footprints the dust lay undisturbed, the stones of the stairwell unworn by the passage of hands. Ginny wasn't quite sure where this tower was, but it was obviously unused. Perhaps it wasn't surprising; Hogwarts had so many half-abandoned places it would be impossible to find them all.
Ginny stopped just around the last curve as she heard the sound of a door opening. She didn't hear it shut, and peeked cautiously around the edge of the spiral. The stair ended at a rough wooden door, hanging half open. A faint cool breeze swept around her, and Ginny stepped up the remaining stairs cautiously.
The door opened into an equally old and disused room, lined with diamond-paned casement windows, the heavy glass cracked and missing in places. It was thick with dust and nearly empty, one or two ancient pieces of furniture scattered about the round room. Draco was standing by one of the windows, his back to her, apparently engrossed by the view. Ginny shifted nervously, unsure if she should disturb him or turn back. Colin and Zoë were probably wondering where she was.
"What do you want?"
Ginny jumped. He hadn't even moved his head; she had no idea how he knew she was there. "I was just—"
"Following me around? That's a bit of a switch, isn't it, Weasley?" Draco shifted, tracing the outline of one of the glass panes with a long finger.
"I didn't mean to—I just thought I'd see if you—"
"If I what? If I were all right?" he asked scornfully. "Well I'm fine, so why don't you run along and bother someone else?"
Ginny bit her lip in frustration as he interrupted her again. He was so impossible, she didn't know why she bothered. "Look, I just wanted to say that I'm sorry. About Goyle, I mean." Draco shrugged one shoulder, but he didn't turn around. Ginny swallowed hard, rubbing at her hands. Surely he must feel badly...Goyle had been his friend. Not the best sort of candidate for friendship, but that didn't change the fact that Draco had been close to him. Hadn't he?
"How nice to know you care," Draco sneered. He turned his head halfway, not quite looking at her. The moonlight reflecting through the window outlined his profile in silvery blue, as though he were molded out of some precious metal. "You're probably the only one who does."
"Does that mean I shouldn't?" Ginny asked.
Draco rolled his eyes and turned away from her, apparently determined to ignore her until she went away. Ginny stepped further into the room, her eyes on Draco's motionless back. She knew she should just go, leave him to his brooding and be rid of him once and for all, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. He was feeling badly, he must be, and she couldn't bear to just leave, not when she might be able to help. Ginny used the edge of her robe to wipe a layer of dust off a rickety stool and sat down, ready to wait him out.
Another boy might have shifted uncomfortably or tried to make her leave; Draco just stood, unselfconsciously leaning against the stone wall as though she weren't there. He wasn't traditionally attractive, really, not in the way that Harry was, or Seamus, or Lane Hyde from Ravenclaw, who was the cutest boy in Ginny's year. Draco had a sort of refinement that those other boys didn't, an elegance and unconscious grace that manifested in every move he made, every tilt of his head or shift of his shoulders.
"I suppose you think I should feel terribly, don't you."
His scornful voice was loud in the stillness and Ginny started, gathering her distracted thoughts. "You can feel however you like," she replied. "But I thought you might feel... sad. He was your friend, wasn't he?"
Draco shrugged again. "Does it matter? He was just...collateral damage," he said bitterly.
Ginny stared at him, her mouth falling open in horror. "How can you say that?"
"That," Draco said, snapping out the words, "is what my father said when it happened. That if Goyle didn't have the sense to stay out of the way then he deserved what he got."
Ginny didn't know how anyone could think that, couldn't imagine what it must be like to live with a father that would say such things. Her own parents had been so terribly saddened when the attack happened, so upset that someone Ron's age had been killed, and Dad didn't even like Mr. Goyle. "And you believe him?"
"I don't know!" Draco spun around, his eyes flashing in the pale light. "I've thought about it, all right? I've done nothing but think about it, since it happened and I don't know. Goyle was an idiot. The only reason he managed to pass his courses is because I'd give him my notes, he could barely string two words together, and if he'd had any sense he would have stayed well away from Diagon Alley that day. But he didn't. And now he's dead and I don't know if he deserved it or not!" He turned his head away, and Ginny could see the tension in his body, a muscle working in his jaw as he swallowed. "Father always said that everything he did was to make things better, that he wanted a better world, and that he was doing what he could to see that done. Anything that happens, then, is just —" Draco's voice cracked, and he turned away completely, leaning into the wall beside the window."It's justified, because nothing matters except the goal."
Ginny jumped to her feet, knocking the rickety stool over. "That's just—that's the most horrible thing I've ever heard! People aren't expendable! And before you say it, it doesn't matter if I liked him or not, that's not the point," she said, as Draco drew breath to retort. "The point is that whatever he was like, he didn't deserve to die just because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time!"
"Why not?" Draco's voice was muffled, caught and dampened by the glass. He raised one hand to rest it against the cool panes, palm flat against the window. "What difference does it make if he died or not? He was stupid, and his death doesn't matter, because it isn't important to Father's goals."
Ginny waited, half-breathless. This was the first inkling she'd had that he didn't believe the things his father told him, that he really cared about something or someone other than himself. Draco curled his hand into a fist against the window. "Goyle died just because he didn't know to stay out of the way. And it doesn't matter how I feel about it, because I'm not supposed to care that he died. Anyone who knows me will say that it's odd that I do care. Who was Goyle, but some stupid child? He didn't matter." His voice sank to a whisper, so that Ginny had to take a step forward to hear. "If he didn't matter, then who else doesn't? Who else is expendable?" He curled in on himself a little, and drew his hand away from the window. "What am I supposed to do?"
"What do you want to do?" Ginny asked, half-afraid to hear the answer.
"I don't know," he whispered, almost inaudible. Ginny got up without thinking and crossed to the window. She rested her hand on his arm, trying to give him even this small comfort, to let him know he wasn't alone in this.
"Don't," he whispered, but he leaned into her hand, his head dropping forward to rest against the windowpane. Ginny answered the gesture and not his words, sliding her arms around his waist, her cheek against his angular shoulder blade. Draco tensed and took one deep, shuddering breath, his hands reaching down to grasp her wrists with long fingers. He loosened her arms and turned to cup her face in his hands, his fingers curling in the hair behind her ears. He brushed her mouth with one thumb and Ginny inhaled sharply as the gesture sent sparks along her nerves. Draco's eyes were wide and dark, fixed on her mouth with a burning intensity that made Ginny want to shiver.
The kiss, when it came, was almost too much for her to bear—her blood turned to fire, desire crackling through her and pooling in her chest, making it next to impossible to breathe. Ginny moaned into Draco's mouth when he slid his hands down her neck and onto her shoulders, caressing them though the threadbare fabric of her robe. She moved her own hands, wrapping one around his neck and the other around his waist, pulling him closer yet. She wanted more than just his mouth on hers, she wanted him to touch her as he had the last time, wanted to feel his hands on her unhindered by cloth.
Draco groaned low in his throat and rocked his hips against her; the movement sent a bolt of sensation through her and made her knees weak. Ginny gasped and pulled away, frightened by the intensity of her emotions. Draco stared at her for a moment, wild-eyed, then lowered his head to her shoulder. "We can't do this," he said into her hair.
"I know," Ginny whispered back. She buried her face in his robes, half-afraid, half-wishing she didn't have to let go. They couldn't do this, it was impossible, however much she wanted to deny it, wanted to hide away and acknowledge that any world outside this room existed.
She wasn't even sure what they had.
Draco pulled away first, his normal arrogant expression sliding back into place with each step he took away from her. Whatever confusion he was feeling now, it was hidden behind his public facade. "Don't expect this to happen again, Weasley," he said, with a shadow of his normal drawl.
Ginny let out a choked laugh. "Oh, right. I'll make a note. You're not going to snog me again."
He thinned his lips and glared at her. "You know what I meant."
Ginny backed up a few steps, wrapping her arms around herself with a sigh. "Yes, I know what you meant."
"Good." Draco stared at her, seemingly torn between anger and confusion. Maybe he got so angry because he didn't know how else to deal with her—Ginny couldn't decide if that were a reassuring thought or not. He pushed past her as he stalked toward the door, straight-backed and arrogant as ever, as though he hadn't been distraught only minutes before.
Ginny turned to watch him go, unable to quiet the nagging feeling that there was something more she should do, another way she could help. "Draco, wait."
He stopped and half-turned to look at her over his shoulder, his eyes shadowed so that she couldn't tell what he was thinking. "What?"
Ginny clutched at the edges of her robes, twining her fingers in the fabric. "Just—if you ever need it. We live in Devon, near Ottery St. Catchpole, you can find it on the Floo maps. We'll help you."
He laughed at that, a harsh, despairing sound. "I'm sure your family would welcome me with open arms."
"I will," Ginny said. "I promise."
"And Gryffindors never lie."
Ginny bit her lip, trying to will him to believe her. "Not about this. Just—please. Don't ever think that you haven't anywhere else to go."
Draco stared at her for a long moment, his face half in shadow. "All right."
Ginny watched helplessly as he disappeared down the stair. She had tried her best—anything else was up to him.
~*~
Draco refused to think about it.
He blocked the conversation from his mind. He sat with his back to the Gryffindor table so he wouldn't have to look, took the long way to half of his classes so he wouldn't cross paths with her, treated Potter, Weasley and Granger as though they didn't exist. Thinking about Ginny and her little mystery boy and her problems was what had led him to this pass in the first place; so confused he didn't know what to believe anymore, thinking things that bordered on treason to the family name, unable to concentrate on his schoolwork, or his classmates' conversations, or Quidditch, or anything.
It was sometime after Easter—Draco wasn't exactly sure of the date, only that the days were getting warmer and everyone in seventh year was getting annoyingly frantic. Blaise and Pansy were sitting at one of the long tables in the common room, books piled up around them haphazardly as they bent their heads together, studying. Draco watched them disinterestedly. Pansy must have noticed—she looked up and caught his eye.
"Aren't you working on your homework?" she asked. Blaise looked up as well, cold curiosity in his dark eyes.
Draco shrugged. "No."
"Draco, NEWTs are in just a few weeks. Hasn't your father promised to take you to the European Cup if you do well?" Pansy asked. Draco nodded absently, and she put her hands on her hips. "Well then, don't you think you ought to study?"
"Probably."
She pursed her lips disapprovingly. "I suppose it's your funeral." She and Blaise exchanged glances, and suddenly sick of watching them, Draco pushed himself to his feet.
"I'm going to the library," he said, and left the common room. He didn't go to the library, of course—it too was over-run with studying seventh-years, and if Draco wasn't up to watching Pansy and Blaise, he certainly wasn't up to facing a room full of hostile stares. He followed the long stairs down to the dock where the first year boats landed and sat there, staring out at the lake until the sun set below the hills and the castle lit up window by window, the lights reflecting off the black water in rippling patterns.
*
The end of the school year came...
And went.
Nothing happened, except that there wasn't a Leaving celebration in Hogsmeade this year for fear of attack. Potter walked around looking distracted and tense, his stupid sidekicks trailing behind him like ducklings. All three of them took to watching him as though they were expecting him to do something, though Draco didn't know what. They weren't nearly as informed as they thought they were if they believed he was truly involved in any sort of planning. With his marks the way they were, he'd be lucky if Father would even let him out of the Manor this summer.
The train ride back to King's Cross was a tense affair for everyone, and Draco spent all of it alone in a compartment near the back of the train. Blaise and Pansy had spent the first hour with him, but left for more private quarters when it was clear he wasn't going to be drawn into conversation. He didn't think there was anything to talk about—not to them, and he swore he wouldn't even think about Ginny anymore. Not that it was working, but he had to make the effort. School was over, and everything that had happened there with it; he didn't have time for that sort of distraction.
The summer dragged by in a series of dull, wet days that left everything feeling strangely muffled. It wouldn't stop raining, and Draco drifted around the Manor with nothing to do and far too much time to think. Father had begun to include Draco in more of his activities, inviting him to the study after dinner parties while Father and his friends discussed details of their work for the Dark Lord. Draco sat at the edge of the room for most of the discussions, listening in case Father chose to quiz him later, trying with limited success to conceal his boredom. It all seemed so...petty. Little raids on individuals, Muggle-baiting, nipping at the edges of the Ministry's power; nothing big, nothing obvious, nothing so bold as to warrant a full-scale counter-attack.
Draco wondered why anyone was afraid of them. He hadn't yet met the Dark Lord, but if this was his army, Draco wondered why anyone on the other side was worried at all. It reminded him of himself and Crabbe and Goyle when they were young, playing at soldiers with twigs in place of real wands. It all had a slightly unreal quality—it was difficult to remember that the witches and wizards his father talked about attacking were real people, that the things they planned were actually going to happen. Goyle's death, his conversations with Ginny, his half-voiced wish to escape from his life—they all seemed very far away.
One evening near to the middle of summer—an evening mercifully free of Father's friends, which meant that dinner was marginally less boring than usual—Draco excused himself early and retreated to his rooms, where he curled up in one of the windows and stared out at the rain-streaked lawn. He sat there until the sun lowered behind the horizon, hidden behind a thick veil of clouds, and the room around him sank into stygian darkness.
The sound of the door opening made Draco jump. Father strode into the room, frowning as he pulled his wand and pointed it at the candelabra on Draco's desk, which lit up. "Why are you sitting here in the dark?" He cut off Draco's reply with an impatient wave of his hand. "Never mind." Father strode to the bed and dropped a long black robe on the coverlet. "Put that on," he directed.
Draco raised his eyebrows curiously and obeyed. The robe was long and enveloping, the dark fabric pooling at Draco's feet. Father surveyed him with cold eyes and nodded once in approval.
"This is a marvelous opportunity," Father said, his voice low. "The Dark Lord has allowed me to bring you to our meeting tonight. Do what I do, say nothing unless asked, and don't do anything that will embarrass our name."
Draco stared in shock. A meeting? Father was actually going to bring him to a meeting, allow him to meet Voldemort? Some response was in order, so Draco cleared his throat. "Thank you, Father. I'm honoured." He wasn't, but Father didn't need to know that. But Father seemed satisfied, and motioned Draco to follow him down to his study. Mother was nowhere in sight, but she'd never wanted to be involved in Father's political games so it wasn't really surprising.
They Apparated from the study into a small clearing in the middle of some unknown forest. Others appeared, singly or in groups of two or three, nodding to Father as they arranged themselves in a small circle. Draco couldn't see that there was any sort of order, but Father motioned him to a specific spot, between a hulking figure who must be Crabbe's father and a dumpy wizard with an odd silver glove on his left hand. No one spoke.
After several long moments there came the distinctive sound of someone Apparating into the clearing, and a shiver seemed to go through the assembled wizards. Draco bit his lip, trying not to be obvious as he strained to see, not sure what to expect. The circle parted and all around the perimeter, robed men and women genuflected toward the figure entering. Draco knelt too, one eye on his father so that he could be sure of doing it right.
"Rise." The voice was cold and strangely high, like fingernails on a blackboard. Draco glanced at Father and raised himself carefully to his feet. He couldn't tell through the mask, but Father looked almost...afraid. Draco risked a glance at the centre of the circle, and the strange figure who must be Voldemort.
He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting; an older version of Tom Riddle, he supposed, or perhaps someone like Karkaroff, who was Headmaster at Durmstrang, old and wrinkled. This—this thing lording it in the middle of the circle, with its white, noseless face, its wide-set, slitted red eyes... it wasn't even human. Draco bit back a gasp of revulsion as the thing gazed around at the gathered Death Eaters. How could Father swear allegiance to this thing? How could he stand here calmly and genuflect to it, bow before it like it was a king?
Draco curled his hands into fists inside his sleeves as Voldemort walked slowly around the circle. Every now and again the Dark Lord would pause, and the Death Eater nearest would kneel down and actually kiss the hem of its robe. Draco cut his eyes sideways at Father. There was no way he would do it. If Voldemort was expecting Draco to kneel as though it were some sort of god, well, it could think again.
Draco held his breath as Voldemort moved slowly past him and paused before Father.
And Father bent down, knelt in the dirt at the thing's feet, and reverently lifted the Dark Lord's hem to his lips.
Draco had thought his world couldn't get more confusing than the day Ginny Weasley had told him Voldemort was a half blood, but this... His father, genuflecting before this horrible creature, kissing its filthy robes, making obeisance to it. Draco closed his eyes against his rising nausea, and didn't open them again until he heard Father rise and knew Voldemort had moved on.
Once its circuit of the gathering was complete, Voldemort moved back to the centre of the clearing and held out one spindly white hand. The short, dumpy wizard with the odd glove Draco had noticed before scuttled forward and laid a wand in the thing's spidery palm. There was a brief scuffle at the edge of the clearing, and a man, clad in plain trousers and shirtsleeves, was shoved into the circle to stumble and fall at Voldemort's feet. The Dark Lord smiled a terrible smile, and lowered its wand to point at the man's chest. "Crucio," Voldemort whispered, and the man screamed.
Draco didn't know who the victim was, and it hardly mattered. Just some faceless man, who might have been a Muggle or a half-blood or a pureblood for all the difference it seemed to make to anyone. The circle of Death Eaters leaned forward as one, trying to get a closer look, it seemed, as Voldemort cast the Cruciatus spell on the man again and again.
The man jerked and thrashed, his face contorted into a mask of intense pain. Draco bit down sharply on his lower lip to keep himself from crying out in horror, thankful, not for the first time, for the mask that covered his features and hid his reaction from the other members of the circle. Draco risked a glance at Father, but he was focused on the figure lying in the centre of the ring, his pale eyes gleaming behind the eyeholes of his mask.
"Crucio," Voldemort whispered again, and the man writhed one more time before collapsing into an unmoving heap. Two Death Eaters leapt forward to pick up the corpse and drag it out of the ring; Draco hadn't known you could kill someone with Cruciatus, but here was proof that it was possible.
And the worst of it was no one seemed to care. It was as though nothing had happened. Voldemort tucked its wand out of sight and surveyed the Death Eaters, who shrank before its gaze. Voldemort's gaze rested on one or two in particular, who seemed to quail and shrink, as though expecting to be next in the centre of the circle, under the thing's wand.
"Our struggle continues," Voldemort declaimed, and a disjointed murmur ran through the crowd of Death Eaters. "Our old enemies are still arrayed against us, and have yet to be defeated. But not for long! Soon, we shall have the Ministry on the run, and my old enemies will lie at my feet! Every day we move closer to our goal, every day sees us that much closer to victory!"
A cheer rose up from the assembled Death Eaters as Voldemort went on in the same vein. They would be victorious, they would throw down the current order and make the world over in their image, they would cast out the mudbloods and purify the wizarding world. Draco listened, nodding when his Father did, wondering silently if they could start the 'purification' with the monstrosity that was leading this circle.
Finally the meeting ended. Voldemort left the circle the way it had come in. The Death Eaters drifted off into groups of two and three, talking quietly. Father touched Draco on the shoulder and motioned him to stay put, and hurried across the clearing to where Voldemort was standing in a small circle of admirers.
Draco tucked his hands inside the sleeves of his robes to hide their trembling. Father led him out of the clearing after he'd finished speaking with the Dark Lord and various other Death Eaters; Draco didn't' know what about, and he didn't care to know either. They Apparated silently back to Father's study at the Manor, which was blissfully warm and seemed more like home than it ever had before. Draco staggered to the settee and sank down onto it, bone weary.
Father pushed his hood down and removed his mask. He watched Draco for a moment, then smiled and moved to the sideboard to pour two glasses of his best brandy. He walked back over to the settee and handed one to Draco with a smile. "You did well tonight, son," he said, his voice suffused with pride. "You did well, and your actions were noticed. When I spoke to Lord Voldemort after the meeting, he said he shares my confidence in you. He would welcome you into our circle, Draco. It is a very great honour."
It took all of Draco's willpower to nod graciously, to smile up at Father and force the expected words past his tightening throat, the thanks and depreciations necessary to make Father think he was in total agreement, that he would take the Mark, when his head was ringing with only one thought: Over my dead body.