Author's Note: Ok, so I'm putting up three chapters this time because to otherwise would break up the scene too much. Also, some of it I think is a bit boring so I would appreciate feedback. Pleeeeeaaaaase review!
chapter 5: INFILTRATION - in the dead of night
She hated meeting him like this. He insisted on absolute secrecy, in the dark of night, and the protection charms he threw up around the deserted classrooms that they used would have stopped a whole army of Aurors. If he was one thing, it was well-prepared, and he rarely slipped up. That whole little incident in her first year with him getting ousted from the Board of Governors was the one slip up he had made in quite some time.
She ran down the deserted hallway, pajamas covered by a thick wool cloak. Her hair, bright and freshly clean, was covered by the hood of the cloak. She had her hands tucked up against her side, the cold of the dungeon chilling them into numbness.
She ducked inside the classroom and shut the door quietly. It was pitch black except for the greenish flame of one small candle, sputtering away on a dusty table. Clearly this classroom had not been used in a long time. A thick layer of dust coated the table, and as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could see student-sized desks pushed haphazardly against the far wall.
He was already there, standing in front of the window, which was sealed off by thick velvet drapes. His hair was tied back in a neat ponytail, his hands clasped behind his back, legs apart. He turned around.
"Virginia," he said quietly, lips lifting slightly. She shrugged out of the cloak and tossed it over a chair.
She gingerly wiped herself a clean place on the chair and sat on it carefully, staring at him appraisingly. There was a pinched look about his face, as if he was worried about something.
"You sent me an owl," she stated simply, idly fiddling with one copper-colored plait of hair.
"I did," he said flatly. His voice could be totally emotionless, like now, or it could drip with anger so cold that it was lethal, terrible. She had never heard his voice in joy - certainly he said things when she was wrapped in his arms, passion carrying him away momentarily, but even then it was as if he were tormented by his very need.
She met his eyes, raising one eyebrow inquisitively. He left his spot at the window and moved toward her, dust rising in the wake of his cape and dancing in the meager candlelight.
"Do you know what tonight is?" he asked, pressing against her, his voice hot in her ear. "One year ago today he died. Six months ago you came to me."
Ginny shivered. "And?"
"And," he hissed, his teeth at her neck. "The curse is about to take its first victim. The loyal followers of Lord Voldemort will rise again." He expertly undid her buttons, one by one. "Even after his death."
Ginny said nothing. She rarely had to.
There was something heavy on Ron's stomach, and his head hurt. To top it off, his mouth felt fuzzy, he couldn't open his eyes, and --
"Yeow!" Ron shrieked, and sat upright. Apparently he could open his eyes. He scanned his surroundings in a panic, feeling dizzy. He quickly located the source of his greatest pain: Hermione's massive ginger cat, which was currently treating Ron's stomach as if it were a giant lump of bread dough. Her claws dug into him again and again, and a strange sound was being emitted from her, as if she were a rusty motor.
Ron reached down and gathered Crookshanks up into his arms, sighing. He was in the hospital wing. The protective curtains were drawn around his bed so that he could see nothing but a vague shadowy form in the bed next to his.
A moan. Ron felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise, and reached over to move aside the curtain. A fresh wave of dizziness hit him, and he noticed that his right arm was bound up tightly in a bandage.
Ron's mouth gaped open. Lying in the bed next to him, still as death, was Draco Malfoy. The other boy's pajamas were open almost to his belly button, and Ron could see Draco's chest rise and fall with his gentle breathing. Draco's skin was whiter than the immaculate sheets he lay on, and Ron was quite sure that he could see the veins in Draco's forehead much more vividly than was probably healthy.
The front curtain opened suddenly, and Ron blinked at the sudden onslaught of light and human presence.
"Mr. Weasley!" Madame Pomfrey said briskly, her arms full of towels. "Kindly refrain from bothering Mr. Malfoy!" She set the towels on Ron's bedside table, closed the curtain that separated him from Malfoy, and glared at Ron until he lay down meekly.
"Now you stay there and rest!" she ordered, her voice more compassionate than Ron had ever heard it. Concern was evident on her face as she reached over and felt his forehead. "Poor dear, I don't understand any of this. You just regain your strength." She clucked her tongue disapprovingly and bustled away, presumably on some errand.
Ron groaned. What was happening to him? One minute, his life had been perfectly normal. Even boring. Well, as boring as it ever was being sixteen, the best friend of Harry Potter, and full of raging hormones that he was quite sure Hermione was impervious to. The next he was Draco Malfoy's personal blood bank. But why was he in the hospital wing?
Oh yeah…it all came back to him in a rush of sight and sound and, above all, the heady feeling of being drained of blood. Someone must have found them and brought them to the hospital wing. How could they have forgotten about the new moon? More importantly, why didn't someone remind them of the danger they were in? Ron felt panic rise as he pondered what might have happened. Draco might have killed him!
Could things get any worse?
Ron sighed and lay back down against the pillow but grimaced as Crookshanks immedieately decided that his head was definately the best cushion around. Ron berated himself for asking rhetorical questions. When in doubt, just remember: it could always be worse, you could always have an overgrown cat on you head.
Shit and bloody hell. If Crookshanks were here then that meant that Hermione had been here. How much did she know and how was he going to explain it all? Malfoy was in the hospital wing without a scratch on him and he himself had a couple of puncture wounds in his arm. Well, he definitely wasn't going to be able to sleep now.
Ron sighed again, shoved a bristly Crookshanks off his head and sat up. Looking around he saw that the room was far too cheerful for his mood. By the light coming through the curtains he fiigured it must be about noon. Ugh, he'd been out for a long time. Were they going to be able to explain this at all or did the whole school already know?
Just then another moan came from behind the curtain and without thinking Ron reached out to pull it aside. Malfoy really didn't sound good. "I said leave him alone, Mr. Weasley," Madam Pomfrey's voice snapped from behind Ron and he started and dropped his hand. Looking back he saw that Pomfrey was carrying what looked to be a breakfast tray and looking very cross. "He's been running a fever ever since last night. What Mr. Malfoy needs right now is plenty of rest, Not outside interference." She bustled over, set the tray on the bedside table and adjusted Malfoy's curtains so that he was once more completely hidden from view. Ron repressed a snarl and managed to be merely scowling when Madam Pomfrey turned back to look at him. What did the old bat know about what Malfoy needed anyway? Did she even know about their situation or did she think vampirism and fainting in the halls could be explained away as minor cold symptoms? Ron purposely ignored the fact that he was becoming protective of Malfoy, THE STUPID BLOODY GIT, and concentrated on trying to wipe the scowl off his face. It was harder than it should have been.
Madam Pomfrey pursed her lips at the expression on his face but, with years of experience dealing with obstinate students, otherwise ignored it. "Well, since you appear to be up you might as well get started on this lunch. You lost a lot of blood Mr. Weasley and, while I took care of most of it, this should help with the residual effects." She uncovered the tray to reveal several lumpy, whitish dough balls of some sort. Ron looked at them dubiously.
"What are they?"
"Spinach puffs. I had the house elves make them up special." Ron blanched at the mention of that icky green mush but, as he reached for one he realized that he really was hungry and the stuff didn't sound half bad. Figures. Meanwhile, Madam Pomfrey had taken his free hand and appeared to be taking his pulse and his temperature simultaneously. And then it began, the battle between his stomach and his desire for information. Suprisingly, his stomach lost and he resisted taking another spinach puff right away.
"Um, Madam Pomfrey?" he hazarded. "What exactly happened last night?"
chapter 5: INFILTRATION - in the dead of night
She hated meeting him like this. He insisted on absolute secrecy, in the dark of night, and the protection charms he threw up around the deserted classrooms that they used would have stopped a whole army of Aurors. If he was one thing, it was well-prepared, and he rarely slipped up. That whole little incident in her first year with him getting ousted from the Board of Governors was the one slip up he had made in quite some time.
She ran down the deserted hallway, pajamas covered by a thick wool cloak. Her hair, bright and freshly clean, was covered by the hood of the cloak. She had her hands tucked up against her side, the cold of the dungeon chilling them into numbness.
She ducked inside the classroom and shut the door quietly. It was pitch black except for the greenish flame of one small candle, sputtering away on a dusty table. Clearly this classroom had not been used in a long time. A thick layer of dust coated the table, and as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could see student-sized desks pushed haphazardly against the far wall.
He was already there, standing in front of the window, which was sealed off by thick velvet drapes. His hair was tied back in a neat ponytail, his hands clasped behind his back, legs apart. He turned around.
"Virginia," he said quietly, lips lifting slightly. She shrugged out of the cloak and tossed it over a chair.
She gingerly wiped herself a clean place on the chair and sat on it carefully, staring at him appraisingly. There was a pinched look about his face, as if he was worried about something.
"You sent me an owl," she stated simply, idly fiddling with one copper-colored plait of hair.
"I did," he said flatly. His voice could be totally emotionless, like now, or it could drip with anger so cold that it was lethal, terrible. She had never heard his voice in joy - certainly he said things when she was wrapped in his arms, passion carrying him away momentarily, but even then it was as if he were tormented by his very need.
She met his eyes, raising one eyebrow inquisitively. He left his spot at the window and moved toward her, dust rising in the wake of his cape and dancing in the meager candlelight.
"Do you know what tonight is?" he asked, pressing against her, his voice hot in her ear. "One year ago today he died. Six months ago you came to me."
Ginny shivered. "And?"
"And," he hissed, his teeth at her neck. "The curse is about to take its first victim. The loyal followers of Lord Voldemort will rise again." He expertly undid her buttons, one by one. "Even after his death."
Ginny said nothing. She rarely had to.
There was something heavy on Ron's stomach, and his head hurt. To top it off, his mouth felt fuzzy, he couldn't open his eyes, and --
"Yeow!" Ron shrieked, and sat upright. Apparently he could open his eyes. He scanned his surroundings in a panic, feeling dizzy. He quickly located the source of his greatest pain: Hermione's massive ginger cat, which was currently treating Ron's stomach as if it were a giant lump of bread dough. Her claws dug into him again and again, and a strange sound was being emitted from her, as if she were a rusty motor.
Ron reached down and gathered Crookshanks up into his arms, sighing. He was in the hospital wing. The protective curtains were drawn around his bed so that he could see nothing but a vague shadowy form in the bed next to his.
A moan. Ron felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise, and reached over to move aside the curtain. A fresh wave of dizziness hit him, and he noticed that his right arm was bound up tightly in a bandage.
Ron's mouth gaped open. Lying in the bed next to him, still as death, was Draco Malfoy. The other boy's pajamas were open almost to his belly button, and Ron could see Draco's chest rise and fall with his gentle breathing. Draco's skin was whiter than the immaculate sheets he lay on, and Ron was quite sure that he could see the veins in Draco's forehead much more vividly than was probably healthy.
The front curtain opened suddenly, and Ron blinked at the sudden onslaught of light and human presence.
"Mr. Weasley!" Madame Pomfrey said briskly, her arms full of towels. "Kindly refrain from bothering Mr. Malfoy!" She set the towels on Ron's bedside table, closed the curtain that separated him from Malfoy, and glared at Ron until he lay down meekly.
"Now you stay there and rest!" she ordered, her voice more compassionate than Ron had ever heard it. Concern was evident on her face as she reached over and felt his forehead. "Poor dear, I don't understand any of this. You just regain your strength." She clucked her tongue disapprovingly and bustled away, presumably on some errand.
Ron groaned. What was happening to him? One minute, his life had been perfectly normal. Even boring. Well, as boring as it ever was being sixteen, the best friend of Harry Potter, and full of raging hormones that he was quite sure Hermione was impervious to. The next he was Draco Malfoy's personal blood bank. But why was he in the hospital wing?
Oh yeah…it all came back to him in a rush of sight and sound and, above all, the heady feeling of being drained of blood. Someone must have found them and brought them to the hospital wing. How could they have forgotten about the new moon? More importantly, why didn't someone remind them of the danger they were in? Ron felt panic rise as he pondered what might have happened. Draco might have killed him!
Could things get any worse?
Ron sighed and lay back down against the pillow but grimaced as Crookshanks immedieately decided that his head was definately the best cushion around. Ron berated himself for asking rhetorical questions. When in doubt, just remember: it could always be worse, you could always have an overgrown cat on you head.
Shit and bloody hell. If Crookshanks were here then that meant that Hermione had been here. How much did she know and how was he going to explain it all? Malfoy was in the hospital wing without a scratch on him and he himself had a couple of puncture wounds in his arm. Well, he definitely wasn't going to be able to sleep now.
Ron sighed again, shoved a bristly Crookshanks off his head and sat up. Looking around he saw that the room was far too cheerful for his mood. By the light coming through the curtains he fiigured it must be about noon. Ugh, he'd been out for a long time. Were they going to be able to explain this at all or did the whole school already know?
Just then another moan came from behind the curtain and without thinking Ron reached out to pull it aside. Malfoy really didn't sound good. "I said leave him alone, Mr. Weasley," Madam Pomfrey's voice snapped from behind Ron and he started and dropped his hand. Looking back he saw that Pomfrey was carrying what looked to be a breakfast tray and looking very cross. "He's been running a fever ever since last night. What Mr. Malfoy needs right now is plenty of rest, Not outside interference." She bustled over, set the tray on the bedside table and adjusted Malfoy's curtains so that he was once more completely hidden from view. Ron repressed a snarl and managed to be merely scowling when Madam Pomfrey turned back to look at him. What did the old bat know about what Malfoy needed anyway? Did she even know about their situation or did she think vampirism and fainting in the halls could be explained away as minor cold symptoms? Ron purposely ignored the fact that he was becoming protective of Malfoy, THE STUPID BLOODY GIT, and concentrated on trying to wipe the scowl off his face. It was harder than it should have been.
Madam Pomfrey pursed her lips at the expression on his face but, with years of experience dealing with obstinate students, otherwise ignored it. "Well, since you appear to be up you might as well get started on this lunch. You lost a lot of blood Mr. Weasley and, while I took care of most of it, this should help with the residual effects." She uncovered the tray to reveal several lumpy, whitish dough balls of some sort. Ron looked at them dubiously.
"What are they?"
"Spinach puffs. I had the house elves make them up special." Ron blanched at the mention of that icky green mush but, as he reached for one he realized that he really was hungry and the stuff didn't sound half bad. Figures. Meanwhile, Madam Pomfrey had taken his free hand and appeared to be taking his pulse and his temperature simultaneously. And then it began, the battle between his stomach and his desire for information. Suprisingly, his stomach lost and he resisted taking another spinach puff right away.
"Um, Madam Pomfrey?" he hazarded. "What exactly happened last night?"
