Chapter 5

When the last bell rang, signalling the end of yet another school day, and when Ginny tallied up the events that had trespassed since morning, she realised that it had been a grand success. Not only had she finished her potion and was going to test it on her ferret sometime after dinner, but, she had cursed Draco Malfoy with an incurable case of Weasley looks, and had gotten no detention from Snape for hexing the Head Boy. She had been congratulated at every turn by all the Ravenclaws, Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors that she had encountered since morning.

However, what she enjoyed the most was the deception behind it. Everyone was content to assume that her motives had been simple revenge, that she had wanted nothing better than to defend the honour of her family. Knowing that her actions had followed ulterior plans made her feel like the cat that had eaten the canary and had gotten away with it. They have such simple minds, she thought. It was a kind of remark that he would have made, his voice a silky promise of forbidden things. Ginny inwardly shuddered, torn between horror and pleasure.

"Oy Ginny, wait up!" someone called out behind her, and she stopped walking, scanning the hall for the voice that had summoned her

Neville was hurriedly making his way towards her, a big smile plastered on his round face. He was waving a hand at her in hello and carrying his books in another, and Ginny thought of telling him to slow down so that he wouldn't spill all his books in the hallway. Then she rethought that advice and refrained from opening her mouth. Neville was grown enough to take care of himself, and warning him often lead to him actually going against the advice. It was better to keep silent. Things worked out for Neville when there was nobody to mother him.

"Hello, Neville," she spoke softly as he stopped to her side, his smile reaching unfathomed proportions.

"How's my favourite Gryffindor doing?" he asked and fell into step seamlessly beside her.

Ginny shot him a sly grin and continued walking. "I can tell you that I have had a most fabulous day."

"So I've heard. What I wouldn't have given to be there when you charmed the Malfoy looks off of Malfoy. It certainly was a moment that will go down as a clear win for the Weasleys in the history of the Malfoy-Weasley feud," he chuckled.

It was amazing how coherent Neville could be when he wasn't intimidated by anybody. His speech was graceful and distinguished and always intelligent and insightful. All traces of stuttering and insecurity were gone and he suddenly seemed very much like the young seventeen year old wizard that he was, instead of the blundering child that most associated him with.

Although he had never told her expressly, Ginny believed that Neville had been practicing both his magic and his manners over the summer, having finally grown enough of a spine to stop hiding behind the green skirts of his grandmother. She had a nagging suspicion that the air of confidence had been inspired by his growth spurt. Being able to tower over his grand-mum certainly had its advantages when it came to the subject of her bullying him.

Despite growing six inches and shedding some of his extra weight, Neville still retained the round, full-moon face, the gentle-brown eyes and the soft-spoken voice that had him labelled by the lower year Gryffindors as "The Gentle Giant". He still stumbled when he was nervous and his new size served to accentuate his awkwardness, making him the object of Slytherin ridicule. He would never be handsome, Ginny mussed; the elegance of his stature eluded him. Nor would he capture the attention of a crowd the way Harry, Ron or even Malfoy seemed to whenever they were present. Neville would always blend into the background, perfectly inoffensive and inconspicuous, the willing victim of underestimation.

It was a tragic thing to be, Ginny supposed, especially since Neville was incredibly talented at Herbology, but she couldn't find interest in her mind for an emotion stronger than sympathy. She had long conceded the point that there were those in the world that were neither villains nor heroes, but just people blessed with a mundane existence. She hadn't yet made up her mind about which was the better. They all bore their crosses alone.

"Gin? Are you okay?" he asked, drawing her out of her reverie.

"Yeah… I was just thinking," she murmured vaguely. There sometimes were days when Neville's sunny smile would dissolve her grim thoughts. Today, however, was not that sort of day.

"You're always thinking," he remarked quietly, and Ginny became painfully aware of the fact that it was just the two of them in empty hallway, with the afternoon sun filtering through the windows, highlighting her hair.

It was another one of those awkward moments that had been taking place between them ever since the beginning of the year. Ginny counted to ten silently in her head and willed the magic of whatever was making Neville gape at her in that manner away. They had been decent friends for years, through the thick and thin that came with living at a boarding school. For them to fall more and more into these kinds of moments was silly. He was one of the very few people that had come close enough to be labelled as a friend, and Ginny knew that she was one of the few girls that Neville was comfortable enough to talk to without embarrassing himself. And yet, ever since they had returned from the summer hols, there had been a taciturn aura of awkwardness shadowing their conversations. The most blatant manifestations of it came with this unjustifiable quietness that made Ginny's skin crawl in warning.

"So, Neville, are the Mandrake plants grown yet?" she asked, quickening her pace in a desperate attempt to make easy conversation and steer away from the awkwardness.

"Professor Sprout is going to use them in a lesson in two weeks. And of course we're also separating the babies from the parent plants and potting them in the greenhouse soil around that same time," Neville answered, excitement evident in his voice.

Ginny nodded thoughtfully, processing the information offered. Mandrake plants were essential ingredients in Energy and Restorative potions, both of which were in short supply in Ginny's stash. If the Invisibility Antidote would fail yet again, Ginny would have to resort to pilfering some plants from Madame Sprout's greenhouse to restock some of the more commonly-used ingredients in her potions cabinet. "Are the roses still in bloom?" she asked, hoping to sound conversational.

"They will be for another week. After which we're probably going to uproot them, cover them in preservative wax and store them away until next year. We're clearing the greenhouse now and getting it ready for the winter season."

"Ah, so you must be busy," Ginny remarked, and then winced at her tactlessness. She knew better than to make such open-ended sentences without actual intent. Sometimes, true genius came from the simple art of keeping one's mouth shut in certain situations.

"As a matter of fact, we are. We're thinking of recruiting some more volunteers to help the preparations along. The Herbology Club can't possibly handle everything in just two weeks."

Ginny sighed at the subtle invitation in Neville's voice and berated herself once again for opening her mouth. He was expecting her to help him after her previous statement, and she didn't want to. Between her schoolwork, Prefect duties and her laboratory, there just wasn't time for anything else. It had been her reason for quitting the Quiddich team halfway through her Fifth year – though she had used her injuries (a dislocated elbow and a broken leg) as scapegoats for the decision. Of course, if she did decide to help Neville out then she would have direct access to the greenhouse and some of the more common plants being grown there. It would make pilfering them infinitely easier.

"Well, I can come and help out from time to time in the afternoons, when I'm free from Prefect duties and lessons," Ginny offered. One or two voluntary missions would be sufficient to replenish her supplies, and then she could cry off as being too busy. It would be believable enough.

"Could you? That would be fab Ginny! We need all the help that we can get." Neville's face was radiating with happiness. It was almost as if Crimbo and his birthday had come early that year. Ginny shuddered once again, hoping that Neville's enthusiasm would defuse given her aloofness.

He, however, did not seem to remark her frosty air and continued to share his plans for the greenhouse. Ginny did the sensible thing and remained quiet, allowing her thoughts to drift to other matters, such as her impeding confrontation with Malfoy and the upcoming plans for her laboratory. When the portrait of the Fat Lady greeted the both of them amicably, Ginny hurried to give the password and to escape Neville's company by hurrying up to her dormitory. Once there, she set her book bag by her nightstand and allowed herself to fall onto her bed with a muffled plop. Finally, time alone with myself, she thought not without a certain amount of tired satisfaction.

The red of the curtains and the canopy contrasted the sunflower yellow, a poor impersonation of gold, on her bed sheets. Ginny sighed. She hated the endless red. It was too reminiscent of the shade that haunted her dreams. The yellow was equally un-soothing, and rather quite revolting in its forced joviality. She longed for the cool and calming tones of blues, and greens and auburns. But they weren't House colours, and no matter how many times she'd charm her curtains and covers a different colour she would always return to find the same perpetual prison of red and gold.

It was just another aspect of Hogwarts that she couldn't wait to get away from. She loathed the concept of House Pride, almost as much as she hated the idea of House Rivalry. In her opinion, they communicated equally pointless and destructive ideas, and she couldn't shake off the suspicion that if they wouldn't have existed, then Tom wouldn't have turned into a monster either.

So many thoughts swirled in her mind that Ginny couldn't help the tremors that came with exhaustion. She hadn't wanted to admit it, but Neville's observation had been correct. She was always thinking, possibly as much as Hermione kept her nose buried in a textbook, and most of the time, her own thoughts chewed away at her endlessly, and without respite. Even insomnia was a poor attempt at putting a grinding halt to the wheels of her mind. More often than she liked, Ginny wondered if she hadn't plunged off the edge of sanity already and was somehow still in denial about it.

But then, if you are already insane, then everything you're trying to do is useless, isn't it? a mutinous voice at the back of her head asked, and Ginny slapped her forehead in annoyance trying to still the voice. It was the truth once again. Her entire hopeless quest of finishing school a year in advance, of getting back the diary, of getting lost in the immensity of the world, they were all attempts to regain that precious part of herself that had become lost in the rubble of the Chamber five years before. He had taken it, and now she wanted it back. And if it meant taking him along with her, then so be it. It'll be you and me Tom, you and me forever. Just like you promised, she thought, her lips stretching in a sinister grin. Yes, she most definitely could live with that compromise.

"Ginny! Ginny wake up!" A hand on her shoulder and a familiar voice roused her from her dreamless sleep. It was one of the benefits of staying up for four nights in a row with the help of energising potions. When her body finally gave out on her, she passed out, and the nightmares couldn't accompany her into unconsciousness.

"Wha-?" she asked, thoroughly confused and rubbing her eyes gently with fisted hands.

"You fell asleep, it's time for dinner," the voice continued, as did the shaking.

This time, she opened her eyes, and stared blankly at the familiar bushy hair, straight nose and brown eyes of Hermione. "Huh?" came her still-sleepy remark.

"Oh for heaven's sake, Ginny. Ron and Harry are waiting for us downstairs in the common room, everyone else has gone to dinner, will you hurry up?" she asked, sounding most annoyed.

"'m not hungry," Ginny replied, making an effort to sit by the edge of her bed, legs dangling fractions off the floor, without falling. Her head was spinning with drowsiness, and her body felt as heavy as lead, and she just wanted to return to her pillow. Hermione, however, seemed to have other plans, and was insistently informing her of something that Ginny couldn't bother to comprehend. Slowly, she turned her head to survey her bed. The sheets were rumpled and the pillow sported a round and embarrassingly large wet mark, evidence that she had indeed been sleeping deeply. Paying no attention to Hermione's babble, she interrupted, "Ever since when do you guys wait for me to go to dinner?"

"Ever since we're all Prefects and we must all hence talk," Hermione replied, not at all bothered by her sarcastic inquiry.

"Mgh," Ginny interjected intelligently and stood up, wavering slightly on her feet. "Just so you know, you interrupted a perfectly good round of sleep," she mumbled with a frown.

"Honestly, Ginny," Hermione assumed her mother tone. "You can get more than enough sleep at night. The time for after classes is for studying not sleeping. You have Prefect duties tonight, when are you going to finish your lessons?" she asked, and her tone held a certain amount of censure.

"Why don't you worry about your own lessons, Hermione?" Ginny asked, her voice stretched with tension.

It wasn't that the bushy haired girl didn't mean well. Ginny knew that behind Hermione's obsessive-compulsive exterior lay a very generous and kind heart, as well as a penchant for adventure and breaking the rules. However, ever since she had been named Head Girl she had taken it on as her own personal vendetta to make sure that every one of her friends did not put a toe out of line when it came to their studies. It was almost as if their studying habits reflected her ability to be a good role model and a good Head Girl. Two weeks into the school year, and it was already getting more than ridiculous. Ginny disguised her scoff with a gentle cough.

"You know I didn't mean it like that, Ginny," Hermione attempted again, her manner reconciliatory. The gentle squeeze she gave her right shoulder confirmed it, but Ginny didn't feel very forgiving, so she settled for glaring silently at her. "It's just that I worry. You're trying to take on so much, what with all these extra advanced classes, and I know how much it means to you…"

"Then just leave it well enough alone," she interrupted, seeing the small window of escape to the entire charade. "I have enough on my mind trying to focus on my classes without you stressing me out about them, Hermione."

Hurt flickered in the big brown eyes of Hermione Granger, and Ginny's conscience did take the necessary seconds to make her feel properly guilty. Then, her counter-conscience, which Ginny had bothered to rename as her Slytherin Sense, reminded her that her words had been well-deserved and delivered with the smooth brutality of truth. Her agenda was her own business, and Hermione's penchant for sticking her nose in other people's business could jeopardize her plans. The sooner she discouraged prying in her life, the better. Ginny took a moment to congratulate herself for a job well done, before reassuming the role of the younger, humble Gryffindor.

"I'm sorry Herm, you are absolutely right. I'm going to try to do better with my lessons and duties. I've still been trying to sort them out these past weeks, and it is quite overwhelming, but I'm determined to do it properly. It's a good thing the essays aren't due for another few weeks," she smiled quickly and hurried out of the room.

Behind her, Hermione agreed and then made a comment that Ginny didn't hear. She agreed with it anyway, not wanting to give rise to yet another debate. The world worked smoothly when Hermione's whims weren't questioned. Ginny had long grown accustomed to slinking along in the darkness, and no longer took any offence at the way things played out in her House. Her stomach gave a low growl, reminding her indeed that it was time to go to dinner.

"So, are you going to do it?" Hermione's voice once again interrupted her reverie at the dinner table.

Ginny had been starring off in the direction of the Slytherin table. Their king seemed to be absent from dinner, wanting undoubtedly to hide his shameful appearance. The mental picture of an ostrich with his head in the sand rose forth in Ginny's thoughts, and she felt herself smile. A peacock was the animal more suited to illustrate Draco Malfoy's vanity, but the ostrich's cowardice more appropriate to the given moment. Ginny could not help the smirk that twisted on her lips. Draco Malfoy as any sort of bird was a hilarious mental image.

"Are you even listening to us?' Ron asked from across the table, where he was busily devouring an entire leg of chicken. Beside him, Harry was silent and preoccupied by his own thoughts.

"I'm sorry, Ron," she replied quietly. "I was just noticing that Malfoy's not at dinner."

Her brother gave an appreciative snort as he turned his body, chicken dangling from his mouth, to look at the Slytherins. "Serves him right, the bastard. He's probably in the library researching a counter-spell for whatever charm you put on him."

Ginny flashed him a serene smile. It would be just like Malfoy to spend the rest of the day peering over Beautification and Disguise Charms in an attempt to find an escape to his problem without resorting to asking her. Ginny had assumed that he would look when she had decided to cast the spell on him, and the idea of sending Malfoy on a wild goose chase had been irresistible. She knew all too well that whatever material he would dig up would be useless in aiding his cause. The Charm she had placed on him was her own intricate work of magic and not yet recorded in any textbooks. As if the world needed to know how to turn themselves into Weasleys, her mind scoffed.

Nonetheless, what had begun as an experiment in spell creation had culminated in one very practical and useful charm. She'd had no idea, back when she had begun experimenting with it, that she would one day use it against someone. Ginny grinned at thinking that she had created a spell specifically designed to piss off Draco Malfoy. Today was indeed a very fortunate day.

"So, Ginny," Hermione cleared her throat. "You haven't answered my question."

"What was it again?"

An annoyed sigh preceded Hermione's reply, "I asked you if you were willing to take over for me the organization of the Halloween Ball. I spoke to Professor McGonagall and Headmaster Dumbledore and they both agreed it would be a wonderful event to re-include in this school year." Her brown eyes collided with Ginny's, and she noticed the unspoken explanation in them. It was only natural to wine and dine your troops before a battle.

"Oh, sure, but what do you need me for? I thought that these were expressly Head Girl duties." Ginny observed.

"Well," Hermione's voice dropped another decibel. "They are, but I'm busy with a few things for the DA and the Order, and I really don't have time to plan something as silly as that. Plus, I have no imagination for planning parties. You will do as good a job of it as I would if I were doing it. Just don't let Malfoy decorate the entire hall in Slytherin colours," she advised sagely.

Anger coursed through Ginny, but she held it under tight control. She opened her mouth to tell Hermione just what an amazing job she would do of wringing her pompous little neck, but then thought better of it and instead forced out a grateful smile. The other girl beamed at her, and Ginny suddenly wanted to throw up. She had always been, and would always be second violin to the Dream Team. If they had a job that they didn't want to waste their time on, or dirty their little hero hands with, they would pass it on to her, and expect her to be grateful for it. Why? Because she was the little sister of course! Rabid adorer of Saint Potter and his Apostles, and perpetual tag-along whose task was to clean up after they had made the mess!

The nerve of Hermione! Saying it in such a voice as if she was doing Ginny a great favour and not the other way around! Just because she was doing work for the DA and the Order didn't give her permission to speak to her as if she was an insignificant nothing. Age was not a measurement of magical ability. But you want nothing to do with them, her inner voice reminded her gently, curbing her murderous thoughts.

She felt the anger slip away in the face of the silent truth. It was better this way, that she was assigned the tasks that they did not want, that she focused on living and not Their Stupid War. The less she did for their damned cause, the better. Unlike the rest of them, she was not measuring her life according to it. It was what set her apart from them, what made her the Wiser Weasel. Hermione's assumed arrogance, however, still grated on her nerves. Ginny closed her eyes, drew in a breath, took a bite of her meal and then swallowed. The food scraped the inside of her throat and the water she drank afterwards did nothing to soothe the faint burning.

"I'm going out for a smoke," she announced rebelliously, feeling guilty for the childish need to display just how much different she was from them. "You can tell me about what you want done for the Halloween Ball later tonight, Hermione. I'll be up in the common room later."

She was met with three scowling faces, since all three of them condemned her habit, though Harry was by far the least vociferous of the three. The endless satisfaction that she felt at their disapproval erased the last of Ginny's anger. Let them busy with their heroics, she had her own plans to see through.

"Do what you want, Ginny," Ron mumbled accusingly. "It's your death wish," he added.

"Precisely, my dear Ronald," she smirked as she stood up. "What did I tell you about death wishes?"

"To get my own," he grumbled.

"Correct again. I hardly think that Death-by-Sister is a death wish worthy of much praise. Really Ron, you must be more creative than that," was her parting repartee, and the rest of their replies faded into the murmurs of adjacent conversations. Ginny found that she held no curiosity about what any of them might have said.

Outside, warm sunlight caused her to pause on the steps and to admire the sunset, feeling in her bones its sinuous promise of soothing darkness. The sun was an orb of radiant orange quickly sinking bellow a pool of wispy blood-red ribbons; layers discarded haphazardly in the attempt to distance from the poisonous memory of morning glory. To Ginny, it looked like an attempt at suicide, elegant and poised, necessary and swift. It was death in the sky. She could smell it in the violence of the violets and purples and blues and navies that swirled together brutally, in one final protest against the passing of their monarch.

But he would go, he had to. It was the natural proceeding of things, the replacement of a part that had grown useless and faulty with something more superior. It was change and death and birth and old and new meeting together and clashing, until the old became the unrecognizable new and there would be no dispute of its supremacy. She wondered briefly what she was, the old giving way to the new, or the new invading the old and absorbing it into its vacuous depths. Did it even matter?

The pack of cigarettes trembled in her hand as she struggled to push her thoughts from her mind. Nothing mattered right now but the infinitely filling sensation of smoke in her lungs and of her lips curled around the end of the cigarette. Ginny tried hard not to think of how much the act of smoking was her escape from life and people and even aspects of herself she didn't want to deal with.

She was just about to light her cigarette when a sound in the bushes near her right, a cross between a strangled yelp and a muffled croak, alerted her that she was not alone. Whatever was lurking there sounded dangerous, and Ginny did not hesitate when drawing her wand out and plunging through the bushes. "Stupe-," she stopped mid-curse, the cigarette that had been dangling from her lips falling to the ground, forgotten in light of the sight before her.

She should have known it was Malfoy. After all, he hadn't been at dinner, and she had met him in this very place the night before. As far as she knew he was one of the only other students at Hogwarts who engaged in the Muggle habit of smoking, so she should have expected it. What she hadn't expected, however, was to find Malfoy sporting a set of long white whiskers, a pert pearl-black snout and two, tiny, white weasel-ears. The giggle that erupted from her lips was wholly undignified, but Ginny truly couldn't help herself.

"Good evening to you too, Weasel," he sneered, looking all the more ridiculous for it.

"Takes one to know one, Ferret," she laughed again.

"Oh, piss the fuck off Weaselette. Haven't you done enough damage for one day?" he growled, and with a Finite Incantatem returned his features to the red Weasley hair and patented freckles. With a grumpy sigh he sat down on the grass and pulled out his own cigarette.

"The Amazing Bouncing Ferret, defeated. I would have never imagined the day," Ginny commented, sarcasm burning in her voice.

He scowled up at her, cheeks red with fury. "If you want an apology, you can forget about it. I'm going to find a way to break this charm," he stated, craning his neck to look up at her, thunder written in his charmed eyes.

Ginny smirked. She hadn't expected him to just give up after a day of fruitless research. After all, she had just walked in on his latest failed attempt at disabling the charm. And what an amusing attempt it had been! Inwardly, she was proud of her spell work. It was an intricate task to create a spell that would trigger ulterior side-effects when tampered with unrightfully. I really must try this spell-creation bit more often, she noted before returning her attention to Malfoy. "Why Malfoy, why would I want an apology from you?" she questioned, her voice pure husky sugar.

"Don't even try that voice with me again, demon spawn. I know better than to fall for it twice," he sneered sulkily at her.

Ginny laughed again, unable to do anything else. The sight of Malfoy dejected and powerless was doing wonders for her ego. She could see now why Tom so enjoyed toying with people. It was exhilarating. "You really should stop with the attempts to sneer. It was a pathetic feat at best when your body was graced with the Malfoy genes, but now it truly looks ridiculous."

"Well it's a known fact that the horde of you, barbarians is not evolved enough for such complex facial expressions," came his swift rebuttal.

"You know Malfoy, you might try being a little nicer. After all, I do have your future looks in my hands." Spitefully, she joined him on the grass, sitting directly in front of him, and locking her eyes with his, in a silent battle of the wills.

"You have nothing Weaselette. Just delusions of fame," Malfoy snarled, his entire, freckle-dusted face contorting in hate.

"You won't find a counter-spell for that charm anywhere in the world, Malfoy," she was tired of the useless clashing of wills. This was an ample time to offer him the deal she sought.

"Are you saying you created your own spell?" his voice was nothing short of incredulous, but Ginny did have to give him credit for catching the undertones of her previous statement. Not many people would have. It was refreshing to see a modicum of cunningness, even if it was Malfoy.

"Why does that surprise you, Malfoy?"

"Because I'm sure that like the stupid Weasel that you are, you probably never thought of a counter-spell," he glared at her coldly. Upon seeing the faint blush that rose to her features, Malfoy continued, "I'm right, aren't I? You've never thought of the counter-spell, and since you made it impervious to Finite, there is absolutely no hope of ever restoring me to my previous glory."

His choice of words made her smile, while the disdain in his voice made her freeze up on the inside. It was amazing what a tangled mass of contradictions Draco Malfoy could be, his moods running hot and then cold and never anything consistently predictable. He was a paradox, Ginny realised, infinitely complicated and yet simple at the same time. And she knew all about paradoxes. After all, she thought of herself in similar idyllic terms. It's scary, she concluded, that in five minutes of trading insults with Malfoy, I feel more comfortable than I've felt at home in six years. This, however, was an observation she could pick apart in the many hours of sleeplessness that awaited her. For now, she had a bargain to conclude.

"Don't be daft Malfoy. Weasels are notorious for their wit, caution and ability to plan ahead," Ginny sneered back at him. "Of course there is a way to remove the charm. It's just a bit… unconventional," she wrinkled her nose.

"What is it?" he was hanging onto her every word. This was a very good sign that she had his attention.

"Well Malfoy, you don't think I'm just going to give it to you out of the goodness of my heart. After all, you insulted my mother's intellectual and moral abilities, not to mention that you called me a whore in front of an entire class full of students."

She noted with satisfaction that he did have the grace to blush hotly when she enumerated his transgressions so boldly. Perhaps there was a sense of decency underneath all of Malfoy's self-proclaimed superiority.

"I'm not apologising to you," he informed her stubbornly.

"No, I didn't think you would," Ginny smirked. "But I couldn't care less for your insincere apology."

"What are you proposing?" Malfoy's voice was strained with tension. Ginny had to again pause and praise his uncanny ability to catch her hidden meanings.

"A trade."

"What sort of trade?"

They were discussing business now; she could feel his entire demeanour change. He was no longer childishly churlish and lashing out only to insult her. He had morphed into the exquisitely refined business man, scrutinizing the issue for any pitfalls and hidden implications. There was no boyishness about him now, and the severe line of his jaw became, if possible, even tighter with restraint. Seriousness replaced petty hate in his manner of addressing her.

"Your looks for an item of mine in your possession," she replied vaguely.

"What in the bloody hell do I own that is yours, Weasley?" the rage in his question was clipped and controlled. His eyes boiled with fury.

"Yes or no, Malfoy. We can discuss the particulars afterwards," she deadpanned.

"Fine. I agree to it. Now what in hell's blazes do you want from me? I can assure you that the Malfoy family has none of the trash that usually graces your household," he snipped savagely.

"'tis but a simple object that is of no use to you," she informed him, completely overlooking his insult. "An old and blackened diary that you might have seen your father with the summer after your First year."

This time Malfoy snorted and then looked at her, disbelief etched plainly on his face. "Don't bloody tell me that my father stole your diary and now you want it back!" he exclaimed.

"Not my diary. It's the diary of someone I used to know."

"Who?"

"I think that's enough questions on your part," Ginny cut him off frostily. "It's no business of yours."

"You are such a stupid bint!" Malfoy growled. "I need to know whose diary it is so I can bloody well Summon it. We have a million books at the Manor. If you think that I am going to spend my winter hols going through them one by one to make sure they're your stupid little diary then you're more mad than I originally gave you credit for!"

She did have the grace to blush at his outburst. Of course he would be needing the name of the diary's owner. It didn't mean, however, that she wanted to give it to him. He would surely know it, and that would give rise to an entirely new set of questions. He was still Head Boy and had a duty of honour to protect the safety of the students. Even Malfoy had to have a shred of honour underneath his slimy snake-like exterior. He couldn't have been raised in an ancient and pure-blooded family without hearing of the concept. "Tom Riddle," she ground out in the end, glancing at Malfoy wearily.

He did not seem to know the name, and Ginny quietly exhaled the breath she was holding. Malfoy's next question, however, grated on her nerves. "Is that his entire name?"

"Tom Marvolo Riddle," she spat at him angrily.

He beamed at her, and she had to sit on her hands to prevent from wiping the smugness off his face most violently. "Now, what about my looks, when will they be restored to me?" he questioned.

"When you give me the diary."

"No, Weaselette, that will not do at all," he told her calmly.

"And why not? It's only fair," she glared at him.

"That will not do," he spat, "because I cannot give you the diary sooner than after Crimbo hols. And I will not be endorsing the Weasel look until then."

"A contract, then?" her glare had morphed into a predatory smirk after she had stifled to urge to childishly inform him that Weasley was in fashion that year and he had nothing to fear for endorsing the latest trend.

"Very well. Shall I Summon us a typical Wizarding Contract then?"

"Oh no, Malfoy," Ginny purred, reaching into the pocket of her robe. "We are going to do this in a way that leaves you no means of squirming out of it."

He stared suspiciously at the tiny Celtic knife that she produced out of her pocket. "What the hell are you going to do?"

"In ancient times, before wands and Wizarding Contracts were invented, wizards used to make their bargains by using an intermediary. The bond forged was unbreakable, and the wizard was compelled to keep his oath," Ginny explained, staring stonily at Malfoy.

"So who did they use?" he asked, his expression curious.

"Why, the oldest intermediary there was," she replied with a smile, "the Earth."

"You have to be bloody kidding me!" Malfoy exploded. "You cannot mean an Earth Vow. That's dangerous, ancient magic. Hell, it might even be Dark for all I know!" he protested.

"Surely the son of a Death Eater isn't scared of a little bit of ancient magic," she commented caustically.

"Weaselette, I'd be a fool not to be weary of magic that hasn't been practiced for at least a millennium."

"Well, people have called you a plonker before. Daft too," Ginny grinned, knowing that she was only goading him into accepting her terms. "Anyway Malfoy, it's the only way I'm going to do this. I don't trust your Wizarding Contracts or what not. So, yes or no?"

At his shaky nod, Ginny briskly sliced open her palm, letting a stream of blood sink into the earth at her feet. "The Earth keeps my promise for me," she muttered. "I will return you to your previous looks by next Wednesday." A quick healing charm and the wound had closed, leaving puckered-angry red flesh in its wake.

"Next Wednesday? I shall have to endure this until next Wednesday, Weaselette. It's Tuesday now, that's more than a week away. I can't keep eating in the kitchens like a house elf and hiding in dark alcoves like an ogre!" Malfoy protested vehemently.

"Then perhaps you should have apologised to me, Malfoy," Ginny bit back. "Now shut up and cut. And you better give me the book first day after winter hols," she growled, thrusting the knife at him blade-first.

Malfoy muttered something under his breath but took the knife, and in silent resignation mimicked her previous actions. "The Earth keeps my promise for me. I will return you Tom Marvolo Riddle's diary by the first day after the winter hols."

Satisfied, Ginny took her knife back, stuffed it into the pocket of her robes and stood up. "It was a pleasure doing business with you, Malfoy," she threw back over her shoulder with a smirk.

"A nightmare as always, Weaselette," was his reply, and Ginny couldn't help the giggle that escaped her lips.

Draco Malfoy was a paradox indeed.