A/N: In celebration of me finally making my HP, H/G, and Captive/Ambivalence soundtracks (soon to be posted on my site), I'm putting up another chapter although I technically I have not submitted another new future one to my beta. Third semester is Hell.

Chapter Six

"The Push"

Outside of Billywig's, about a block either way, Ginny could see stumbling, laughing wizards and witches in various forms of costume dress enjoying the crisp night air. She doubted the cold or gently falling flakes had any sort of sobering effect on any of them.

Even under the influence of several butterbeers to warm her, Ginny felt cold and numb as she allowed Dean to take her companionably by the elbow away from the raucous entrance. She hated the cold.

"Where would you like to go?" Dean asked after several steps. They passed a princess and a zombie exchanging saliva, but otherwise this end of the block was deserted.

Ginny shrugged, trying hard not to shiver. Her head pounded from the music, and her confusion over spontaneously kissing Dean. And it was so cold . . .

"I don't care."

Dean looked down at her, brow slightly furrowed. "Are you cold? You're shaking."

Ginny managed a weak smile. "I'm afraid this cloak is more costume than warmth."

"Take mine." As he wrapped his thick cloak around her shoulders, he dropped a lingering kiss on her forehead.

Biting her lip, Ginny closed her eyes, wanting to scream. She should have stayed home, should have begged Alyson to let her wallow in memories and misery.

"Snug?"

Ginny opened her eyes and busied herself with adjusting the cloak. "Yes. Thank you. But now you'll get hypothermia, and your aunt will have my head at work."

"Oh, I'm quite fine. My costume cloak is a bit heavier than yours." Dean wore a little smile on his face as he looked around and then at her. "I doubt much is open this time of night. Well, the pubs. But you don't want to go to a pub, do you?"

"Not in this dress," said Ginny, opening the cloak slightly to flash her less-than-conservative costume.

"I'd protect you." Dean brandished his sword from the faux-leather scabbard with a flourish. He took her hand and kissed the top of it, then slashed the blade through the air. "I am in Gryffindor, you know."

Ginny rolled her eyes and smirked. "I doubt even a drunk would be afraid of your plastic sword."

"Well, if you don't tell anyone it's plastic . . ." He sheathed his toy and raised his eyebrows expectantly. "The night is ours, fair maiden—er, Ginny. Sorry." Dean grinned despite her arched eyebrow.

She knew what was going on. Dean wanted her to call the shots. After all, she'd acted rather unexpectedly at Billywig's, so now Dean clearly wanted her to clue him in on where she wanted to take them. She didn't know. She was too confused and cold to think straight.

"Well, can we go inside somewhere? Not back to Billywig's, nor a pub."

"Hmm . . ." Dean examined the tip of his scabbard carefully. "I suppose we could go to my place," he said slowly, as if worried how she would take it. "Seamus might bring someone home, though . . ."

"Not until morning, if I know Seamus," said Ginny.

Dean's eyes shot up and the scabbard swung, forgotten, on his belt. "So . . . you want to come over? I mean, we could watch a movie or something, or play Exploding Snap, or just talk, or—" He stopped abruptly, and Ginny wondered if Dean might actually be blushing.

The possibility made her distinctly uncomfortable. She'd never actually been to Dean's flat, nor did she entirely think her unpredictable behavior tonight made it advisable. Still, her only alternative was to go home, where Harry would undoubtedly haunt her . . .

"Sure," said Ginny, forcing a brightness into her voice, "I'd love to see your flat."

"Really?" said Dean eagerly. "I mean, great. It's a bit of a mess, though." Suddenly, he let out a laugh. "We can watch Batman. The movie. Then you can understand Colin."

"No one can understand Colin."

Dean laughed and slung an arm around her shoulders. "Too right." He tilted his head to the side thoughtfully. "Actually, I think Alyson might. She's been rather enthusiastic about his costume tonight."

"That's because she's drunk." But Ginny couldn't help but grin and shake her head at her two friends. Alyson and Colin had always been rather buoyant around each other. Really, it was a wonder they hadn't become more than friends while at Hogwarts . . .

"Come on, we can Apparate over here," said Dean, pulling her toward a side alley.

A crack sounded and three giggling witches appeared, stumbling into one another and laughing even more. Dean and Ginny waited until they'd left the alley before stepping into the darkened area. Having been near but not to Dean's flat, they agreed on a close-by rendezvous and Disapparated.

Dean took her hand and led her down two blocks to his flat. The lobbyist snored soundly at his desk, a radio buzzing quietly behind him.

"That's Mr. Rhoden. I've never actually seen him awake."

"Then how do you know his name?" The middle-aged, balding man was face down and no nametag or plaque in sight.

"Seamus told me. Apparently he's talked to him."

As they went up two flights of stairs, Dean still holding her hand, Ginny fought the urge to flee. His thumb stroked her hand. She tried to focus on it, on the physical reality of his warm hand rather than the penetrating cold inside her.

Just as she was feeling secure in his hand, Dean dropped hers to fumble for his keys and wand. Ginny might have smiled at his similar security system, but her hand had become cold again and started to shake.

"Here we are," said Dean, smiling as he opened the door and flicked on the lights. He put his hand on the small of her back as she took a slightly hesitant step inside. "Mind the mess."

Dean's flat could not have been more different than hers, yet Ginny could see the 'amateur resident' theme permeating the chaos of strewn about clothes, dishes, and video cassettes. Dean, being Muggle-born, obviously still held onto his heritage: a TV and VCR filled one wall. However, Seamus's broomstick leaned against the opposite wall under his Quidditch posters and rosettes left over from the World Cup she'd attended just before third year.

"Here, let me take your—er, my cloak," Dean said hastily. "I haven't a cloak rack, actually, so it's probably a good thing it's not yours . . ."

Ginny couldn't help but smile at his show of nervousness. How different he was from Joe, who didn't apologize for his clutter or lack of wooing accessories.

Dean scooped up some telltale clothing items along with his cloak and disappeared momentarily into another room. When he returned, he looked much more at ease and smiled easily, "Want something to drink? I've got more butterbeer, but you're probably sick of that."

"No, I'm fine." She tried not to shiver in her costume. Away from the party, she felt exposed and self-conscious, especially when Dean paused and looked at her. She'd seen that look . . . on a distant Halloween . . .

"Let's watch that rubber man movie," she said quickly. "I need teasing fodder for Colin."

She sat on the lumpy old couch as Dean rifled through the stack of videos, jabbering about superheroes and some guy named Tim. At one point, he discarded his Musketeer cloak and scabbard. When he finally found it, he grinned widely with boyish anticipation and started the movie.

"There's a blanket if you're cold," he said, sitting down beside her and putting an arm along the back of the couch behind her.

Ginny opened her mouth to say, "No, I'm fine," but then nodded. A blanket could hide her. She could burrow into it, cling to it if necessary. Dean smiled and leaned over the couch arm and pulled out a tattered quilt. Then he draped it over them, and this time kept his arm around her shoulders.

Without intending it, Ginny leaned into him, drawn to the warmth of his body. There was something very stabilizing in being braced against another person. If only she could stay focused on him and not think about anything else . . .

Not even fifteen minutes into the movie about a rubber-clad rich man and a psychopathic criminal soaked in green goo, a clock chimed from the tiny kitchen.

"Midnight," said Dean.

Ginny nodded, but her throat closed. She closed her eyes and clenched her teeth. Two years ago, Harry had kissed her, left her alone in the common room, and then the very next day told her it was all just one big mistake. And then she'd run off, unable to take it or face him, had been captured by Death Eaters, then tortured by Voldemort, ordered a snake to kill Macnair, and then surrendered to Voldemort and betrayed Harry—

Fighting a sob, she burrowed closer to Dean and felt him tighten his arm around her. She wondered if perhaps he knew what day this was . . . I don't want him to think of it. I don't want to think of it.

And yet she couldn't stop. The TV screen fell away to a low fire in Gryffindor Tower, and she could see and feel everything that had happened and was going to happen again in her mind.

She didn't want to think about Harry's kiss, how he'd say so firmly he didn't feel that way about her, how later he might have taken that back if she'd let him . . .

"Dean," she said, her voice low and hoarse. Her heart was pounding. Again, this strange, impulsive, utterly mad Ginny was taking over.

"Hmm?"

She tilted her head up and turned her torso toward him. His face brightened and he forgot the TV.

"Kiss me?"

The tiny plea even surprised her, but she kept her features as sweet as she could manage. She needed to stay grounded here, not in her memories of something that could not be changed. Harry was out of her life; she'd made sure of that.

For a moment, Dean looked surprised, but he quickly recovered. In a low voice, he said, "Well, if you really want me to . . ."

And then Ginny could feel his hands and mouth. It took her a couple of seconds to respond. She had to find that mindless comfortable way they'd had before, where the only feeling was physical.

But her lack of emotion only made it worse. She and Harry had barely kissed but it had been so much more than this . . .

Block it out, block it out! Determined to push it all away, Ginny leaned into Dean, pushing him down on the couch and letting the kissing progress further than she'd ever let it before. He chuckled in surprise. Ginny's mouth hurt, but she relished in it because she could latch onto pain. Her skin seemed pleased by Dean's touch, to say the least, and for a moment, she had no other thought than this was rather nice, actually.

At some point, she found her and Dean's positions switched, and her mouth became unattended for other exposed flesh. A panic welled in her, but it wasn't for how far they had progressed.

You're such a liar, Ginny Weasley. Such a weak little liar.

She could feel it all building up inside, coiling like a snake; the agony of having Harry for a moment, losing him, betraying him, and then truly losing him. The cold of the cell, Voldemort's taunting laugh, Harry dying over a cauldron, his blood spilling into it . . . She could feel his fingertips brushing her cheek.

I'll never feel that again. I betrayed him.

Dean's lips were at her neck, his hands in her hand. The physical warmth turned to searing stings, as if he were biting liar into her skin.

What have I done? What am I doing?!

With a wrenching cry, Ginny pushed against Dean, nearly toppling him off the couch.

"No," she gasped, a sob bubbling in her throat. "No!"

Head and heart throbbing erratically, she sat up, a hand rubbing at her neck, the other gripping the loose couch fabric with white knuckles. The world spun and black dots splashed across her vision. The panic rose to an unbearable pitch—she didn't know if she'd scream or simply faint.

"Ginny?" Dean whispered tentatively from the other end of the couch. "Ginny, I-I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to—You're shaking!"

A hysterical sound erupted from her throat. Not for a moment did Ginny stop to think about who'd made the sound; she couldn't hold back the sobs anymore. Hugging herself tightly, she rocked back and forth on the couch, completely lost for control.

"Sssh, Ginny, it's okay. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm sorry. It's okay. Ginny?"

Dimly she was aware of Dean edging closer to her on the couch, but her ears were ringing and her vision saw nothing but the horrid way she'd just behaved and all the other terrible things she'd done.

Dean tried to put an arm around her shoulders, but Ginny jerked away. I've got to get out of here. She stood up and stumbled over her skirt. Fumbling for her wand, she managed to croak out, "I-I have to g-go."

"Ginny!" Through her blurred vision, she could see the horror and confusion marring Dean's usually calm face. "Please . . . let's talk about this. I honestly didn't mean—"

Ginny shook her head fervently, then held it steady with her hands. "No . . . no, Dean," she gulped. "It's . . . it's not you, it's me."

He snorted derisively. "C'mon, I know what that means!"

"I . . ." Ginny blinked at him. He obviously wanted an answer, not some lame excuse, but that was the truth. He wasn't the problem.

"We can set boundaries, if you like. We did get a bit carried away," said Dean, filling her silence. "I was a bit surprised when you—"

"It's not that," she said, wishing her hands would stop shaking. She cast about for something to focus on other than a bewildered Dean. Her face, once drained of blood, was quickly flooding with it, making her even dizzier. How was she going to explain this?

Tell him the truth. You lied to Harry to push him away; now you can use the truth to get Dean away from you.

"Then what is it? You've been all hot and cold with me lately."

Ginny closed her eyes and pressed her lips together, bracing herself. "Dean . . . I'm really sorry."

"Sorry?"

"I'm really messed up right now," she said slowly. She opened her eyes and her heart quickened with humiliation and shame. "I—I'm—I made a terrible mistake. Well, I made lots of those, but I made the mistake of using a . . . a friend."

She was going to be sick.

"I only kissed you so I wouldn't have to think about someone—something else." Her words came quickly, breathlessly, and she stumbled over her next words as she reached for her wand. Another minute of watching the disbelief in Dean's face dissolve into betrayal, and she would completely lose it. "I'm so sorry, it's my fault, I've lied to so many friends now. Please just stay away from me. I don't want to hurt you or anyone else. And don't be noble or nice and say you forgive me or understand—just stay away. Please!"

Before Dean could say anything, before he could tell her to stop or realize what she was doing, Ginny gave her wand a twist and Disapparated.

(a journal entry)

Her footfalls echoed the pounding of her heart as she raced down the empty cobbled streets. Cold night air constricted her lungs, but she knew it would not have mattered. Without racing, without November chill, she could not have breathed normally, calmly. The simple power of breathing—thinking, feeling—had been snatched away, but she tried to grasp it as she paused to lean against a corner of a brick building and stared unseeingly into the empty street.

She had many epiphanies in her life; little revelations that seemed to forward her. Tonight, however, she felt no such progression. Only a deep, drilling acknowledgement that she had made a terrible mistake, a mistake that compounded with all her other mistakes.

She was quite good at making mistakes, she thought bitterly. Usually her mistakes hurt no one but herself, but in the past couple of years, she had outwardly hurt others. Her first had been her love, and now a friend.

What drove her to such dishonesty?

She sank wearily to the sidewalk, her back pressed against the cold brick. The physical, solid chill of the stone felt nothing compared to the harsh, ever-present coldness inside her. Vaguely she could recall a time when she hadn't always been cold, but it seemed too distant, too surreal. A time when her dishonesty had been comparably innocent, easily excused by the situation. Now, however, her dishonesty was nothing dismissive.

It consumed her.

Why was she such easy prey? So easily consumed, possessed? Overtaken by memories, ideologies—Why was she so easily driven to madness? How had she become so weak, or had she always been weak?

She had tried valiantly to appear fearless and confident, rational and optimistic. Once she had believed that she embodied these things that the darkness inside her could not arise. Her weakness had been downplayed, forgotten, but it had skulked at her conscience, always ready to strike.

Lightning can strike twice, and she could not survive the second blow. Disillusionment bought time and pain, but it cannot survive reality. Her reality stood with betrayal and surrender. How could she love and allow herself to be loved without shame and guilt? So unworthy a soul, unwilling to fight, surrenders, and thus, is consumed.

It is so painful and yet easier after yielding. Dwelling in the cold darkness withers a soul, but strangely, deceptively comforts. Feeling and numbness oscillate at a hypnotizing swing until freedom is no longer a goal, idea, or word.

Could she have prevented her fall?

Wondering about it feels useless. I am here, at the bottom, still sinking.

Heated dust tickled her nose. A sharp ache throbbed in her lower back and she felt a pain in her knees. Slowly she became aware of the hard surface under, behind, in front, and beside her. She was enclosed . . .

Ginny's eyes flew open in a panic.

With a cry she toppled to the floor, the journal and fountain pen that had been in her lap flying. She lay there, crumpled, for a minute. The night's disaster fell upon her as she stared at the journal, which laid face down a few feet from her. She dug her nails into the carpet, then rolled onto her back.

"I'm sorry, Dean."

"Sorry?"

"I'm really messed up."

"Shit." Ginny stared up at the ceiling. Her list for Worst Night of My Life had grown while the list of friends had shortened. No way would Dean forgive her for this. She hadn't waited for him to say it, but had Apparated as close to the flat as she could, nearly getting splinched with her panic.

Although Ginny very much wanted to lie there, sinking into the old carpet, she heard the sound of a key being turned, and quickly rolled up into a sitting position. As the door opened, she snatched up her journal and pen.

"Well, good morning," Alyson greeted Ginny, more or less dragging herself through the door. Her hair was rumpled and messily braided and she was dressed in old Magpie robes, her black evening costume draped over one shoulder. "Ginny," she said, doing a double-take, "you're a mess!"

"Lovely to see you, too," Ginny retorted. She felt very tired and frustrated, and definitely not in the mood to deal with people.

Alyson raised an eyebrow as she dumped her stuff on the sofa. "Rough night?"

"Yes." She rubbed a fist into an eye, knowing she must be all puffy and red from crying. "Were you with Colin all night?" she asked, to drive the conversation away from herself.

"Yeah," Alyson smirked. "Nothing sensational, but we had fun." She frowned seriously. "What happened, though? You looked like you were having fun last night, and then you left with Dean."

"Please, let's not talk about him?" Ginny pleaded, clutching her journal to her chest.

Alyson continued to stare, apparently not ready to be deterred. Ginny sighed, feeling all her blood rush to her feet, leaving her lightheaded. "Dean and I had a falling out, okay? It's my fault, my own stupidity, and I just don't want to talk about it."

"Okay," Alyson nodded her head slowly, still looking somber and suspicious. "Well, I haven't slept yet, so I'm off for a little nap. Holler if you need anything." And with that, she traipsed off to her bedroom, leaving Ginny alone, clutching her book of words.

"Ginny!" Ron Weasley exclaimed not twenty minutes later. "What in all of Merlin happened to you?"

"Shut up, Ron," Ginny muttered, rubbing a fist into her bloodshot, puffy eye. She blinked into the corridor and noticed a spiky, shorter redhead behind The Most Pratty Brother's shoulder. "What are you and George doing here, anyway?"

"We just thought we'd come to say hello to our favorite sister," said George, pushing past Ron and giving Ginny a serious look. Without a word, he grabbed her and pulled her into a tight hug. "How're you doing?" he asked quietly.

Ginny stared at him. How could he possibly know about her nasty fallout with Dean? "What do you mean?"

George raised his eyebrows and glanced at Ron, whose ears had turned slightly pink. "Well . . . it's the first of November," he said slowly, sounding slightly uncertain, "and we figured you'd like some company today."

"Oh . . . that." Ginny didn't know whether to be relieved, touched, or annoyed by this sudden show of brotherly concern. Obviously, they didn't know about what she'd done, and it was rather sweet of them to think of her, but did no one think she could deal with anything on her own? Well, I can't, a little voice chided.

"Come on in," she sighed, opening the door completely for them. Truthfully, she didn't want to be alone. She'd been up until dawn trying to figure out her mess, hadn't really thought about today being the day she woke in Lucius Malfoy's cold cell, but now that she was reminded, she didn't want to be alone and craved distraction

"Guess what?" said Ron eagerly, pulling something from his cloak pocket. He waved a thick envelope in the air. "Harry wrote."

"Oh. That's nice. D'you two want some tea?"

"Sure," said George.

"I thought it'd cheer you up," Ron said uncertainly, looking down at the letter, his brow furrowed.

Ginny rolled her eyes, feeling all her bitterness well up as she set the teapot on the stove. "Honestly, Ron, what is there to be thrilled about? Dear Ron and family—Things are just peachy, as I always say they are. Seen some interesting things in this country. Of course, I won't say anything really about myself, unless it's in a private letter to Ron or Hermione, and even then I won't actually say much about how things REALLY are. Oh yes, tell everyone hello for me. Bye. Harry." Ginny set the water to boiling and looked back at her stunned brothers. "Go on, Ron, read this highly informative and personal letter."

"You know," said George thoughtfully, "that's a rather accurate reading, Gin."

"Shut up, George." Ginny set about grabbing teacups. She was being ridiculous, but she couldn't help it. Why should she pretend to be okay and calm now? Dean knew she was whacked, she knew she was whacked, and probably everyone else thought so and just kept it to themselves. Well, now there was no reason to pretend or act fine.

"So, I take it Harry hasn't written you in awhile?" George pressed as Ginny poured the tea.

"No," she said shortly. "We haven't written each other since seventh year."

"Lovers' quarrel?"

"You know as well as I do we were never lovers. Ron, just read the damn letter and stop gaping."

"Uh . . . right." Ron cleared his throat, clearly bewildered by her behavior. George nudged him, so he quickly opened the letter, a photograph falling face down on the counter. George snatched it up, his eyes widening. "What is it?" Ron asked, leaning over, but George just shook his head and nodded to the letter, sending Ginny a nervous look.

"Dear Ron," read Ron, "I know I haven't written in awhile, but I've been busy in Australia, and the owls take longer to get to any other continent, despite their own transportation. I don't think Hedwig likes being more or less Portkeyed from Sydney that much.

"Anyway, Australia is amazing. Relations between Muggles and wizards are pretty relaxed here, and it's a nice change of pace from the States. Sydney's an interesting city around a harbor, was settled by convicts, and is reminiscent of London but definitely has its own personality. I know I sound like a brochure, but I really like it here.

"I'm living with an Aussie named Renee Blackstone and that's her in the picture. She's a witch but really likes Muggle culture, especially rock bands. I think she think she's a rock star. She's really cool, I think Fred and George would really like her, but I doubt they have a chance—"

"What's that supposed to mean, you git?" George demanded.

"Let me see that picture," Ron said, snatching it out of his brother's hand and passing off the letter. "Harry's living with her? The lucky bastard!"

Ginny pressed her knuckles into the kitchen counter. She didn't want to hear this. George must have caught the expression on her face, because he sharply elbowed Ron in the ribs and grabbed the picture back.

"Keep reading. I want to know where he gets off on me not getting a girl."

"Whatever. 'I doubt they a have chance. She's, um, not partial to men. Or, at least, not most of the time. Sometimes I'm not so sure, I think she might just be pulling my leg.

"Anyway, Renee's loads of fun. My first weekend as her flatmate, she took me up to New Zealand for what she calls 'extreme thrillage.' Ron, I may have found a bigger rush than Quidditch. We went bungee jumping, skydiving, and speedboat racing. For a country full of sheep, New Zealand's incredible. We're going back up (probably before you get this letter) to camp and watch a Quidditch match in the mountains.

"By the way, I heard the Cannons actually won a game. That's great, mate, but it doesn't mean they'll win the season'—Harry, you git!—'Tell everyone I miss them. Harry."

"Well," said George cheerfully, "that was interesting. Sounds like he's having fun."

"Yeah. Let me see that picture again."

But before George could pass the photograph to Ron, Ginny snatched it up. She backed away from her brothers, feeling her cheeks heat under their knowing gazes. She'd thought she'd made it apparent to everyone that she didn't like Harry like that, but it seemed that everyone had seen through the façade. Now, staring down at the photograph, Ginny felt a painful spike of jealousy.

It was a wizard photograph taken out on a balcony overlooking a harbor of blue water and white sailboats. Harry was leaning back in a chair, looking far more relaxed than Ginny had seen him in years. His hair was as tousled as ever and he looked not quite so pale. A sheepish smile touched his lips as the girl leaning around him rumpled his hair with her fist.

Ginny bit her lip as she studied Renee Blackstone. She understood why her brothers were so obviously jealous of Harry and why Harry probably didn't mind that arm around his shoulders or hand in his hair. Dark auburn hair tossed over her bare shoulders caught the sunlight, causing ruby highlights to run up and down her shiny hair. Dark blue eyes sparkled, twinkling with mischief, and her full lips laughed, flashing Ginny a white smile. Her skin was tanned perfectly without becoming too dark and unnatural. Everything about her spoke of a vivacious, carefree outlook on life.

Ginny was jealous of the girl's looks, her happiness, and her closeness with Harry. She fought the urge to rip the photo into pieces. Staring down at it again, she focused on Harry and his shy, somewhat embarrassed and guarded smile. It nearly, but not quite, reached his eyes. When had been the last time she'd truly seen Harry smile?

"Here," said Ginny, quickly handing the photo back to Ron. "Thanks for coming over, but you guys better leave. I've got to work tonight and need to clean this place up."

It was a lie, they all knew it, but Ron and George obediently finished their tea and bid their good-byes. Once they were gone, Ginny showered and changed. She couldn't stand to be in the apartment any longer, so she grabbed her trench coat and headed over to Joe's just as the family owl swooped in with her mother's invitation to come over to The Burrow.

A/N: There. You have Harry. :-p Ok, I'm mean, but you're just going to have to deal with it. ;-)