Title: Miles to Go (8/?)
Author: Sonya
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Anything you recognize, I don't own. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN, etc. Harry Potter and all associated characters, setting, props, etc., belong to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Inc., etc. No copyright infringement is intended, so please don't sue - all you'll get is a really bratty bird and some really spoiled rats.
Spoilers: Up to 'Wrecked' in the Buffyverse, up to "Goblet of Fire" in the Potterverse.
Pairings: Willow/Snape, Hermione/Viktor Krum, Draco/Ginny, Fred/Angelina. Other 'ships to be decided.
Summary: Thoughts at 3a.m.
***
Draco stared up into blackness.
Somewhere nearby, Crabbe was snoring. He could hear a faint shuffling that meant Millicent Bulstrode's damned cat had sneaked into the boys' dormitory again and was probably again trying to find a way to catch Blaise Zabini's thrice-damned bat, which roamed loose wherever the thing damn well pleased. Someone turned over in their sleep, rustling sheets. The plumbing shifted and clanked in the cold dark, ancient metal contracting with the chill of night.
You have been a credit to your name and heritage today.
The words of his father's letter whispered in Draco's head as he lay there, very still, his breathing the loudest thing in the small, dark world of his bed. His fingers brushed carefully, worriedly across the skin of his left arm, just below the bend of his elbow. It was cold and goose-bumped and unremarkable, just another square inch or so of the body he'd worn for almost sixteen years, the body that housed the veins in which flowed the pure wizard blood of the ancient and noble Malfoy line.
A credit to your name and heritage.
"You know I could curse you into next week."
"But you won't."
Name and heritage . .
He was very tired, feeling as if every particle of heat had been drained from his body, freezing but too emptied of all energy to even shiver. Sleep wouldn't come. His throat was still faintly raw, and he was thirsty, but getting up and getting a glass of water would mean moving. He didn't want to move.
The tips of his fingers felt very rough, the skin on that tiny bit of his arm seeming unnaturally sensitive. It's going to hurt, I think. It's going to hurt rather a lot.
It's going to hurt more if I humiliate myself again. Fail again. Get sick when someone screams again . . get kicked in the balls and put thoroughly in my place by a little girl again . .
Credit to your name and heritage ..
. . but you won't.
No one knows what a pathetic git I am. No one knows I was sick.
Except her. Who I could have cursed into next week. But I didn't.
I wish I knew why the bloody hell not. The whole blasted universe would make a great deal more sense right now if I just knew that.
Wish I could curse them all straight to hell. Weasel-girl and her Weasel-brother and Potter and Granger and Dumbledore. And Father and Snape and You-Know-Sodding-Bloody-Well-Who-You-Cowardly-Fucking-Little-Shit-Who-Can't-Even-Think-His-Name. He-Who-Will-Be-Burning-A-Hole-In-Your-Arm.
Wish they'd all go to hell and just leave me here . . where it's quiet, cold, dark . . nobody screaming, no name, no blood, no tests . . no one trusting me . . trusting me not to curse her and I wish to bloody fucking hell I knew why she did that.
Wish they'd all go to hell.
Somewhere in hell there's a screaming muggle girl covered in blood . . if muggles even go to hell, suppose they can't, don't have souls, but I think she is, I think she's in hell screaming and bloody and waiting for me . .
I was a credit to my name and heritage, yesterday.
I shot up the Dark Mark.
I got sick in an alleyway and hid there and got kicked in the balls by a skinny redheaded little girl.
I don't want a mark burnt on my arm. I like my arm the way it is.
I'm afraid it's going to hurt.
How old are you, boy? Your mother's fault for coddling you!
You're right to be disgusted, Father.
I'm pathetic. I'm pathetic and I hate you.
And there's a screaming muggle girl waiting in hell for both of us.
In the hazy mental picture that filled his brain as he succumbed to exhausted sleep, the girl was Ginny Weasley, and she had his father's wand pointed at his chest like a sword.
***
Ginny Weasley turned over in her bed, kicking the covers down to her feet. She couldn't find a cool spot anywhere to lay, the entire bed lukewarm and unpleasant with her thrashing. Her feet were still too hot.
With a disgruntled sigh she sat up on the edge of the bed, shooting a venomous glare at her dorm-mates' curtain-shrouded beds. They always waited too long to snuff the fire, and it was always roasting in the middle of the night. They were always cold. Ginny was never cold.
She could practically hear her mother telling her she shouldn't complain, that she was hot all the time because her body burned up energy so quickly, and that's why she was so thin.
Well, I'd rather be fat as a house and well-rested, thanks.
She plucked up her wand from her bedside table and padded across the carpet and down the stairs to the bathroom, whispering a charm to light the wall sconces and flinching at the sudden brightness. The tile floor was blissfully cool under her toes. She sat down in a corner, pulling her nightshirt tightly over her knees in reflexive modesty. She picked up a magazine another girl must have discarded, skimmed the cover idly, and tossed it away again.
Don't really have a need to know every wizard's secret bedroom weakness, do I? Not likely anyone's going to be interested in odd little Ginny.
Besides, I think I know quite enough. There were disconcerting memories. Tom's memories.
Stop thinking of him as *Tom*, like he's a distant cousin or something. Voldemort. Voldemort, Voldemort, Voldemort!
"Myrtle?" she called out hesitantly, her voice echoing softly in the tiled room. There was a faint whooshing noise from the plumbing, and a few moments later the silvery form of the ghost appeared over the top of one of the stalls.
"My, you look dreadful," Myrtle greeted her cheerfully.
"I'm still not dying, Myrtle," Ginny retorted tiredly. "Healthy as a horse."
"Oh well," Myrtle sighed with a shrug, and floated over to hover above one of the sinks. "What is it, then? Do you want to talk about Tom?" The ghost's eyes took on an avid gleam.
"No," Ginny said shortly. Ever since she'd let her murderer's identity slip to the ghostly girl, Myrtle had become positively obsessed with relating her every glimpse and random encounter with Tom Marvolo Riddle to Ginny. 'Oh, this one time, I was late to Herbology, and I was running in the hall, and he stopped me and told me to slow down! He was Head Boy, you know, and I was very intimidated. And he gave me a very nasty look! Do you remember what he was thinking, Ginny? Was he plotting it? Was he planning how he was going to murder me?'
Absolutely no use telling Myrtle not to call him Tom. She just loves it, like she knows some dreadful juicy secret.
Which, I suppose, she does.
"So what *do* you want?" Myrtle demanded irritably, her voice whining and petulant. "Or is this a prank? Just want to see if I'll come when I'm called, do you? I suppose you tell all the others how you've got stupid old Myrtle trained just like a dog!"
"I've never pranked you, Myrtle," Ginny sighed, shifting her feet to a new and cooler spot on the floor.
"Your brothers have," Myrtle insisted.
"My brothers prank *everyone*," Ginny answered. "Really, you'd have to be offended if they *didn't* prank you, because they prank everyone they think is worth noticing."
"Oh," Myrtle seemed to take this into consideration. "Well, they haven't pranked me in a very long while. I suppose they think I'm boring, do they?"
Everyone thinks you're boring, Myrtle.
"Nah, once they've gotten you good a time or two, they usually move on," Ginny lied.
"So why are you awake in the middle of the night?" Myrtle pressed. "Oooh, is it a boy? Are you very heartbroken?"
Oh yes. Just not nearly like you think.
"No, not a boy," Ginny said. "Just . . just things. I guess sort of a boy. But not in a *boy* way."
Myrtle scrunched up her nose. "Well that didn't make much sense. I think you're just not telling me things. You're sure it's not about Tom again?"
"I guess it is a little," Ginny confessed, and Myrtle sidled up closer. Ginny didn't mind; the ghost was pleasantly cold. I suppose she really would be very offended if I asked if I could stick my feet in her.
And eww, that sounded wrong! She stifled a giggle.
"It's not about anything I remember about Tom, it's just about . . well, I guess it's sort of about how I . . met him," Ginny continued, working out her thoughts aloud. "There's this other boy -" Do NOT say his name, do not say ANYTHING that could EVER let her guess who! - "and I think he's maybe a little . . well, like maybe the same thing's happened to him."
"Tom's possessed another student?" Myrtle asked breathlessly, and Ginny wondered idly how she managed that tone when she hadn't had breath in years. "Oooh, is he going to try to kill more people? Is there another monster?"
"No, no, not like that," Ginny shook her head. "I just mean . . maybe somebody else who . . who's had somebody making them do stuff they don't want to do. Maybe somebody who'd understand?"
"I'm not good enough?" Myrtle asked with a sniff, drawing away, shoulders setting for a good sob. The ghost's voice was spiraling upwards towards hysteria. "I don't understand you?"
"No, of course I don't mean that!" Ginny snapped. She'd learned months ago that placating didn't work with Myrtle. "I'm talking to you now, aren't I?"
"Just because it's the middle of the night and no one else -"
"Oh, *stop*," Ginny said with an exasperated wave. "Yes, yes, poor put-upon you. Do you want to hear or not?"
Myrtle paused, half-way to a really good tantrum. She seemed on the verge of sweeping off wailing regardless, but then her posture changed, and she floated back towards Ginny.
"Only because I've nothing better to do," the ghost said with a very long-suffering air.
"I couldn't talk to this boy anyway," Ginny said. "He's not . . he's not very nice. I don't like him. Nobody likes him, he's a complete git."
"Sounds dreadful," Myrtle commiserated with great relish.
"But I feel like . . this is so confusing . . I feel *responsible*."
Myrtle frowned.
"Why?" the ghost asked after a moment, sounding honestly bewildered for once.
"Because of Tom," Ginny said softly. "It's stupid, but sometimes . . I feel like . . well, what a waste I made of it, you know?"
"Of Tom?" Myrtle repeated, puzzled.
"I guess," Ginny shrugged. "Here I am, knowing all about him . . and . . well, fat lot of good it's doing anyone."
"So you feel like it's your fault, about this other boy," Myrtle concluded.
"And other things," Ginny nodded. "I hate not doing anything. And I guess what happened . . with this other boy, and everything else, which I guess you've heard all about . . it made me feel all sorry for him even though I hate him and it just reminded me what it felt like not being in any control at all, and it's all just so . . it's all just so *frustrating*!"
"That sounds sort of like being dead," Myrtle commented.
Ginny nodded, and shivered.
***
Hermione glanced up at a small noise from the hallway outside her dorm room; she thought she heard footsteps. When she paused to listen, though, there was nothing, just Crookshanks jumping up onto the bed behind her and meeping softly, arching and rubbing against her back.
She reached one hand behind her to pet the cat, while the other scrubbed angrily at her eyes as she bent back down into the soft sphere of light emanating from the tip of her wand. It lay on her bedspread surrounded by a handful of crumpled, discarded scrolls.
Crookshanks settled fussily onto the pillow behind her with much circling and kneading. She sniffled and hiccuped, and dug both sets of knuckles against her eyelids so hard she saw stars.
Don't be an *idiot*, Hermione, it's nothing to cry about.
You ought to be ashamed, crying over something so silly, with all that's happenedw.
Drawing in a shaky, resolute breath, she picked up her quill and smoothed a fresh parchment out atop a heavy book, set the book on her knees and began very determinedly to write.
Dear Viktor,
It's the middle of the night here. This is the fourth time I've tried to write this letter. I don't know what to say. I'm fine. Please tell me you didn't really stay awake until you received this. You're going to fall off your broom in practice from sheer exhaustion and then I'll be the one who can't sleep for worrying while you're lying in a hospital somewhere having your bones re-grown. So you see, worrying so much about me is really quite inconsiderate of you.
She gave a watery little giggle at her own wit.
(I am joking, you know - except that I do hope you haven't been waiting up all this time)
Then she bit her lip.
I don't know how to say this next without sounding like an utter twit, but it does need saying, so here goes. You're going to laugh at me, unless of course you become completely disgusted with me, which I would very much understand.
A teardrop splattered onto the parchment, feathering the still-wet ink into indistinct blurs. With a muttered, bitten-off curse she snatched up her wand and whispered the charm to correct the damage, in the process dousing her magical light. For a moment she fumbled in the dark, nearly upsetting her inkpot. Crookshanks gave a disgruntled meow and re-adjusted himself on the pillow behind her.
The thing is, Hermione wrote on once she'd gotten her wand re-ignited and could again see the parchment, I really wanted to get you something just right for Christmas.
That sounds just pathetic, doesn't it? One of my friends is down in the hospital in a coma, and this morning I was worried about Christmas gifts. I really won't mind if you want to tell me what a shallow, awful person I am. But you see, because I was so determined to find you just the right thing - well, I haven't found you anything, just yet. And I hadn't even begun thinking about your parents or your sisters.
And now we're not going to have any more Hogsmeade weekends, perhaps not for the rest of the year, certainly not for the rest of the term. Even owls in and out are being strictly monitored. There'll be no more chances to buy so much as a card before the term ends, never mind a real gift. And I won't be home until three days before Christmas, which is much too short a time to get anything from London to Bulgaria.
So I just wanted you to know - and please try to explain to your parents that I'm not ignoring them or snubbing them and tell Oksana and Ana that I didn't forget about them either - I just wanted to be sure you understand, when there's no package from me on Christmas, that -
She sucked in an angry breath and bit her lip so hard it hurt, determined she would not start blubbering again.
- that I haven't forgotten you, and I do care, very, very much.
I wish you were here.
***
Willow stared up at the canopy over her head, thoughts whirling. Dinner in the Great Hall had been unreal; the ceiling that looked like a slightly cloudy winter night sky, the magically appearing food, the Charms professor who she was fairly sure wasn't human.
Being introduced to hundreds of teenagers as 'Professor Rosenberg'.
And it's really freakin' cold in here.
Well, duh it's cold. It's Scotland in November. Also, dungeons of medieval castles - not known for their ability to retain heat.
Would probably help if I had some remotely appropriate clothing. Oh, I have lots of socks, though. Maybe I could sew them together into a nightgown or something.
Note to self: packing while smashed *bad*.
Not that that's going to be an issue ever, ever EVER again. Because I will not be getting smashed again. Well, maybe in the normal alcohol-consumption way. Or not. No, that's bad too. No drunkenness or magic-induced highs or . . or coffee. No caffeine. Or chocolate.
And tomorrow you really must go shopping for some hair shirts. Get a grip already!
I really want to not mess this up.
Things are going to be different this time. Willow version 2.0. New and improved. Much more user-friendly without the power-mad addict glitch the last code had.
Assuming the glitch is in the code, and not a hardware problem.
Wow, am I a geek.
But . . what if it is just me? What if there's just something wrong with me that means I'm gonna screw up everything I touch no matter how hard I try?
She rolled over, picking morosely at a loose thread on the comforter.
I really miss Xander right now.
And Tara.
And Amy-the-rat. Does that make me a completely horrible and slightly insane sort of person that I miss her as a rat and not as a human being?
But she made all these comforting little ratty noises while she was up at night doing whatever it is rats do and this room is really way too quiet now and hearing her moving around always helped me sleep. Like, it's okay, 'cause there's another living being here. Amy the rat just going on about her nightly ratty business. The world is moving on, no matter what happened during the day. It was official it'll-be-okay noise.
And I'm across a whole continent and an ocean from everybody I know and I broke Dawn's arm and I pulled Buffy out of heaven and I messed with Tara's mind and it's very cold and I think I might never get to go to sleep with her holding me again and that's just making me feel like throwing up and I really don't know that things will be okay. I think things are really not okay right now.
I shouldn't be thinking like that. Things are going to be . . things. The world is gonna keep on turning and the sun's gonna come up tomorrow and I'm gonna have to get out of this bed and make with the going to classes whether it's okay or not.
I've got people giving me a chance, here. Trusting me.
How'd that happen so fast? How do I already have responsibilities here?
Tara, baby, I need you. I need you so bad right now.
Tell me a bedtime story . . I can't fall asleep . .
I really have to fall asleep. I need to be awake tomorrow. Need to pay attention in all the other professors - oh god, I really just thought 'other professors', I am a professor, oh god, do not hyperventilate, no hyperventilating now, because that will not help you fall asleep now so you can be awake tomorrow in their classes.
Well, at least one of them will be that Severus guy's class. And he wasn't so bad. We handled the poisonous snakes thing and the obnoxious wizard police together. I think we sorta bonded, in the way that you do when you're trying to keep a bunch of people from getting dead. So, one class I don't need to be nervous about.
Though all the other professors were kind of avoiding him at dinner. Weird. Maybe he's the faculty outcast guy or something. Which would be handy because if they've already got an outcast then it makes it less likely that the outcast will be me.
And he sorta reminded me of Oz. That can only be of the good.
Unless it's because he's a werewolf.
But I don't think so.
Ugh, I am still not sleeping.
***
"Hey," Fred Weasley whispered, pulling off his borrowed invisibility cloak and perching on the edge of Angelina's bed. She didn't answer, of course. Her features were obscured in the dimness of the otherwise empty hospital wing, just the faintest hint of moonlight reflecting off of cheekbones and forehead and soft-looking lips.
"Couldn't sleep," he explained himself with a shrug. "Dumbledore'll kill me if I get caught again, after he told me it'd be no problem s'long as I just asked for a pass, but, well, McGonagall's not likely to respond to being woken at three in the morning by giving me a hall pass, now is she? So I took Harry's cloak to get here, and I'll have to leave before Madam Pomphrey wakes up." He paused a beat. "Or Harry, for that matter."
The only sound was her steady breathing, and the soft creaking of the bed as Fred shifted his weight, getting more comfortable.
"Gives us about two hours, I figure," he said, shrugging again as if mildly embarrassed. "So I'm just gonna sit here, and . . well, if I fall asleep and you wake up, just kick me."
He settled down across the foot of her bed, head propped up on one elbow, watching her face and waiting, the room around them still and dark.
TBC . .
***
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
- Robert Frost