Chapter Three
By: Brianne Crandal


Shadows from the Past:

Never, in all his years of careful observation and thorough study, had he felt so utterly old. Standing unsteadily before a wide victorian window, Albus Dumbledor wanted nothing more than to sink into the brightly carpeted floor beneath his slippered feet, and disappear.

To think he'd planed everything so perfectly. Wasn't the first rule of war, that everything that can go wrong will? And if they weren't in the midst's of war then...

Closing thin eyelids, he could vividly see the young Ginny Weasly's stiff, frozen body sprawled awkwardly in the snow, her pale faced brother bent over her, screaming her name in pure terror. And poor Jenny Welks, utterly massacred, her short life staining the snow. Her mother had been devastated, he hadn't had an explanation for her, at least not one that even a witch would believe.

How had this happened? Long, long ago he had been warned, warned of what it might mean, but it had seemed too impossible, too... horrible. Even for Voldemort. Would he really awaken Her? Was the prophecy true?

How he tired of prophecies.

Opening pale eyes, Dumbledor turned slowly on his heel and strode wearily across the room towards a towering book self at the other end, the Headmasters portrayed above snoring softly. Hesitance radiated from his very skin, as he climbed steadily up the wooden ladder to the very, very top. Skimming bone like fingers over tattered spines, Dumbledor pulled a black book from the far end of the top self, a chill passing through him. The very leather of the bound book felt cold to his touch, as he pulled it slowly from its place, dust seeping through the pages. Holding the book as far from himself as possible, he climbed carefully back down to earth and hobbled towards his study. Waving at a nearly spent candle, the wick bursting into instant flame, he snapped open the tarnished silver clasp of the ancient book, settling it carefully on his paper scattered desk.

It had been many years since he'd looked at the pages within. Flipping through the first few pages, he stopped abruptly at a colorful, nauseatingly detailed picture, and a shiver of fear rattled through his body. For the first time in many, many years Albus Dumbledor would admit that he was terrified, even as he touched quivering fingers to the scene depicted before him. How he had hoped this day would never come. He had been a fool.

Closing his eyes once more, fingers still resting gingerly, fearfully, on the rough parchment, Dumbledore muttered a desperate prayer to God, softly under his breath, for the first in nearly a life time.



She dreamed she was in a wide field. So green, so beautiful, she instantly knew it couldn't be real. A soft misty drizzle wafted from the strangely clear sky, and made the young summer grass cling to her bare feet and legs, the moisture sinking slowly into her plain cotton shirt. On an impulse, she raised her milky white arms to the sky and bathed herself in wonderful silver moonlight and warm mist. Then, without even knowing it at first, she began to dance.

A dance that was about the trees and their gently swaying branches and clapping leaves. A dance that told of the cold pure rivers and powerful, ancient mountains. It was a dance about life.

Her young, healthy body swayed and leapt with each turn of the never ending dance. Never had she felt so free, so real, so utterly part of herself. The moon light on her wet body felt like the gentle, nurturing touch of a caring mother. There was sadness in that lingering touch, however, a sadness she couldn't understand. Opening heavy, dark eyes, she stood, breathing heavily beneath the moon, her eyes suddenly filling with cold tears, falling frozen down her face and sending chills through her body.

It was late morning when Ginny finally woke up, her body heavy and awkward as she struggled to open tired eyes. She almost instantly recognized that she was in the Hospital Wing, having had her share of over night stays in the past. The smells, the stuffy feel of the room, everything was vaguely familiar to her muddled mind. The air was quiet and in closed, and parting her eyes, she could see small dust particles floating lazily in warm, brilliant sunlight. Somehow the bright filtering rays made her slightly uncomfortable, the beautiful power and sadness of the moon in her dreams still clinging to the sub consciences of her mind. Turning her head, energy slowly creeping through her veins and into her neck, she started through the thin wall of the white curtain surrounding her, and was surprised to see the drawn face of Draco Malfoy staring back her, his face unreadable through the haziness of the cotton.

You were dreaming, he said in a voice that told he was not asking her, but telling.

she replied softly, not knowing what else to say, confused and so weary. Her body suddenly feeling far away and she wondered if maybe she was going to black out again, her eyes creeping half closed.

That thought brought back the suppressed terror held feebly at the back of her weary mind. The image of the horrible contorted body of her younger schoolmate swam into sharp perspective as her eyes burned fiercely with the effort to hold back her tears.

She had been dead for only a few hours when you found her you know, a blurry voice said, far off and cruel, Dumbeldor wouldn't say what, or who had done it though. I think he knew I was listening, not that it really matters. She was nothing to anyone, as far as I know she didn't have any friends. Malfoy said softly, obviously deciphering her thoughts from her sudden silence and soft whimpers. His voice was so cold she could almost feel the air chill around her.

You've been unconscience for nearly a week you know, there's a bunch of Christmas gifts at the foot of your bed. Weasly, Potter and Granger have been around most of the time, blubbering even after Dumbledor told them you were going to be fine. Pathetic really. Your pathetic too you know, moaning in your sleep, crying, all for a girl you didn't even know. How completely pathetic. His voice was full of unabashed disgust, and ridden with hate, a hate she couldn't even begin to understand. It stung in the air and hurt her heart. What could make someone so bitter? So... sad?

Ginny said nothing, she merely rolled over and closed her glistening eyes, hoping for sleep and finding it a blissful moment later, Malfoy's, low, bitter laughter echoing in her mind. Whether or not she had imagined it or not didn't seem very important.

Late that evening, sometime past midnight, Ginny lay awake listening to the soft, steady breathing of Malfoy as he slept motionlessly in the bed next to hers. His broad back faced her, his pale skin apparent even through the clouded moon lit curtains. He was very thin, in a sickly sort of way, his hair like pale moonlit water across the starched pillow. He was handsome in a different sort of way she supposed. In a dark, dangerous way.

Madame Pomfrey had handed her a sleeping draught an hour or so ago, but had bustled off when a startled looking student had arrived suddenly in a huff and she hadn't waited to see if Ginny had actually drunken it or not.

Smiling slightly, she looked down at the cool copper goblet she held loosely in her hands, the liquid stirring gently with each languid breath she took. Hermione and Ron had come to visit her before sunset, Harry had been detained by a detention of which Ginny had only acquired hazy details, and she had assured Ron that Malfoy hadn't hurt her in any way shape or form. In fact, he hadn't spoken to her since she'd awoken for the first time that morning, keeping to himself, writing letters -she guessed that's what they had been anyway-, and staring blankly out the window above his bed. Sometimes she could see the bloodied bandages beneath his night shirt, Madame Pomfrey had to change the dressings often. Ginny had felt a stab of pity the first time she'd seen the horrible wound sprawled angrily across his chest, but his eyes had been so angry, so defiant when he'd looked at her, watery with obvious pain, that she hadn't the courage to feel so again.

Ginny had not mentioned the girl, or her strange reaction to her death, to either her brother or Hermione, but she could feel the tension there. The fear. She longed to comfort them, but knew she couldn't, not when the pain and confusion was still so real. She tried not to think of the strange voice that had resounded in her head moments before her complete fall into ignorance, something about it chilled her. It had not been her voice. The voice had seemed so familiar, like an old friend, but something about the tone, the power dripping from each phrase, had frightened her in a way she had not thought about for years. She shivered.

Sighing softly, Ginny leaned her head back and started at the silver stone of the ceiling above, her thumb rubbing over the warm copper between her fingers. Moments latter she could feel herself drifting slowly back into sleep and she clumsily set the sleeping draught on her cluttered night stand.

Suddenly, from seemingly nowhere, Malfoy twisted jerkily onto his back and and produced a scream so violent that windows rattled. Shocked beyond belief, Ginny herself wasn't quick enough to repress a scream of her own. Clawing at the thin sheets that held her, she flung back the curtains and stumbled on weak knees to the twisting form of Malfoy. His screams faded into horse sobs as she approached, his voice losing its self in his cries of terror. Hovering over his bed she realized he was still deeply asleep, his eyes moving restlessly beneath thin eye lids. Bending over him, the years he had tormented her burning through her mind, she stared as blood bloomed thick and red across his drawn chest, soaking through his bandages, and she realized she had to do something. No one deserved to die like this, not even a Malfoy. On an impulse that would later trouble her greatly, she knelt down beside him and pressed her hand palm flat and tense across his quivering white chest. Staring down at his sickly face, so pale and thin, she studied the high rise of his cheek bones, the arch of his golden brows, the full, white lips. Bending, her mind far away, left somewhere behind her in her own bed a few meters away, she pressed her lips firmly to his, and felt the familiar touch of remembrance. Somehow she knew this was not the first time she had kissed Draco Malfoy. Something pressed against her mind, begging for control, but Ginny shoved it away violently. Now frightened, she jerked back, to find Malfoy still beneath her hand, his heart beating wildly within his ribs, and his eyes parted and staring up and into her. Like a gust of Arctic wind Ginny was suddenly aware of herself once more, she instantly shuffled away from him, her heart pounding in her ears, fear pulsing through her veins and clouding her vision.

I always knew you were crazy, he muttered after an intense staring contest in which Ginny imagined a life time had passed.

She didn't respond, but continued to stare at him with wide brown eyes, the moonlight bright on his weary face.

If... you ever touch me again Weasly, I'll kill you... I'll kill you, these last words slipped between gently parted lips and then Malfoy was asleep, breathing steadily once more, his face calm and almost innocent. Almost.

Shivering, her knees pressed roughly into the hard cold stone of the floor, Ginny suddenly realized that nothing was never going to be the same. For months she'd suppressed feelings of anxiety, ignored the foreshadowing signs of danger. Would she ever learn? Blood stained snow was all she could see, and from within she could sense something that was not entirely herself, but something that was desperate to be freed. Crawling ungainly towards her bed, she fell into the mattress and cried herself to sleep, sadness slowly replacing her fear. Nothing was going to be simple ever again.

Ginny was released the next day, feeling almost normal and even managing to smile when Hermione handed her two weeks worth of make up assignments from all her classes.

She worked extra hard to collect all that for ya Gin, I think she even tortured some of the teachers into assigning you homework, Ron had said sarcastically as the trio escorted her to the dorms. Hermione hadn't looked very pleased, and Harry had had to force himself into a choke to stifle his laughter.

Now sitting at a small round table in the corner of the bustling Griffindor common room, buried in a pile of books, Ginny looked worriedly out a small dark window and out over the placid grounds below, thinking of the last person she should have been.

Malfoy had been moved into his own room at the back of the infirmary the morning after their awkward encounter, she was woman enough to admit she was worried about him. What was wrong with him? What had been in Neville's cauldron that day that not even Professor Dumbledore could decipher? Maybe Malfoy really was dying. But of course she couldn't voice these concerns to any of her friends, they all hated him quite feverently, admittedly, it was with good reason. And so do I , she reminded herself sternly, I hate him just as much. But almost without realizing it, she was devising a plan to discover just exactly what was wrong with the young Malfoy heir, a part of her was almost literally screaming the impact the discovery might have. She was so distracted she hardly noticed the odd, stabbing pain in her chest, directly over her heart.

If you were expecting happy ... I'm sorry lol. Hey, Malfoy's dying, and Ginny's falling apart what do you expect? So yeah this is the last chapter that beats around the bush, next chapter we find out exactly what's wrong with our dear Mr. Malfoy, and just who's playing with poor Ginny's mind. So Review eh? Thanks much to all of you that have, its is muchly appreciated.

Bri