A/N Yep, it's Chapter 3! School starts tomorrow, so updates will be…lesser so. This chapter has much more D/G interaction that the first, er, few. Yah, I realize the entire story has been more plot than romance so far, but that's just building up…the background info, oui? Anyways, it all sorta begins here. Also, this isn't going to be purely D/G just to let you know – Draco and Ginny, of course, but I'm also writing in Harry and Hermione. I'm normally indifferent to who Hermione ends up with, but after reading the Draco Trilogy (Cassie Claire, of course) – which, I might add, despite the good writing was a pain to get through with the D/Hr implications – I felt like expanding Hermione's character as I see her, especially in a situation like this. So…yeah, if you're not a Harry/Hermione fan, keep in mind that a) she was with Ron, but now he's dead and b) there's more D/G ahead.

Edit: I want to apologize for how incredibly long its taken me to write this...actually it really hasn't taken me long, because it's been done, but FFNet has been incredibly weird with its uploading. Everytime I uploaded the file, all the apostrophes and whatnot were replaced with funky little symbols and it DIDN'T GO AWAY. I emailed them and...well you know how that goes. Anyways I solved the problem by copy/pasting from word in the "QuikEdit" section but yeah. So apologies to you all.

Huggles go to Vic and Robin, my fellow D/Gers and partners in crime, Vicky aka Faith Akiyama for finally updating her D/G fanlisting, Priscilla my lovely-as-ever beta, and Beth, who is most definitely coming with me to Australia next year to stalk yummy and flexible men.

Oh, and don't forget to review!

Into the Dragon's Lair

Hermione Granger lived in a small, threadbare flat just East of the Ministry of Magic – nestled in a little wizarding district few knew about. The location of her home was known to Ginny only from the days directly preceding Ron's death, when her grief-stricken sister-in-law had insisted on moving out of the comfortable three-bedroom home she'd shared with Ron. At the time, they'd all been too shocked to really register that Ron was truly gone, and the entire family had willingly, if numbly, helped the young woman move.

Sometimes, especially during the period when Bridgette and Harry had been engaged, Ginny would visit the house Ron had been so excited to buy. She would sit just outside the fence, outside of view from the cheery family who now inhabited it, and imagine what her life would've turned out to be had Ron not died. She would spin stories of holiday and birthday feasts that never existed, and in her mind picture entering that home, seeing pictures decorate the chimney as a token of happiness, a small but infinitely important aberration from the dark and dismal world they all lived in.

Then, with a bottle of the Wizarding world's strongeset alcohol in hand, she would cry, sob really, wishing she could yell at Ron for leaving her, and wishing above all that he could be here for her to yell at.

She never stopped to realize that she wasn't the only one.

Suitcases floating behind her, Ginny knocked on Hermione's door now, eyes watering as the memories rushed back to her. She was accustomed to mixing work with play, as she'd been close with most she'd worked with, yet it was odd coming to Hermione's flat, waiting outside her door, and wondering if she would be an unwelcome surprise. "Coming," she heard a muffled voice say, and after a moment, Hermione appeared before her, looking slightly startled.

"Hello," Ginny said, a little uncertainly, and the elder woman blinked.

"Does this mean you're in?" Hermione asked, anticipation evident in her voice. "Already?"

Ginny nodded. "I've got until nightfall, and then I won't be out of Malfoy's reach for eight weeks."

"Jesus," Hermione breathed. "Are you—is this—would you like to come in?" She stepped back just enough to let Ginny and her floating luggage slip through the door, looking tense but relieved all in the same moment.

"Thank you," Ginny said once Hermione had closed the door and turned towards her. "You have no idea how stressed I am right now – I mean, I'm glad I took this job, but Malfoy really is a nasty little bugger and I've quite forgotten that."

Hermione couldn't help smiling softly at the rambling woman. "Yes, well, if things go well, that nasty little bugger will soon be behind bars." She paused. "Or better yet, dead."

"And I'll be nothing less than estatic that I helped put him there," agreed Ginny. "Merlin, you wouldn't believe the nerve of that bloke – he's making me address him as 'my Lord' at all times."

"Oiy, Ginny," Hermione winced, "I'm sorry. Would you like some tea?"

"Tea would be wonderful."

"So," Hermione asked as she floated into the kitchen and began clamoring amongs the pots and pans. "What's your alias?"

A blank look came over Ginny. "Alias?"

"Yeah," Hermione said, appearing in the doorway with a worried expression upon her face. "Your 'persona'. For instance, you could be um, Hallie, er, Halliwell, and an aspiring actress. Something of that sort."

"Well," Ginny said slowly, uneasily. "I told him my name was Ginny." One of Hermione's eyebrows rose in alarm, and she hastened to add, "But I said that my last name was Worthington and I'm pretty sure he believed me. Although, he did pause at my name, saying something about it sounding…familiar or something of the sort."

"That was not a good idea," said Hermione sternly, and handed her a teacup. "Do I need to remind you how dangerous it would be for you if he knew your true identity and intentions?"

"No," Ginny replied, sounding brusque and peeved as they took seats opposite one another on Hermione's worn sofa. "You and I both know the consequences of making mistakes." She paused now, letting her voice take on a softer tone. "It's just…though I may not be of the Freedom League, I do know what I'm doing."

"Really," smiled Hermione, and this time it was more light-hearted.

"Really," she confirmed, returning the smile.

There was a heavy silence then, but not entirely uncomfortable, as both women sipped from their tea and glanced around, unsure of what to say and whether anything was necessary to fill the gap in conversation at all. Nearby, a clock ticked loudly, and the sounds of children's voices could be heard from just outside the window. "You know," Hermione finally said. "It's still so odd. That so much darkness and destruction and turmoil can be going on in our world, but that these children can just…play. As if nothing has happened, as if nothing's going to."

"The blessings of being young and innocent, I suppose," Ginny supplied.

The other woman squinted towards the window, despite that her view was obstructed by dark brocade curtains. "Yes, well, sometimes I think…even if the world's going to end at the hands of Voldemort—" she gave a sad little half-smile "—at least the world as we know it, won't we still have the children? We'll always have those innocent and young children, and won't hope always live on?"

"I guess," said Ginny slowly.

"So," Hermione went on, "Why are we so worried then? Why does the plight or happenstance of a world enclosed in darkness scare us so much if there's still going to be light?"

"There will always be light," Ginny replied. "There always has been. I think it just depends on who you are…and what you do…to see that light."

This seemed to be answer sufficient for her, who paused in her thoughts and toyed absently with her teacup, a gleam of musing apparent in her half-lidded eyes. "I think you're right," Hermione sighed after a while. "I think I just have yet to find that light."

"Ditto," confessed Ginny.

"I'm not sure about Thomas," Hermione blurted out then. "We're not—the engagement—we—I—um, I'm thinking about breaking it off."

Ginny only stared at her with slightly shocked eyes, waiting as ever. "That was fast," she whispered. "I mean, just this morning—"

"Oh no," disagreed Hermione. "I've been thinking about it for forever now. We'd been engaged for…Merlin knows why, but maybe eight months or so? And Thomas, he always wanted the wedding to be sooner, he wanted to tie the knot or at least start planning, which, mind you, we've not even set a date. Or a range of dates. And I'd always told him that I wasn't planning because I didn't want a complicated wedding, and that was sufficient answer for him, because we loved each other—" she shook her head now "—or so I thought. I really thought I loved him, Ginny. But I've been thinking, oh I've been thinking for forever now and gods you don't know how much I've wanted to tell someone about this, but he's just, well, I just don't love him and I most certainly don't want to spend the rest of my life with him and I think maybe that's why I've been postponing everything."

She slumped in her chair, relieved and tired to have exonerated the burden from her chest, and Ginny merely blinked, absorbing it all. "And you haven't told anyone about this?" she asked cautiously.

"Well who would I tell?" Hermione said, and heaved another miserable sigh. "My close friends were always Harry and Ron. I never bothered to make more friends because they were always more than enough for me. But now, Ron, well—" she snorted "—like he could give me advice now, right? And Harry…I haven't talked to Harry since Ron died." When she paused once more, her eyes took on a wistful expression. "Little bugger always did like Ron more than me," she added softly, trying to sound light despite the pain evident in her voice. "I suppose it's a bloke sort of thing. Male bonding or what have you."

"I haven't talked to Harry either," confided Ginny. "Not since…"

"Bridgette?" she supplied easily, shaking her head sadly. "Yes, well, death tends to have that effect on us doesn't it?"

"Look, Hermione," Ginny said, twisting the hem of her skirt anxiously with one hand as she set down her cup. "The reason I came to see you is because, well, I thought I might let you know that about all that happened in the past between us…with my parents and my brother's death and the events afterwards, well…I know it's no consolation now, but I'm really truly sorry."

Hermione looked unfazed. "Honestly, Ginny, it doesn't matter anymore," she dismissed. "Life goes on. Takes a while, of course, but it goes on."

"But," Ginny protested, "What happened was…you see, we've never been close friends, have we?" Hermione shook her head. "At Hogwarts," Ginny continued, "I was always smitten with Harry and the three of you had your own plans and that was just fine because in a roundabout way, so did I, but in some inexplicable way I'm here in your apartment, and I feel like a stranger, and I wish…" she trailed off, searching for the right words. "I just wish things hadn't turned out this way," she finished, watching the other woman with searching eyes. "Does that make sense?"

"Sure," agreed Hermione. "But the fact of the matter is, Ginny, things did turn out this way, and no matter how much we sit here and wish they hadn't, they did. So really, apologies aren't necessary – they won't do anything anyhow, and if you want, we can just move on from here. Start anew."

"I think I'd like that," Ginny smiled. "If we could be friends."

"Friends," said Hermione lightly. Then, setting her teacup down too, she leaned back against the cushions with a thoughtful expression. "You know, I wonder," she pondered, more to herself than anyone else, "If the people in our lifetime we meet might've turned out differently if we'd been born differently."

Ginny frowned in confusion.

"For instance," Hermione explained, "If I had been sorted into Ravenclaw and had never made friends with the likes of Ron and Harry, would I be in the Freedom League now? And if I had been born a year later, would you and I have been good friends at school? And if you had been born of upper class, would you be engaged to Malfoy now?"

At that last statement, Ginny wrinkled her nose and let out a short laugh. "That I doubt, Hermione," she grinned, conjuring memories of Malfoy's snide sneer and disdaining remarks from Hogwarts. "But you know, I think you would've been with Ron and Harry no matter what happened, no matter you were. I think there are some people in life you're destined to be with, and no matter where life starts you out, no matter how long it takes you, you'll end up finding them sometime during that course."

With that thought, the two women fell silent, looking at one another but not really looking, and thinking of that one they were destined to be with – Hermione wondering why she had lost him, and Ginny wondering when and if she would find him.

Two hours and three teacups later, Ginny stood before the wide gates of Malfoy Manor for the second time that day. The sky had darkened to a cloudy violet now, extinguishing rays of sun just barely visible from behind a sloping hill that curved around the estate. Her suitcases floating conspicuously behind her, she used sweaty palms to smooth back her hair and pull down her drab dress before pushing open one of the huge iron bars and strolling into the land that was sure to be her demise.

You would think he'd have guarded the outer gates, she thought darkly as she made her way towards the grand double doors. Then again, Malfoy probably had set millions of alarms around the doors, triggering reactions to intruders with the most high-tech of Wizarding technology that she would never be able to understand. Without meaning to, Ginny's hand tightened around one of the small black cameras in her pocket, and then she was at the front of the doors, squeezing her eyes shut as she knocked.

She waited a good few seconds, praying she hadn't gotten herself into something too over her head, but there came no house elf. In fact, there came no movement from within the house to even suggest a house elf. Frowning, Ginny jerked herself out of her dreading reverie and knocked again, louder this time.

"Hello?" she called to nobody in particular, and shook on the door handle.

The door slid open.

Tentatively, she took a step inside, heels clicking loudly against the floor. Stop acting like a thief, she scolded herself. You're a guest in his house, and it's not your fault his house elves aren't working. With that thought consoling her, she murmured the counter spell to sink her suitcases to the floor, and glanced around her, taking in the grandeur of his home once more. She stood for a few moments with a million lost thoughts whirring through her mind, wondering whether she should go find him, or, as she was tempted to do, start her perusal of his mansion.

Finally, Ginny decided on the latter, moving as quietly as she could towards an ominous-looking stairwell on her left, a curving set of marble which spiraled into a darkness that made her stomach dance with anticipation. This was the rush she'd once often felt on assignments with Bridgette and Harry, she thought as she descended them slowly, this was the uncertainty that she would escape alive and the testosterone of not knowing.

Now it was not so addicting as she'd remembered it to be. Lighting her wand, Ginny found herself at the bottom of the stairs, facing a long and dark hall lit with sparse, dying torches and lined with thick wooden doors. Great, she thought dryly, groping at the handles for one that wasn't locked. Well there are plenty of doors – one of them has to be unlocked.

By the sixteenth door, she was exasperated and convinced that they were all locked, and that she'd might as well leave before wasting her time with the rest of the doors. Disappointment flooded through her, though she knew she'd have plenty of time to spy on Malfoy. She convinced herself that getting caught here would ruin the little trust she had built with the git – if one could even call it that – and hesitantly, she turned for the stairs, trying desparately not to feel sorry over the promising eeriness of the place. It was optimal for lurid fantasies and old wives' tales, the perfect place to harbor demons and ghouls and witches, she thought sadly, turning to leave.

Then, Ginny realized with a start that indeed, she was a witch.

Nearly laughing out loud in the dim hall, she removed her wand from her pocket and aimed it at one of the doors. "Alohamora," she whispered softly, grinning as she heard the familiar click. I'm tired, she reasoned with herself as she opened it cautiously and slipped inside, I'm not thinking clearly, that's all.

Indeed, as she relit her wand in the damp and dark room, that rush flitted through her again, and she stared in the wonder and knowing that she had almost given up on this. The place was every bit as dank as she'd imagined, a dungeon of some sort surely, and everywhere there were little floating glass cases, open on one side and exhibiting some sort of instrument she'd never before seen.

Well, not all of them, she thought ruefully as she stopped by a case of silver handcuffs. Hoping they weren't rigged with some sort of alarm, she scooped them up gently, hefting the slight weight and cool metal in her hand and breathing a sigh of relief when no bells went off. I wonder why Malfoy has these in a case, she wondered, and then mental image of Malfoy as the Slytherin girls had rumored him to be materialized in her mind, and she shivered. Yet it was easy to imagine, him with some faceless blonde bimbo and…And I bet he's had his share of stupid girls to do these sorts of repulsive things with, she thought in revulsion, dropping them back with a clank. As he'd probably have to drug them to make them go out with him in the first place…

Then again, he wasn't particularly horrible looking.

The thought went through her head before she could stop herself, and the image of him as she'd seen him earlier that day formed in her head, light and almost angelic against the bright rush of sun. No, he was actually rather…decent. She supposed that if she tried hard enough, she could understand the mass flocking of females to be in Malfoy's bed. And there was also, after all, she reasoned, the fact that he was disgustingly rich.

Shaking the thoughts from her mind, Ginny moved onto the next display case, where a long whip of thick leather lay demurely against the thick glass. Without thinking she reached for it, the handle warming to her touch and the material buttery soft. She involuntarily conjured up yet another image in her mind, and even in the darkness she felt her face heating up, felt a blush flaming through her. Stop thinking about that, she commanded herself angrily.

"Well, well, what have we here?" a low voice came at her right ear suddenly, and Ginny jumped, dropping her hold on the object and spinning around to see Draco Malfoy just inches above her, face set in a mixture of disdain and curiosity.

He must have come in sometime when I was looking at the…how long has he been here? "Malfoy," she breathed, straightening with as much dignity as she could muster and pretending valiantly they were not where they were. He raised an eyebrow at her knowingly, dangerously, and she coughed, correcting herself with a meek "I mean, my Lord."

"Better," was all he said, in that slow and silky tone of his. Taking a step back from her, Draco glanced around, as if just noticing their environment. "First day on the job," he remarked, "And you're already snooping."

She felt the tips of her ears flame in indignation. "I was not snooping," she exclaimed, though in truth she really had been. "There was nobody to answer the door, as I'd shown up on time as you'd asked—commanded, and honestly, if you didn't want me to see this part of the house you should've locked it." Okay, you should've made sure I couldn't break the lock, she amended in her mind.

If he could see through her lie, Draco didn't say anything. He only moved around her to glance at what had piqued her interest, his long black robe sweeping against the cool marble and his light but distinctive scent wafting to her nose as he brushed past her. Like hazelnut and lemon – a bit of sweet with a lot of tang, she found herself thinking. Picking up the whip by its long leather handle, he turned sharply, lips curved amusedly. "Thinking of games to play?" He smiled, only it really wasn't a smile because, as Ginny'd noted, Draco Malfoy didn't know how to smile. That odd quirk of his lips held no humor, was instead cold and lifeless, and chilled her to the bone.

Then again, he probably hadn't intended to invoke humor.

"Rich of you to say," she retorted. "Since it's obviously yours."

He raised one eyebrow once more, in that irritating show of smug disdain. "Actually," Draco disagreed, "This house is really very large. Many of these things are inherited."

"So you're telling me that this whip—" Ginny gestured disgustedly towards the object in question "—was used by your father?"

She failed to provoke him with that last insinuation, as he simply smirked at her. "I didn't say that," he replied, stroking a long finger along the handle, the smirk growing wider as she found herself shorter of breath. Then, suddenly, he was right next to her again, so close she could feel the warmth of his body radiating into hers.

Funny, I thought he was cold-blooded.

"If you're a good girl," he whispered into her ear, "I'll give you a little demonstration of how to use—" And now he traced the whip up her abdomen "—this."

Ginny blanched at the contact, wrenching away from him and taking several stumbling steps backwards. "If you expect me to do that," she said furiously, glaring at him with her entire life's fury, "You are in for a sore mistake, Mal—my Lord." Somehow addressing him by such a title took the punch out of her anger, but she made up for it in spades as she crossed her arms and glowered at him in silence. When he said nothing, she felt her temper flare further, and added, "And it doesn't say that I have to—to—do that with you, so you can't annul it."

"Do what?" he asked sweetly.

"You know!" she cried, making wild gestures with her hand and feeling stupider by the moment. "That! And absolutely I refuse, you know, you can't make me."

She expected anger to cross his face, but it didn't. In fact, there was nothing—no emotion whatsoever, not rage, not embarassment, not amusement. He was, as ever, blank and indifferent, staring at her for a few piercing moments with lidded silver eyes before setting the whip down back onto its stand. And then his lower lip curled up in what could've been a smirk or a leer, and he was sauntering past her as if nothing had occurred between them at all.

"My lord," she called as he had reached the door, unsure of why she'd stopped him. Surely he was upset, she thought angrily, surely she had to have elicted some reaction from him, surely he wasn't planning to make her… "I'm serious, you know," she blurted out.

He whirled around, ominously outlined in the frame of the door. "Why, Ginny," he drawled, and now she saw he was entertained—entertained—by her tirade. A flush stung her cheeks at the realization. "What makes you think that I want you?"

And then he was gone, and she was all alone in the cold dungeon of Malfoy Manor, increasingly aggravated at the scene which had just passed and increasingly feeling unsure as to whether her being here was at all a good idea.

The bedchamber in which Ginny was staying was perhaps the most magnificent bedchamber she'd ever set foot in, let alone slept in. Enormous and adorned with wide, brocade-covered curtains, the entire room held an aura of grace and elegance. The bed itself was fit for a princess, framed with four imposing posts and covered in thick white down. Through the slanting door, she caught sight of the lavatory, the old-fashioned white bathtub which sprawled over gleaming marble and the shine of the gold handles. Never had she stayed in such a beautiful place, and never could she imagine that people like Malfoy stayed in such places their entire lives.

No wonder he was so snooty about Hogwarts, she thought as she trailed fingers absently over the rich wood of her bedframe.

"Is room to Miss Worthington's wishes?" The little house elf piped, and Ginny was jerked from her mental appreciation of Malfoy's riches, nodding speechlessly at him.

"Yes," she finally said, finding her voice. "Yes."

With a nod, the house elf gave a wan smile and disappeared down the winding corridors, shutting the door behind her quietly.

When she was sure there was nobody around, Ginny took a seat on the wide bed—are beds supposed to be so soft?—and removed another one of her tiny, black cameras from her coat pocket. "I suppose its useless to film myself," she thought aloud, scanning her eyes over the room for a place to plant the device. Nevertheless, if Malfoy happened to snoop in her things…

No, she had no use for filming her own quarters. Even if he did go through her belongings, the knowledge that he had would do no use to her until after the eight weeks were over, and would in no way incriminate him as a mastermind of murder, only an untrusting boss. And untrusting he has a right to be, she thought with a grimace. Things were certainly not going as she'd planned them to be, though in retrospect she shouldn't have expected a smooth sailing in the first place – this was Malfoy, for chrissakes, Malfoy who didn't give a damn about anyone but himself.

How have I gotten myself into this? Ginny thought, glancing around her unfamiliar surroundings with a leaden heart. I don't belong here. I shouldn't be here. She longed for the earlier days suddenly, the days of Hogwarts and her mother's obscene sweaters – which she had long since stopped knitting – of Hogsmeade and butterbeers and Yule balls. She longed for the world of innocence, of happiness, of light and dizzy youth which had so quickly passed ans which she had failed to appreciate. In the hurry she had been to grow up, Ginny found, she had entirely missed the point of being young.

With a sigh, she began to unpack her suitcases, hanging the sparse clothes she had brought in the empty drawers and humming lightly to herself in the uneasy stillness of his home. She couldn't overcome the oddness that surrounded the manor, the eerie feeling of vacant hollowness, of darkness, perhaps. The place was beautiful, Ginny had thought so plenty of times in the course of the day, but never had she been anywhere so cold, so lacking warmth. She missed the coziness of the Burrow, and then gave another sigh when she remembered that said coziness was rare even among her own family these days.

The world is deprived of cheer, she thought ruefully as she changed into a long white nightgown and climbed underneath the covers. Blowing out the candle, she turned restlessly as bright beams of moonlight fell across her and illuminated the white of her sheets. Outside, the night sky was clear and littered with stars, despite the consistent wind which rattled branches against her windows.

One of those stars, she thought before drowsiness overtook her mind, was bound to be her brother, watching down on her. And then Ginny Weasley, first division Auror and freelancer for the Freedom League, was fast asleep in the heart of Draco Malfoy's lair.

End of Chapter 3