Author's Notes: I am contemplating posting the first couple chapters of a fic I dug out from the cellar of my hard drive. It's another D/G fic but with a lighter plot, lots of snarky humor, and a psychologically intact Draco. I can only write The Slytherin's Witch in a short bursts. Then I get overwhelmed with angst and need to take a break. I think it's about time for one of those breaks. Any takers?

It's called, "Along Came A Wizard" and goes something like this: A bet, a wanted witch, and a magical contract land Draco in a most unexpected situation. Can his Slytherin soul survive intact or will he surrender to the wiles of the pathetic appearing Weasley witch he unwillingly drug home under the threat of death?

Chapter 4

His Vulnerability

Three weeks later she capped the bottle of Firewhiskey and slowly placed it in the sideboard. Then she sat on the floor in front of the fireplace, drawing her legs to her chest and resting her chin on top of her knees. The glowing embers of the dying fire were the only sources of weak light in the room. In another half an hour, everything would go pitch black and cold.

She reached up and pulled the wizard's cloak down off the sofa and around herself. The hood fell over her head, covering the front of her face. It was now completely dark to her eyes.

No, he never came back. The only evidence of his nocturnal visit was the fine winter garment he left behind, the cloak with no identifying marks and dozens of empty pockets. She drew it around her frail frame, hugging the soft fabric to her chilled body and surrounding herself with surrogate Slytherin warmth.

Of course she had gone to the pub, dozens of times, with no luck. He had vanished again. She closed her tired eyes, attempting to transport herself back to that other time. The time long ago when he would throw his cloak around her in the frozen dungeon-hiding place they met in late at night.

She laughed at him back then, at his ridiculous attempts to protect and provide and care for her. It wasn't as if she hadn't brought her own cloak. But that wasn't the point, was it? She sighed, tipping the hood back far enough to allow her to see. This was painfully clear to her now. Many things were clear.

He loved her beyond reason in his own, indecipherable Malfoy way. No, it wasn't her way or the way of any other wizarding boy she had known. But it was his way.

She cringed, remembering how she had brushed aside his expensive gifts and accused him of trying to 'buy' her affection. No, he wasn't trying to 'buy' her. Those gifts were his way of loving her. It was the only way he had ever known, the only thing he had ever seen. He was telling her over and over again with each new gift how much he loved her. But she couldn't see that then, and he couldn't tell her.

It was his last gift to her that was unbearable. He gave her up and pushed her away to protect her during the War. It was her neurotic insecurity that had mistaken his sacrifice for something else. How could such a magnificent wizard have loved her once? But he did, and now she knew.

All the pieces of that long forgotten and much-maligned puzzle fell into place weeks ago. There were no jagged edges or ill-fitting pieces. His unbroken circle was complete.

Ginny stood and walked over to the kitchen table, picking up her wand. She remembered the day he gave her the precious piece of wood. Her wand had been malfunctioning a tad, but it was still a perfectly good wand, as far as Weasley wands go, but he had gone and gotten her this one instead. He insisted she keep it, putting his foot down in a way she had never seen before.

They argued over the bloody thing for days until she threatened to break it in half. She was insulted at the suggestion that her wand needed replacing. No, it wasn't in the same league as the wand he had bought for her, but it was her mother's old wand. Was her mother's wand not good enough for him?

Ginny held up the contentious piece and brought it down in a stunning swoop with one swift stroke, watching the red and gold sparks fly from its tip. Then she held the thing to her chest. No, the wand wasn't about all of her ridiculous nonsense. It was about the upcoming War and her need for protection from something that would never fail her in any situation, ever. It had saved her life many times where her old wand would have faltered. And despite its connection to her former wizard, it became one of her most treasured possessions.

She closed her eyes, envisioning herself in his elegant flat somewhere in London. His overly long baby soft platinum locks fell into his face as he slept. His intoxicated arms wrapped around her as his hot, alcohol tinged lips burned hers. Drawing an unsteady breath, she raised her wand, and foolishly attempted to reunite herself with her former wizard.

When she opened her eyes, she was standing in the middle of the Slytherin's flat. It was dark and silent. Moonlit silver was streaming into the place, forming odd shadows and splashes of hesitant light over the contents of his living room. She stood still, waiting to hear some stirring from somewhere in the dwelling. There was only silence.

"Draco?"

Silence.

"Draco?" A little louder.

Silence.

----- ----- -----

The Slytherin Apparated home in the early morning hours, exhausted. He threw his Muggle jacket on the sofa, kicked off his shoes, and kept walking. No, he never turned on the lights. He preferred the soothing darkness that enveloped him and his entire world at night, hiding the scars and the putrid truths of his daylight hours.

Before he stepped into the room, he saw it. His wand was reflexively drawn into striking position in less than a Thestral's heartbeat. He stood, motionless, staring at the cloaked figure, watching the regular rhythm of its breathing for many minutes, until he had convinced himself of its apparent slumber.

Cautiously creeping over with his wand and an appropriate curse at the ready, the Slytherin ripped off the intruder's hood with one swift motion. That's when he saw her.

Ginny's slight frame was wrapped in his cloak, asleep on his bed. Her crimson silk was flooding his bedcovers with its moonlit brilliance. He groaned and sank to his knees in front of her, dropping his wand to the floor with a clatter.

"Ginny," he breathed, placing his tortured face on her sleeping form and soaking in the glory of her wondrous presence. The Slytherin wrapped his shaking arms around her and hung onto his beautiful witch.

Many minutes later, when he finally managed to extricate himself from the unconscious woman long enough to lift her into his arms, she stirred and opened her dark eyes, staring at him. He froze.

"Draco, what are you doing?"

"I'm taking you home, Ginny." She shook her sleepy head.

"I can Apparate myself home." Before he could stop her, she was climbing down from his arms and standing, still wrapped in his cloak. She withdrew her wand and looked at him. "I wasn't going to stay. I fell asleep waiting for you." His pained silver greys never moved from her face.

"Ginny - " She shook her head.

"Don't say it. It's okay." Suddenly remembering his cloak, she pulled it from her shoulders and placed it in his hands, revealing her white cotton nightgown underneath. "This is yours. You forgot it."

"Thank you."

She took two steps back from the Slytherin and stared at him with those brilliant dark eyes. "Goodnight, Draco." He sighed.

"Goodnight, Ginny."

She didn't move. Instead, her wand hit the wooden floor with a muffled clunk before she rushed to him, throwing her delicate arms around his familiar frame and burying her face in his chest. He reflexively wrapped his steadying arms around her and heard her stifled cry.

"Ginny," he said softly, running one hand reassuringly through her crimson tresses before loosening his hold on her. She shook her head and tightened her arms around him.

When he gently pried her arms loose many minutes later, she let them drop to her side and leaned against his chest, her cheek rubbing the soft fabric of his shirt. He took her tear-stained face in his elegant hands and tipped her chin up with one thumb until her reluctant dark eyes met his. Then he gently brushed his warm lips against hers, whispering, "Stay with me, Ginny."

The Slytherin was irreversibly sliding down that slippery slope, the one with no soft landing for either of them. She was his terminal weakness, his Achilles' heel, his only vulnerability. He was powerless to stop himself as he picked up her fragile body in his arms and carried her back to his bed.

When he slid in between the cool sheets that night, she crawled over and into his waiting arms, burying herself in his warmth. He cradled her precious form to his as he took an unsteady breath, kissed her softly, and closed his frightened eyes.

Author's Note: Thanks for reading. I was hesitant about posting The Slytherin's Witch because I wasn't sure it would find an audience. It's way over the edge in terms of angst, even for me, so I appreciate every reader who has given it a chance. I realize it's not for everyone. I was only half joking when I told a friend that I might kill off every reader before the end! Fluff? What's fluff?