A/N: Hey friends. Miss me? Forget about me? Who am I, you ask? Only the worst author in the world for taking three months to update.
This school year has been crazier than I anticipated. Are you interested in a sample of a typical day for me? I shall show you. 5:50 AM – wake up. 6:30 AM – go to school. 6:45 AM – band rehearsal. 7:25 AM – school. 2:30 PM – drumline. 4:00 PM – work. 8:00 PM – homework. 11:00 PM – bedtime. It's so much fun I can't even describe my feelings.
I really hate how sarcasm doesn't come across in writing.
Anyway, I haven't abandoned this story, and I won't until it's finished. Don't worry. However, it might take quite a bit in coming. Next semester I hope to have more time, so expect more updates in the winter. I think.
Um, I also suck at life because there is only one chapter. I promised two on my profile (which I'm sure about three of you read) but the next one needs a lot of work because – GASP! – there's a mild sex scene, and . . . well, let's just suffice to say I'm a virgin.
So enjoy this one, for it will be another couple of months before thirteen graces you with its presence.
I still love you all.
Thanks to Jho for betaing.
And Amanda, I love you most because . . . just because. Marry me?
Chapter Twelve
They Come
Saturday, 15 March, 2003
Two days later in Madrid, Spain, Draco − alert and ready to face his problems after a solid day of rest − Apparated into Pansy's flat. As usual, he was the last to arrive; Pansy and Blaise were waiting for him in the living room, talking in quiet tones. They stopped when he walked in.
They might've been angry because he'd taken Friday off, he reckoned as he took in their stony faces. As soon as Draco had Flooed to Pansy's flat yesterday, he'd Disapparated straight to his own, falling onto his bed without so much as removing his shoes. He'd slept through the day and had woken up sometime in the evening, made himself something to eat, and then had gone back to sleep. When he woke up again, it was Saturday morning and his head felt one hundred percent clearer.
All morning, he'd moped around and thought. He thought about Ginny Weasley, mostly. Her situation was beginning to become complicated. Much more complicated than he'd made it out to be.
Draco tried to think things through rationally. Hypothetically, if Ginny discovered that Pansy, Blaise, and himself were going to release all the prisoners in Azkaban, then there would be little she could do. There was no physical way she could find out how they were going to go about it. Most of The Plan was sketched in the Slytherins' heads, not on parchments. The little that was written down was so thickly covered with spells and enchantments that it would take an outsider several months to decipher it all.
So all Ginny could do − hypothetically − was warn the Azkaban guards and make security a little tighter. This would be a nuisance, but not an impossibility. The three of them had spent many, many, many weeks preparing this operation, and they knew just how to get past all the dementors, whether they be asleep, or guarding each cell in triples.
What could Weasley do to stop them?
Well, Draco supposed she could have him arrested, right there in Spain. But that would be an extreme action, and Draco doubted she would have enough evidence to convince herself to have him sent to jail immediately and here in Spain.
It will also be hard for her to arrest me if she's desperately in love with me, he thought with a slight grin.
While at first it seemed to be the best option to just get rid of Weasley, if he delved deeper he found it would be smarter to keep her around. Draco felt confident with Weasley; he felt he could control her; could handle her. The chances were slim that she would discover just what the three of them were up to, but even if she did, it wouldn't be such a catastrophe. And if – no, not if, when – he managed to make her fall in love with him, she would be under his persuasion. She would do nothing to take action against him . . . maybe she would even quit the Ministry to be with him. But of course, by then, it would be too late.
Azkaban would already be freed.
On top of all this – and perhaps the real reason of keeping her around – Draco saw Ginny as a challenge. Not as a sort of sexual conquest (though he couldn't deny that would be half the fun), but more of an intellectual one. He had to admit that he actually enjoyed himself when he was around her. She was quick and smart, but at the same time she was also uncertain, bashful, and easy to annoy. After spending a year in the monotonous existence of packing up and leaving country after country with only Blaise and Pansy for company, Draco found that he almost welcomed Weasley into his life. He supposed it would be the same if any other snappy, humorous, cute, doe-eyed redheaded woman stumbled into his path.
Sometimes, it was nice to share company with people other than Slytherins, Draco thought. He knew Slytherins too well. Ginny, on the other hand, always kept him guessing.
"Draco," Pansy greeted with a stiff smile. "How was your day off?"
"Short," he grumbled, taking a seat on the sofa beside Blaise. "Any news on the Tannar incident?"
Blaise gave a shrug. "Nothing new. It didn't make the Daily Prophet or any Greek newspapers, so I'm assuming they don't know it was us."
Draco frowned. The previous morning, they'd left Tannar's villa as soon as they were packed. To lessen the suspicion on them, they'd bid farewell to Rafe in person, making some lame excuse that something terrible had happened back home that required their attention. Tannar was stonily polite, strengthening Draco's belief that he knew they'd broken into the blueprint room. He hadn't even kissed Pansy's hand, which was a dead giveaway.
Draco hadn't mentioned his beliefs to Pansy or Blaise. He hadn't mentioned the guard whose memory was intact, either. He felt they didn't need to know. Pansy would be furious that Ginny knew so much, and would berate him nonstop with I told you sos.
What they didn't know, wouldn't hurt them.
However, there was something he still didn't know, and needed to. Fixing them with a narrowed stare, he asked in a coldly polite tone, "Why didn't you two follow me out of the cellar that night?"
"Oh, please, Draco," Pansy cried, as if he were the one disappointing her, "we had to make sure they couldn't get into the cellar."
What? "That makes no sense," he declared, gearing up for an argument. They'd thrown as many spells as possible at the door. There had been no need to stick around and guard it any longer.
"Well, it's over," Pansy said irrefutably. He blinked – was she avoiding the subject? "It's done, and we got what we wanted. Time to focus on the next phase of our Plan."
Draco frowned, fully intent on pressing the matter further. He wasn't sure why it bothered him so much that they had left him on his own during the Blueprint Stunt, but something about it just didn't seem right.
And yet as he opened his mouth, he saw that Pansy and Blaise were looking at him with odd expressions on their faces. They appeared to be waiting for him to make some kind of reaction.
"What?" Draco barked, his intentions slipping away. He made a mental note to bring it up again, and soon.
Pansy looked at Blaise, and smiled slowly. "Well, Draco, while you were sleeping yesterday, Blaise and I were working."
"You're the one who told me to take the day off," Draco argued defensively.
"Calm down, mate, we're not scolding you," Blaise said with a faint grin. "We're just trying to explain who's about to come."
Idiotically, he thought, Weasley! The moment it popped into his head, he wanted to ram his face into something hard. Weasley was not coming, and damn it, he needed to get her off his mind.
"Who?" Draco asked warily, taking note of their almost gleeful looks.
Pansy smiled at Blaise again, and then met Draco's eyes. She pouted her lips and asked innocently, "Draco, darling . . . when was the last time you saw your mum?"
Ginny had returned to Amistoso Inn, and, just like Draco, had spent all of Friday lounging around in her room. She didn't, however, think of much, unlike he had. She read some trashy romance novels, hoarded food from the dining room into her bed and ate like a starved lunatic, and slept a lot. All in all, it was the perfect way to spend a holiday.
By Saturday morning, she was sick of her room and ready to get back to work.
She decided to pay Maili a visit. She could only hope the O'Sheldons hadn't left yet; unfortunately, it would seem about time for them to do so. They'd arrived before she had, a good week ago.
She knocked on Maili's door, hoping that there wasn't another resident to whom she'd have to explain her presence. When it swung open, Ginny found her eyes traveling downward and resting on Maili's adorable son. Kevin grinned up at her as though she were just who he had been waiting for.
"Hello!" he said brightly. "Mummy, someone's here for you!" he called over his shoulder.
Ginny heard some movement, and a moment later Maili appeared behind her son. Her face lit up at the sight of Ginny, positively thrilled.
"Ginny!" she cried, reaching forward to wrap her in a hug.
It would have been awkward had Ginny not been so relieved to see a friendly face. She hugged Maili back and pulled away grinning.
"I've only been gone two days," Ginny remarked, allowing herself to be pulled into the room by her wrist.
"You can't imagine how anxious I've been for your return," Maili gushed. Noticing Ginny scanning the room, her excited tone changed to that of embarrassment. "Oh . . . I'm sorry, it's something of a mess. Shannon," she added, nodding to the old, frail nanny asleep in a chair in the corner, chin on chest and snoring slightly, "has been asleep all morning and Kevin and I have been playing. We haven't had the chance to straighten up . . ." She hustled about, picking up crawling action figures, playing cards that were arguing in quiet – though high-pitched – voices with one another, and the random Chocolate Frog springing here and there.
"Don't worry," Ginny assured her, still smiling. "I'm used to chaos. I can move around it." Nudging a pile of wriggling clothes aside (clearly a miniature model of a dragon had gotten trapped underneath), Ginny sat on the bed without waiting for an invitation.
Maili didn't bother with politeness; she ceased insisting she must clean. She was far too curious about what had happened in Greece. A moment later she sat beside Ginny and was begging to know what had occurred.
Ginny said nothing about the entire blueprint fiasco. It was more out of the lack of energy that was required to explain such a complicated situation than lack of trust that she avoided it. However, she told Maili just about everything else. About her acquaintance with Pansy and Blaise, about her private moments with Draco, about how she suspected Pansy was jealous of the two of them . . . and as was her style, Maili listened with rapt attention, never interrupting, all while Shannon the nanny slept on and Kevin chattered incessantly under his breath as he played with his toys.
"So what are you going to do now?" Maili pressed, after expressing her shock at the sudden disappearance of Draco, Pansy, and Blaise Friday morning. "Are you going to go back to his house? Or are you going to pretend to run into him somewhere?"
Ginny had thought about the same thing herself. She'd decided the best choice would be that she appear randomly on his doorstep. She could claim she asked around Madrid and eventually, she'd asked the right person (a neighbor perhaps, because even Malfoy had to converse with a neighbor on occasion), who led her to him.
But she was still reluctant to share this with Maili. It wasn't that she didn't trust her . . . well, not entirely. It was more of the fact that Ginny just didn't feel she knew her that well. Maili did not need to be sucked into Ginny's whirlpool of problems. Not yet, anyway. Maili had been a great help with the Locator Spell, but that was only because Ginny had been completely stuck. She was not completely stuck yet. Only as a last resort would she use Maili's help again.
"I haven't decided yet," Ginny said carefully. "Don't worry, I'll figure it all out eventually." Maili opened her mouth to interrupt, but Ginny hurried on. "I just came by to thank you for all your help. I'm lucky I caught you before you left Spain."
Maili easily switched subjects. "Oh no, we're here for another week or so," she assured her. "We might drive to Barcelona or the coast for a day, but we're staying at the inn for a while. It's our first proper holiday since . . . well, since before Kevin was born."
Ginny smiled. "I hope you are enjoying yourselves then." She paused and tried to gracefully change topics. "Have you spoken with Penelope since Thursday?"
"Oh, yes. We went shopping yesterday. Marvelous with Kevin." She shot a loving look at her son. "Never would have guessed, the way she is. What she needs is a nice man to settle down with and raise some kids. She'll be a great mum."
Ginny nodded, and began to feel for a way to excuse herself. She needed to get back to work soon, and sitting here chatting with Maili was tempting her to forget work and just spend the day here. She couldn't afford that. "Well, I'm glad you two are becoming such good friends. I think she needs that." Ginny didn't really know what she was talking about, but it sounded appropriate. "Once I have a break in work, we'll all have to go out sometime."
"Take a break from work tonight," Maili said simply, shrugging. "It's Saturday. I'm sure Madrid's nightlife is even crazier on weekends."
Ginny smiled apologetically and stood. "Unfortunately, that's why I need to be with Draco," she said.
"Well, Monday then," Maili said, walking her to the door. "We had such a good time the other night, and I'm eager to do something again. So keep your schedule clear. Remember," she added as Ginny stepped out into the hall, "I know where you sleep."
Ginny smiled broadly. "Then I'll just have to find someone else's bed to sleep in," she said, wagging her eyebrows.
Maili laughed. "And I'm sure you will." She watched Ginny walk down the hall, her humor slowly fading. "Good luck, Ginny," she called. Gnawing on her lower lip, she added quietly, You'll certainly need it.
Draco never thought that he would see his mother again.
It wasn't as if had he necessarily wanted it to be so, either. Things in his life had just gotten out of control and never seeing Narcissa again seemed like a very possible reality.
His mother hadn't ever been the affectionate, nurturing type. She was the polar opposite of Lucius. She rarely touched Draco, and she never raised her voice. Narcissa Black had been raised under the belief that a proper lady was seen, not heard. She always followed the rule.
As a young child, Draco had naturally loved his mother. There were several occasions when she would warm up to him, laugh at something he did, kiss him on the cheek, run her fingers gently through his hair. But they were rare. And, unfortunately, only fueled his painful love for her.
He'd wanted so desperately to please her. He'd been bright enough to know that a mother was supposed to care for and cherish her child, and to realize that his mother was not fulfilling those responsibilities. As a result, everything he did, he did in hopes she would give him a warm smile or a hearty kiss. Even a kind or encouraging word was coveted.
When he grew old enough to sense human emotions, at about age eight or nine, he began to notice how his mother would look at his father. Narcissa clearly thought that Lucius Malfoy was God. When the three of them had dinner together (which they did often, back before Draco went to school), she would be uncharacteristically talkative and frequently look over at Lucius with big eyes to see if he was listening. Most of the time, he wasn't. But she never seemed to care. Just being with him was enough.
As soon as Draco realized this, he sought to be his father.
If he could be like Lucius, then maybe Mum would love him. Maybe she would look at him with pleading eyes to make sure he was paying attention to her. And when she found that he was, maybe she would lavish affection on him.
And maybe life would be normal.
Maybe.
Narcissa never noticed that her son became the spitting image of her husband. And yet Draco kept hoping, and kept mimicking.
Around Draco's fifth year at Hogwarts, Lucius stopped coming home most nights, always busy with something . . . something to help Voldemort, something to help the Death Eaters, or both. And Narcissa, hurt and rejected, filled her time doing what she did best; visiting, shopping, and having meals with other wealthy wives.
What few family traits the Malfoys had easily slipped away. Draco pretended not to notice or care, and had smothered any hurt feelings he might've had in true Malfoy fashion.
He'd moved on.
After he had "died", he'd discovered that the thought of never seeing his parents again came as a relief. No more disappointment, he concluded, from either parties.
In the year that had followed, Draco hadn't thought very much of Lucius and Narcissa. But naturally, there had been a few times when he'd wondered about them. He knew Lucius was alive in Azkaban, and that was pretty much all there was to know. Narcissa, however, he wasn't too sure about. A year or so ago Pansy had told him that Narcissa had gotten remarried and was now living in some Slavic country. Draco hadn't asked for any more details.
After all, he'd moved on already.
Yet . . . he supposed he still loved her. After all, it was his duty, wasn't it? One had to love one's own mother, no matter what.
And now Pansy was telling him that his mum was coming. She was coming to Pansy's flat that very day and he hadn't had any warning. He wasn't sure how this made him feel, and because he was unsure, he was seething.
"She'll be here any minute," Pansy said primly.
"And you're just telling me now," Draco said, eerily calm.
"We just found out about it ourselves last night," said Blaise, ignorantly. "I don't know how they heard about The Plan, but they want to help us with it."
"Who's they?"
"You'll see," Pansy jumped in before Blaise could answer. They shared a knowing look.
Draco gripped the armrests of his chair. Was he a part of this Plan or not? Why did they continue to do things behind his back? If they wanted his help, they would have to include him. Especially if the topic was about his own mother.
He gritted his teeth and didn't voice his thoughts. He didn't trust himself to speak. His emotions were swirling in him and he couldn't get a grasp on them. He couldn't get control. Fury. That was the dominant feeling. But there was also anxiousness. Not quite nervousness, not quite fear. Just anxiousness.
"You're angry," Pansy stated abruptly. She was studying his face with a tiny smile.
He narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth to snap a reply. But there came a sharp knock on Pansy's door, and he felt an unpleasant jolt somewhere in his stomach.
"They're here," she said quietly, and rose slowly.
They had clearly Apparated. Though Pansy's flat was charmed to block Apparating and Disapparating, they had simply done so right outside the building.
Draco remained seated. Heard the door open, heard Pansy say hello, heard a soft reply, heard it shut again. Then footsteps . . . the soft patter of Pansy's bare feet, the click of heels on marble. And then Pansy and the newcomer (there was no they, he noticed instantly – there was only one) were standing in the living room doorway, one dark and short, one light and tall.
Draco swept his eyes over Narcissa, noting the slight changes. She had wrinkles in the corner of her eyes. Her hair was shorter yet still as blond as ever. She wore an expensive-looking Muggle dress that revealed attractive, youthful legs.
He stood up, wishing he didn't feel so awkward in his own mother's presence. She stared at him, primly, expression blank and mouth set straight.
After a beat, she stepped into the room, graceful in heels, and floated towards him. "Draco," she said in her soft, cultured voice, "say hello to your old mother, dear."
"Hello, Mum," he said, somewhat stiffly. He took her hands in his and kissed both her cheeks. Her skin was cold and appeared as fragile as porcelain.
She was exactly his height, even with an inch added in her heels. She gripped his hands so he wouldn't pull away and studied him.
"You're older," she told him huskily, and something about the way she said it reminded him of why he'd tried so hard to please her.
He wasn't sure how to reply. "You're not," he said after a beat, and gave a faint smile. It was the truth. Even with the wrinkles around her eyes, she looked no older than thirty-five.
She gave him one of her calculated smiles, the one she gave to strangers who held the door open for her and to the waiters who poured her wine. Then she dropped his hands and glanced over at Pansy.
"Pansy, darling," she said, a bit louder so as to be heard, "would you and Blaise mind giving my son and me some privacy?" She looked back up at him. "We have a lot to talk about."
"Certainly. We'll be outside if you need us," Pansy replied.
A moment later, the door slammed. Draco and his mother were the only ones in the flat.
She simply scanned his face in silence, and he didn't speak or look away. He wasn't sure what he had to say to her. He wasn't sure how he felt about her. There was love there, but there was also disappointment, and anger. Draco had never realized he was bitter at the thought of not having a proper mother.
"So, sweetheart," Narcissa said, moving away from him. She tucked her skirt under her thighs and sat down on the sofa, smoothly crossing her legs. "Tell me why you have pretended to kill yourself."
Draco sat as well, placing an elbow on the armrest and leaning on it. The oddness of his mother's statement struck him as almost funny, but he didn't have the urge to smile. "I didn't want to go to Azkaban," he answered simply, his tone short and aloof.
"Naturally, that is understandable," she replied with a slight inclination of her head. "But why let Pansy know of your actual status, and not your own mother?"
Draco frowned. He couldn't very well say, "Well, Mum, I just wanted to get away from you for good." He couldn't explain to her why he needed to escape her, why above all the love, all the resentment, and all the dissatisfaction, there was hate. He couldn't tell her that he loathed her more than he loathed Lucius, that he hadn't expected affection from his father, hadn't needed it, but he'd needed it from her.
He couldn't tell her this because it would change nothing.
"I don't know," he said instead. It was one of the weakest things he could've uttered, but he couldn't think of anything else. He changed the course of the discussion before she could press more questions. "How did you find out I was alive?"
"Pansy contacted me," she replied, breaking eye contact and wiping at something on the sofa cushion. "Asked for my help."
And suddenly Draco knew why Pansy and Blaise had been gone all day Tuesday. While hunting information on the blueprints, they'd also been talking with his mother. "Why?" he demanded sharply.
Narcissa pressed her lips together and looked up. "Don't sound so irritated, Draco," she ordered. "It's unbecoming."
He ignored her. After such a long absence, it was almost easy to do. "Are you helping us with The Plan?"
"Yes, I suppose you could say that," she said. "I won't be helping much with the actual event, so to speak, but I'll aid you in the planning aspect."
Draco's frown deepened. Why did Pansy think they needed more help? Was it because she was afraid Draco would be too distracted by Weasley? If so, then she must have contacted Narcissa sometime after Tuesday. Pansy wasn't worried about Weasley until Thursday, when she saw the two of them spending time together at the villa.
Or maybe Narcissa was there to get on his case about being with Weasley, not to help with The Plan. He wanted to groan at the thought. Pansy was horrible enough. But if his mother started badgering him, he wasn't sure he'd be able to hold out. He was too used to listening to her wishes.
"I would like to see Lucius again," she said, suddenly gentle, bringing his attention back to her. "I do miss him."
Draco tried not to dwell on the fact she hadn't mentioned she missed him. "I thought you were remarried," he said, sharply.
Narcissa lifted her left hand and smiled dimly at the diamond on her third finger. Draco could tell it was gigantic even from his view across the room. "Ah, Havard," she said, almost fondly. "Rich, intelligent, and handsome."
But not Lucius, right, Mum?
"Is he dead?" he blurted.
She looked up, startled. Then she gave a tiny, tinkling laugh. "Oh, no. We're just going through a divorce now. As soon as Pansy told me she wanted to free the prisoners from Azkaban, I told Havard it was over."
Now Draco was confused. If Pansy had contacted Narcissa after Thursday, that obviously would only leave Friday. Had she told her current husband just the day before that she wanted a divorce?
Well, it was possible. But the way she spoke of it made him think she'd been going through a divorce longer than twenty-four hours.
When does it matter when Pansy contacted her? he found himself wondering. The point is, she did.
"Look, Mum," Draco said, shifting in his seat. "I don't know what Pansy's told you about The Plan, but −"
"Oh, just about everything," Narcissa cut in smoothly. "I know nearly as much as you do."
Draco's brows furrowed. "If Pansy wanted your help with the planning, then why did she wait so long to get in touch with you? It's almost finished. You're not much help to us now."
Narcissa's eyes darkened. "Don't you want me here, Draco?"
He tried not to squirm uncomfortably under her narrowed gaze. "I'm just confused −"
"Pansy didn't contact me sooner simply because she didn't know I was interested in helping," Narcissa interrupted, her light voice now sharp and cool. "It was my sister who discovered what you three have been up to."
"Sister?" Draco's puzzled look only deepened. Did his mother have a sister? Suddenly he couldn't remember. . . .
And then an image flashed in his mind. He was six, and he was in Azkaban prison during visiting hours. His insides felt like they'd turned to ice and a tall woman who was the reverse image of his mother was peering down at him. Heavy-lidded eyes flickered over him and the full, pale mouth curved into a sneer.
"He's short, Narcissa. He'll be weak."
His Aunt Bellatrix.
Could his aunt be the other half of the obscure they he kept hearing about?
"Yes," Narcissa said as if answering, her dark mood slowly lightening. She relaxed against the sofa cushions. "My sister. I believe you remember Bellatrix?"
Oh yes, he remembered her. He remembered her pincher-like hands that gripped his upper arms and shook him when he didn't answer her questions quickly enough. He remembered her midnight eyes that had the lifeless look of Azkaban in them. He remembered being utterly terrified of her.
She'd been in Azkaban all his young life. During his fourth year she'd escaped. No, he realized, it was during his fifth year. Maybe his sixth? No matter when; past that point he didn't have much of a clue what had happened to her. The imprisonment of his own father had occupied his thoughts, and when Voldemort had freed all the Death Eaters before the Second War, he hadn't heard anything more about his aunt. She'd faded from his memory by then.
"I remember her," said Draco finally. "Didn't she die?"
Narcissa tilted her head back and laughed, genuinely amused. "Oh, Draco, my dear, she did die," she said, clearly pleased. "But don't make the haughty error of thinking that you are the first one to come up with the idea to fake your own death."
Bellatrix Lestrange was like the black mirror image of her sister Narcissa. Beautiful in a dark, dangerous way. Strong, elegant features, and tanned flesh that resembled murky cream. Hair that was dark, long, and straight, with every strand perfectly in place. Black eyes that were wide and held a vast ocean of hidden thoughts and guarded secrets. A voice that, when calm, was low and throaty, but when angered flared into something high-pitched and screaming, like the fury of a lightning storm.
When Pansy and Blaise came back to the flat twenty minutes later, Bellatrix was with them. She did nothing more than nod in Draco's direction when she walked in. Draco couldn't help but feel like all the warmth had been sucked from the room, much like it did when a dementor was present. He held back a shudder.
She said in her deep and commanding tone, "Let's sit at the table."
Wordlessly, the four others followed her into Pansy's dining room. They took a seat at the small table, and for the next couple of beats, no one spoke.
Draco studied his aunt with a profound interest he masked over with boredom. Narcissa had told him all about how Bellatrix had supposedly died, and he couldn't deny that he found the entire story highly intriguing.
He didn't know much about Bellatrix, but he did know for certain that she was a Death Eater. Such a thing would condemn anyone to a life in Azkaban prison. In fact, most Ministry men were eager to legalize the Dementor's Kiss, which had been banned in recent years, just to use on her.
To evade her inevitable destiny, she had escaped Ministry capture for nearly two days after the Minister of Magic had declared all Death Eaters to Azkaban without trial. Soon after, Ministry officials discovered her hiding place, and she, not knowing what else to do, had run on foot. They chased her to the Lombert Bridge, an ancient structure in southern Scotland that had been built by magic (and remained upright only by magic) during the first documented ages of wizardry.
She had been surrounded there, watching as her capturers came in closer and closer until the only way to flee was by jumping over the edge. In the middle of January, the Lombert River was a few degrees shy of freezing, and the height at which the bridge stood guaranteed instant death to any unfortunate jumper. Bellatrix stood in the semi-circle of Aurors and vengeful wizards from nearby villages, seemingly trapped. When an eager official had shouted out the Killing Curse, every spectator on the bridge had sworn on their lives that the burst of green light struck Bellatrix Lestrange, cutting her shrill scream in half. They had all sworn that they watched as her lifeless body crumpled over the side, and several were certain they heard the splash as she hit the icy, swirling waters below.
Her body was never found. But all the newspapers had the same headline the next day: Dark Lord's Trusted Death Eater Killed.
Bellatrix had never been hit by the Killing Curse. The aim had already been slightly off, but had she not jolted aside at the very last moment, the beam of green would have struck her right arm instead of singeing the very edge of her cloak and striking the metal railing behind her in a blinding flash. After the light died away, there was a hushed quiet, and pitch black as every eye trained on her adjusted to the sudden lack of light. . . and she'd done the only thing she could have.
She climbed over the side.
She hadn't leapt; she had simply gripped the railing, lifted her legs over, and eased herself down the side of the bridge, all within one fluid movement. Then, as life came back to the crowd above her and cheering could be heard, she gripped the supports underneath and held on numbly. Her shoes, which she'd clumsily slipped on when she'd run from her hiding place, slid off her feet and splashed gently below. When heads tilted over the side, no one saw her dangling directly beneath. All anyone saw were the churning black waters, convinced it had already swallowed their target into its depths.
The Ministry, however, decided to take no chances. A few minutes later, several officials had assembled on the banks of the river, scouring the underside of the bridge and the surrounding woods. But by then it was too late. Bellatrix had made her way along the bridge, rung by rung, before she climbed back up the side. The few men that remained on the bridge had been busy congratulating themselves and never noticed a figure landing neatly beside them. She had pulled up her hood to shadow her face, and joined them. They spoke to her, never seeing her face or her bare feet and assuming her a nearby villager, and she spoke back, returning congratulations and gratitude.
Bellatrix then left the country and hid herself in a remote town in Russia. She had done everything properly; she knew no one from England would ever visit the town, and if they did, in such a tiny, close-knit village she would hear about it beforehand and could be prepared. She'd altered her appearance, anyhow, and if any Russian had heard of her, they would not be able to recognize her.
Draco had made the mistake of living in a busy city where anyone could recognize him. A mistake he wasn't going to be repeating ever again. However, he had to admit he was quite fond of his current appearance, and the notion of changing it had occurred to him only to be dismissed.
"It is fortunate I found you in time," Bellatrix said abruptly, causing Draco to jerk back to earth. She switched her gaze from Blaise, to Draco, and then to Pansy, unreadable thoughts dancing in her eyes. "Very fortunate," she added quietly.
"We're glad to have more help," Pansy said neutrally. "We're almost ready to bring all the planning together and put everything in action. We'll need you for that, Bellatrix."
Then what's Mum going to do? Draco wondered. He was starting to feel frustrated, mostly by the random appearance of his mother and her sister. Why did he have such a . . . an unsettling feeling about the two?
A firm voice answered for him. Because you don't trust them. You don't trust what their intentions are.
Yes, he was in awe of his aunt. Yes, he loved his mother. But there was just something not entirely wholesome about their objectives.
It was odd, he realized, to think he trusted Pansy more than his mother. But Pansy had proved herself to be reliable, while Narcissa had proved herself to be a disappointment.
"Naturally," Bellatrix replied to Pansy's statement. Her expression was smooth and blank, but he could hint some strange excitement in her tone. His unease rippled and deepened. "I don't know how you ever thought you could achieve such a feat with just the three of you. You'll need Narcissa's strong head andmy power to get what you want."
Humble, Draco smirked.
"Yes, that's why I've called on you," Pansy said with a trace of impatience. She turned to Narcissa. "We'd like you to look over the blueprints for us, Narcissa. Blaise and I have already analyzed them and we have a vague idea of the best entryway, but it would be nice to have your opinions on the matter."
"Certainly, Pansy," Narcissa said with the smile she bestowed upon strangers.
Pansy gave out more instructions to Blaise and Draco, and before long, they were all hard at work. All, that is, except for Bellatrix. The blueprints were placed on the table, and they debated the best way to enter, the best way to leave, and the places to avoid. And Bellatrix simply watched in silence, a peculiar smile on her face.
Something's not right, Draco found himself thinking. This can't be how it's supposed to go. . . .
He ordered his mind to shut up. What did he know about how this was supposed to go? He should be relieved that they had extra help. He would be able to focus more on Weasley and keeping her away from it all.
But he felt no relief. All he felt was perturbed.
What's going on?
Ginny really hadn't planned on using Penelope's or Maili's help again. But after deciding that afternoon that she wanted to show up at Draco's house and take him out on the town, she had spent two hours trying to decide what to wear. She had deemed all of her clothes too conservative, too boring, and too informal. She wanted something new, something that would attract his attention and whet his appetite.
And she thought, Surely Penelope would have something like that.
She knocked on Penelope's door and was greeted by a bored face. The minute Penelope recognized Ginny, her lips twisted into a smirk of a nature not too different from Draco's.
"Well, well, well," she said, crossing her arms and leaning against the doorframe. "Look who it is. Back from Greece already?"
Ginny forced a friendly smile. "Yes. I've come to ask you a favor."
Penelope raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Come on in."
Ginny stepped in to the dark room, taking note that the curtains were tightly closed and the bed was neatly made. In fact, everything was neat. She saw a trunk open on the floor beside the wardrobe, containing smoothly folded clothes stacked on top of each other. Other than that, there was not any hint that a human being inhabited the space.
"Wow, it's really . . . clean," Ginny admitted, feeling far more out of place than she had in Maili's room. She stood awkwardly by the bed, unsure if she should stay up or take a seat.
"I'm kind of anal," Penelope replied with a slow grin. She remained near the door, hands on her hips. "So what's this favor you need?"
"Oh," Ginny said, startled back into work related thoughts. "I was sort of hoping you could . . . well, dress me."
Tactful, Weasley.
Penelope's grin turned all-knowing. "I see," she drawled. "So it turns out my little bikini-wearing stunt went over well?"
Ginny was glad for the pale light; it hid her flushed cheeks. "I'm sorry, I left the bikini back in my room," she said by way of answering. "I can go get it now −"
Penelope shook her head. "No, keep it. I have plenty more." She moved deeper into the room, throwing open the wardrobe doors. "Let's see . . . what kind of look are you going for?"
Ginny took a delicate seat on the edge of the bed. "Well, something that's not too conservative, but not too revealing either," she began, and her voice gathered strength as she went on. "Something Muggle enough to pass off in the city. Something that's not too expensive so I won't have to worry about ruining it. Preferably something without a skirt, because that's all I've worn around him. And I'd like something with color, but not too much, because I don't want to hurt his eyes −"
Penelope stared at her for a moment, amused, before jumping in. "Okay, slow down. This isn't some store where I can just make the outfit of your dreams appear." She allowed a smile break through her haughty demeanor. "You must really like this guy."
Ginny stiffened. "I don't have to like him," she said defensively. "I have to impress him. My job depends on it −"
"Okay, okay, calm down," Penelope said with a small laugh. "I didn't mean to set you off. Why don't you come and take a look at what I've got, and I'll let you dress yourself. Is that all right?"
Ginny was discovering that this girl reminded her more and more of Draco. Penelope had the ability to infuriate her and rub her the absolute wrong way, all while barely saying anything of offense. The one thing she lacked was the gift of giving Ginny one look and having her melt all over the floor in a puddle of desire . . .
Not that Draco does that, either.
Ginny spent the next few minutes rummaging through Penelope's clothes. She made a fine mess of them, but Penelope didn't appear to notice or care. She sat on the bed, flipping through a magazine to keep her occupied.
Eventually, Ginny stood up with an armful of clothing. "Well, thanks so much, Penelope," she said, already heading towards the door. "I'll be sure to give these back to you sometime tomorrow −"
"Whoa, whoa," Penelope called, sitting up and setting her magazine aside. "Where's the fire? Let me see what you've picked out."
Ginny, who was very satisfied with her selections and ready to try them on in the privacy of her own room, shrugged indifferently. "Oh, just a pair of jeans, and one of your white blouses −"
But Penelope was already laughing at her. She slowly slid off the bed, chuckling as though Ginny had said some clever joke.
"What?" she snapped, feeling a bit miffed.
"Jeans and a white blouse? Ginny, darling, you don't want to dress like an old lady," she cried.
"I wasn't," Ginny said defensively. "As a matter of fact, I was going to leave the top three buttons of this blouse unbuttoned!"
Penelope laughed again, harder this time. "Oh, you're a wild woman for sure, Ginny Weasley!" she said, clapping her hands in delight.
"All right, look," Ginny said, bordering on angry now. "I appreciate you letting me borrow your clothes, but I won't let you sit there and make fun of me and laugh −"
"You're right," Penelope said, pressing her lips together tightly and fighting away her giggles. "You're right, I'm sorry. I really am. Just go into the bathroom and put the blouse and jeans on. When you come out, I'll let you try on some things that will . . . liven it up. Okay?"
Ginny fumed for a moment, her intelligent half telling her it would be best if she just turned and let the door hit her arse on the way out. She didn't need to let Penelope berate her on her style. She was stronger than that, more confident than that.
But her stupid half kept screaming, much louder than the smarter half, She knows how to seduce men, Ginny. Let her dress you.
And so Ginny didn't leave, but she stepped into the toilet and put on the blouse – which fit her perfectly – and the jeans – which needed to be made a size or so bigger – and studied her reflection in the mirror. Even with the top three buttons undone, the outfit looked awfully plain. Even I have this sort of dull thing in my dull wardrobe, Ginny realized, and, more annoyed with herself now than Penelope, stepped out to let the other woman work her magic.
No pun intended.
Penelope took one look at Ginny and seemed to know exactly what was needed. Five minutes later Ginny had on a lightweight black jacket and a pair of bright green pointy shoes that just about killed her toes. Not only had Penelope unbuttoned the top four buttons on the blouse, but the bottom two as well. With the jeans resting low on her hips, Ginny flashed a bit of midriff whenever she shifted the right way.
"Leave your hair down," Penelope instructed, circling Ginny to admire every angle. "That sort of wild, un-brushed look is what you're going for."
Ginny had to admit that the added touches did improve the outfit. In fact, she began to feel a little giddy as the date approached. She actually giggled like a teenager when Penelope made dirty jokes about what was going to happen later that night. It was just like she was drunk again; she couldn't find it in her heart to be irritated with Penelope at the time being.
But as time ticked on, nearing seven o'clock, she found she was growing tenser and tenser. It's time to go, she realized. "Well, I suppose I'd leave," Ginny said out loud.
"All right, then," Penelope replied, giving a wide grin. "Good luck tonight, huh?"
Ginny put her hand on the door knob. "Yeah, I'll need it," she said. "Thanks again for, you know, letting be borrow your clothes."
"My pleasure." Penelope wiggled her fingers in goodbye from her perch on the bed. "Have fun!"
Ginny let out a laugh, and all at once it hit her how apprehensive she really was. "Thanks."
She stopped by her room to grab her Muggle purse, and then headed outside into the cool night. She had already decided she wanted to take a taxi to Draco's flat. She needed some time to rehearse what she was going to say to him. Besides, she wanted to spend as much of the money Creedmoore had given her as possible.
All afternoon she'd considered what she and Draco would do that night. Her mind ran over the possibilities of going to tapa bars, of experiencing Madrid's nightlife with him . . . and she had discarded them. She'd already been out on the town with Draco, and he was somewhat of a bore when it came to that sort of thing. What she needed was a novel idea; something that he would actually like to do.
She knew he liked to eat. And she knew he liked to stay home – he always seemed in a hurry to get back there when he was out with her, after all.
So she would surprise him on his doorstep . . . and make him dinner right in his very own flat.
This idea had more merit than spending a wild night out did. For one, they could be alone. She could astound him with her stunning personality, so much so that he wouldn't be able to resist taking her to bed and falling in love with her. And for another, she could slip the Truth Potion she'd concocted in Greece into his glass of wine. It would be so much easier to do in the privacy of his home.
She flagged down a taxi, slid in the backseat, and told the driver (with aid of her Spanish dictionary) to stop at the nearest grocery store. Once she had bought everything she needed to make the perfect filet mignon dinner, she continued onwards to Draco's flat and practiced her greeting over and over in her mind.
She tried to ignore how nervous she felt. Yes, it was typical for her to feel apprehensive before seeing Draco; she always did. There were the usual insecurities: what if she screwed up, gave her true identity away, et cetera. But now she had a new worry to add to her list.
What if she wasn't a good lover?
She knew tonight they would sleep together. And that made her more uneasy than ever before. Draco was clearly a man who had had his share of sex. He knew what was good and what wasn't. What if he found her . . . inadequate?
That would ruin the relationship. Forget hating each other's very existence. Horrible sex would be the ultimate explosive in their already rickety relationship.
Ginny was, naturally, not a virgin. The few men she'd slept with had told her she was good in that specific area. But none of them were Draco. None of them had been critiquing her quite as closely as Draco would.
The taxi pulled to a stop before Draco's flat. Ginny felt as if she had swallowed ten thousand Snitches and they were all raving in her stomach.
"Well," she muttered under her breath, reaching to open the taxi door. "Here goes nothing."
Both arms full of groceries, one hand holding the most expensive bottle of wine the supermarket had, she stepped out of the taxi and made her way to Draco's front door.
A/N: Note the new rating. Because of aforementioned love scene...