Finally, here's chapter 2 (not that anyone has been waiting). The usual disclaimer applies; all the characters and locations belong to JK Rowling, I claim nothing but the out-of-character behaviors and the story.

Draco was running late. He hated being late, unless it was on purpose, but this time he had overslept and was bound to miss breakfast if he didn't get a move on. He hated hurrying, too, and despite the empty dormitory feared being caught in a less-than-cool moment. In short, he was in a terrible mood, and was not disposed to being kind to Pansy Parkinson as he made his way out of the common room. She gave him a smile which he easily ignored, and frowned as he pushed past her.

"Draco, wait!" she called, and he stopped.

"I'll give you six seconds exactly, Pansy. Beginning now."

"I just wanted to know if you've seen the news." She handed him a copy of that morning's Daily Prophet. "That awful boy we don't like, Murray Chittock, and his family have been killed by the Dark Lord. Take a look." He did indeed, and as he saw the picture on the front page an icy chill ran through his entire body. It couldn't be...

"Six seconds are up," he managed to Pansy, who was waiting for a reaction, and she pouted and entered the common room. Draco was left to fall apart in peace; he lost the strength in his knees and only the wall next to him caught him from collapsing. Murray Chittock was dead...

Draco reached frantically into his robe pocket and, sure enough, there it was, the shrunken letter from his father. He snatched the parchment out and managed to cast an Engorgement spell on it after several failed attempts. He scanned the letter...no mistaking it, there it was, clear as glass in his father's handwriting: Your aunt and I are considering a new business venture and will be off to meet with new backers for the next fortnight. Along the way we will stop by the Chittock house. I will give them your regards. His father had done this, but it was Draco's own fault; he could remember complaining about the liberal overtones of Glenda Chittock's Wizarding Wireless Network talk show, and the condescension her son always expressed to Draco whenever they visited. That kid had really pissed him off, and now Lucius had killed him. For Draco's sake—he had given him his regards. Draco thought he might vomit. He stumbled along the passageway, not knowing where he was going but hoping that he could leave his guilt behind, hoping that some movement would warm him up from this terrible coldness he felt inside of him.

He blindly turned a corner at some point and, completely unconscious of what he was doing, walked right into someone.

"Sorry—I'm so sorry," he gasped, barely seeing and not noting the red hair of the girl who stood in front of him.

"It's alright," she said in a gentle voice that broke him, and he let out a tearless sob and fell into her arms.

"It's alright," Ginny found herself saying. She was too stunned to be anything but nice in response to this completely unexpected occurrence—Draco Malfoy, wandering aimlessly, his face much paler than usual and looking as wretched as she had ever seen anyone. She was even more shocked when he reached out and fell against her, burying his head in her neck. But there was only one thing to do; she put her arms around him and stroked his head and his back soothingly.

"It's alright," she whispered again into his ear.

"It isn't," he said, "it's horrible—too horrible to bear. How could I..."

"It's not your fault," she said instinctively. He nodded into her shoulder, which was surprisingly dry. He wasn't crying. But he was shaking, and she tightened her hold around him. "It's not," she insisted. He didn't say anything for a while, so she didn't, either, and simply rubbed his back until his shaking subsided and he began taking deep breaths. "That's better. It'll all be alright, now. Just breathe." She couldn't stand the thought of anyone being this upset, and was glad to see Malfoy calming down somewhat. He loosened his arms from her shoulders and held up his hand without looking.

"It's all in this letter, see?"

"What letter?" He looked up, then, and apparently realizing that he held nothing in his hand, got a fearful look on his face.

"The letter!" he whispered in horror, and with a completely cursory look at her face, turned around and rushed off down the hallway. Ginny didn't move a muscle for a good five minutes. When it was clear he was not coming back, she turned in the opposite direction and made her way to the Charms classroom. She was not late, but was the last to arrive. She sat down towards the back, in a seat next to Colin.

"Are you alright?" he asked upon seeing her face. She couldn't even begin to imagine what she looked like—what on earth had just happened?—so she nodded blankly and said nothing. She wasn't able to cast a single charm that period; she kept thinking back to Malfoy's stricken face. What did he think was his fault? What was the letter he had been so scared upon losing? Had he found it? She found herself hoping that he had.

Great Merlin, what had he been thinking? He hadn't been thinking, that much was obvious. The realization of what he had done didn't even hit him until he had his father's letter in his hands again; found in a dark corner on his second sweep of the hallways. He had reached down and picked it up, an enormous feeling of relief washing over him. He had been convinced that a professor would find the letter and realize who had killed the Chittocks, and that the whole thing had been inspired by Draco himself. He had been sure he was destined for Azkaban. Then he found the blessed, cursed letter and burned it.

As soon as he had, of course, his mind harkened back to the scene of three minutes ago. A new horror washed over him as he remembered the girl's red hair—it was Ginny Weasley. Of all people for him to go mindlessly confessing to, it had to be a Gryffindor, and one of Potter's friends. What had he told her? He could barely remember. He was pretty sure she had asked if it was his fault, and he was sure he had said it was. Did she know what he was talking about? If she saw the Daily Prophet, she might be able to draw the connection. Should he hunt her down and Obliviate her? He struck that idea immediately. It was too dangerous, as he hadn't properly learned the curse. But if it turned out that she was more dangerous, he would have to do it. The crime had already been committed, and now he needed to make sure he stayed safe.

He did feel distinctly calmer, though, largely thanks to her soothing voice and hands. As much as he hated her, he was glad she had been around for that reason. As long as she didn't go blabbing...he would have to do something to make sure she didn't. If only he had something to blackmail her with. But she was a Gryffindor, and a Weasley. She probably had nothing to hide.

Everyone has a price, his father's voice echoed in his mind. It was a family mantra. Could he somehow buy her silence? She was poor, surely if he offered her enough money, she'd agree. Of course, then he would be the one being blackmailed. But it seemed to be his only option. If she got too greedy, or began to regret the deal, then he would be forced to appeal to his father to be taught the Obliviating curse. For now he would put that off for as long as possible.

Thank Circe it was Friday, at least. He would certainly skive off his first class, Arithmancy, and would only then consider the rest of his classes. He now made his way back to his dormitory. It was entirely empty. Pansy had gone to class, thankfully, along with the rest of his house. He went to his room and countered the locking hex on his trunk to open it. From the top of the mess inside he picked up a suede pouch that clinked with the distinctive sound of money, and shoved it into his robes. Whatever was in there ought to be enough to buy off the little Weasley, and he couldn't imagine she'd have a very high price anyway. But then, no one ever said that the very poor weren't creative. She might have a lot of uses for a lot of galleons.

Draco decided to go to his second class, as it was Potions, and he hoped that watching Snape torture the Gryffindors would cheer him up somewhat. It did, but only slightly. He couldn't manage to forget the awful situation he was in—responsible for the death of three people, with his father surely expecting an expression of gratitude in the near future, and a third party probably ready to either milk him for all he was worth or turn him in to the proper authorities. Not to mention, his own guilt was overwhelming. What a big, fat mouth he had. Three people would still be alive if only he had known how to shut up in front of his crazy father.

He flinched, physically, at that thought. If his father ever knew he had called him crazy...suffice it to say, it was not a pretty thought.

By lunchtime Ginny was feeling somewhat normal; the memory of Draco Malfoy's pitiful condition was fresh in her mind, but she managed not to think of it and to focus on Harry, Ron and Hermione, who were once again whispering together in heated discussion. Ginny couldn't hear a word that they were saying, though she was seated closest to them. She kept a sharp eye on their lips, hoping to catch a word or two by reading them. She caught two words: murder and Malfoy. She had to shiver. Neville noticed, and leaned over.

"All right, Ginny?"

"Yes, shh," she encouraged, trying to hear more. She glanced across the Great Hall to see if Malfoy was sitting in his usual seat; he was, and moreover, he was glaring at her. She nearly jumped—how could he look at her that way, after the way he had held on to her earlier that day? Only Malfoy would be capable of it. She rolled her eyes and looked away. Neville was watching her again. "What?"

"Why was Malfoy looking at you?"

"Why does Malfoy do anything he does? He's demented." Neville snickered. Ginny made it a point not to look back at the Slytherin table, but when she ducked out of the Great Hall early to change her books, she felt a hand tug her arm and turned to see Draco Malfoy. A very cold looking Malfoy.

"I need to talk to you, Weasley."

"Go on, talk," she said coolly. He looked around them pointedly.

"This is not a good place. Follow me." He walked off without waiting for an answer, and she followed him out of the main doors and onto the lawn. Glancing about to make sure they were alone, he withdrew a bag from the pocket of his robes and looked at her with sharp eyes. "I'll make it very worth your while if you don't mention what I said—or did—this morning to anyone." He waited for an answer, but she just stared at him in disgust. Misinterpreting her silence, he continued with a threat. "Of course, if you would rather not take the money, I can always Obliviate you, but I figured you would prefer the simpler method." That didn't add up.

"Why do you care?"

"Huh?"

"Why do you care what I prefer? Why don't you just Obliviate me? Why bother to try and bribe me?" She had him there, and she could tell by his narrowing eyes that he knew it.

"This could be a very lucrative opportunity for you, Weas—"

"Answer my question." He was silent for a few moments, and finally responded,

"Because I'm a nice guy. Will you take my offer? This bag is filled with galleons," he opened it to show Ginny more money than she had ever seen in her life. "At least seventy-five, probably more. And all you need to do to get it is keep your mouth shut. Surely that's not too hard, even for you." Did he really think she'd blab? Clearly he did. And why? Because he thought like a Slytherin; because his mind went first to bribery and treachery.

"You're disgusting, Malfoy. Pitiful. I don't want your bloody money." She walked off quickly before she wound up smacking him.