!WARNING!
This chapter lives up to the blood/graphic violence rating with a vengeance and there is some profanity, so if you are even a little bit squeamish DON'T READ, this is pretty intense. Finally out of HBP, and now we find out what Draco's been doing all this time. Plot backs up a bit to right after Dumbledore's death after a small update. Don't kill me, wait and see.

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Ginny passed through the weeks following the Death Eater attack in the same odd, surreal blur that had settled on her after the battle. She couldn't reconcile the world she was in now with the dark, abrupt night she had spent fighting in the tower. That had been fast-paced, startlingly clear, and with no time to think beyond blind reaction and dodging the next curse. Coming back seemed to be like going into slow-motion, and (Ginny hated to admit it) it was like she had been riding dangerous, seething rapids and whitewater only to find herself drifting slowly down a sluggish and mundane stream. Nothing was quite the same, it felt almost like the time after the fight at the Ministry, but then she'd still mostly been a frightened child, acting out of instinct and her quick Seeker's reflexes. She had been glad to get home and back to routine after that. Only recently had the nightmares of being pursued down dark hallways by faceless laughing voices started to go away, after all. Nightmares where one after another her friends fell or disappeared at every turn until she was finally left alone, backed into a hallway. Alone in the dark, a frightened little girl.

Ginny was no stranger to the feeling even then, but she had become stronger. Tom Riddle's assault on her mind had strengthened her, giving her a stubborn willfullness and resolve to never let anything else control her mind. Not fear, not nightmares, not even Voldemort.

She didn't feel brave, saying his name. She had seen the deepest, most intimate secrets of his past when he'd opened up to her, more probably than he'd intended her to see. He hadn't been very careful about sharing his memories in his blind desperation to get out, his longing for freedom. So he had emptied all of himself into her. Ginny knew the truth about Voldemort. About Tom. He was only a boy, a cruel, petulant teenage boy with a huge ego and a quick mind and tongue. No wonder Draco's drawn to him, she thought idly. But Ginny refused to be impressed. She had come through the Valley of Shadow, and she did not fear the evil she had seen.

Ginny Weasely was not afraid of the dark anymore.

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Somehow she had managed to maneuver herself and Harry through the last days of school, quietly supporting and helping the troubled boy. Harry was pensive most of the time, aloof and quiet. They sat for hours on the battlements, by the lake, at the edge of the woods; her arm around his shoulders, he staring off into space. Then the funeral came. And went. Ginny was not surprised or even crushed when Harry quietly broke up with her. They had come through too much for her to cry and carry on, even though she felt odd that she hadn't even cried about it. He seemed to have it firmly set in his mind that everyone he came close to, died.
His parents.
Sirius.
Dumbledore.
Ginny found it hard to argue against, but she did the best she could to convince him it wasn't his fault before she was whisked away and into the Long Summer of the Over-Watchful Parents.

She was sure she would suffocate under the constant vigilance of her parents: the strict curfews, the ceaseless interrogations on where she was going, where she had been, and who she was with. So, at two in the morning three weeks into the summer, Ginny quietly got up, put on a cloak while her family slept, and snuck out her bedroom window without a sound.

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Draco pelted down the stairs ahead of Snape, thankful for the extra Quidditch practices that had given him the reflexes to dodge the hexes and weave through mobs of confused Hufflepuffs. Snape occasionally caught up to him, giving him a harsh shove forward before looking back over his shoulder again. Finally they were past the Great Hall, running across soft damp grass, and Hagrid was standing in front of them, mouth open, staring horrorstruck at the Dark Mark in the sky.

Draco chanced a look over his shoulder as he darted past Hagrid. That idiot Potter! As if he could ever hope to challenge Snape. Severus had taught Draco to curse, better than Lucius ever had. But Lucius was in Azkaban, and Severus...Keep running, don't think about that. Thank God, I've passed the gate, where is Snape, damn him! Draco turned abruptly and squinted towards the castle. One of the idiot Death Eaters had set Hagrid's miserable hovel on fire. Ah, good, Snape's got that moron Potter on the ground. Come ON, man! Then Snape was running towards the gate, he grabbed Draco by the scruff of the neck and hauled him forward, threw an arm around his shoulders and then there was a squeezing, dizzying pressure and darkness as they Apparated. All too soon Draco's feet hit cold wet pavement and he stumbled forward onto his face.

It was a dimly lit space he looked up at, and very fetid smelling. Rubbing his head gingerly, Draco hauled himself upright, and leaned against the brick wall of the alley he found himself in, before recoiling from the wall in distaste. Shouts and laughter echoed through the dingy passage, and the dim light came through yellowed shades in the few illuminated windows on either side of the alley.

No, this was definitely not the Manor. And where the hell was Snape? The shouts seemed to be getting louder, and now Draco could hear the dull thud of boots. He wasn't panicked. Malfoys didn't panic. Death Eaters didn't panic, they didn't live long if they did. He muttered a hasty Illusion charm and stood still, waiting to see who was coming. Perhaps the plans had changed. Or perhaps Snape abandoned you and tailed it to the Dark Lord, a nasty little voice that sounded eerily like his father whispered in his ear.

"Shut up!" he hissed sharply to himself. The voices were beginning to be intelligible, or they would have been if the accents hadn't been so thick and slightly slurred with drink.

They were unmistakably British, and as they approached, Draco silently thanked whatever God was listening that he was at least in the same country. He leered disgustedly as the small pack of young men prowled down the alley.

"Hey, Donnal, yeh still have me last pack of fags, give 'em over," one belligerent youth snarled. The snarl was somewhat lessened when he swayed alarmingly to the left and had to skip a step to steady himself.
'Donnal' sneered back.

"Ahm keepin' it, ah payed for that last boddel, an' you drunk more of it even than Georgie."

A shorter, but nastier looking man glared at Donnal.

"An you would know fuck-all about et, wouldn' you?"

"Piss off."

"Give over the bloody fags!"

Draco stepped back towards the wall as they approached, nearly invisible. His foot came down on something soft and there was a bloodcurdling yell that caused him to leap straight into the air. He looked down, and an irate homeless man gibbered up at him inanely, clutching his hand. Draco heard profane exclamations behind him and jerked around just as a rough hand yanked his cloak off, along with his shaky Illusion charm.

"Hey, an look, if it ain't a chamerleon!" leered Donnal.

"My he IS fancy, ain't he?" smirked Georgie. "Wots ee doin' down here, dressed all fancy?"

"In a DRESS," leered Donnal, shaking the robe, "and a VEST. Goin' to grandma's, laddie?" Draco lashed out an arm and struck the short man in the face, ducking away from his grasping hands. As he turned away he whipped his wand out of his pocket and brandished it at them. The six men stared in astonishment for a second, and then burst into raucous drunken laughter.

Muggles, of all the damn luck, Draco thought.

"Yore goin' to put out an eye, lad!"

"Watch it Petey, he wants to whip you!"

Draco's lips thinned to a cold white line, and he glared back at them so coldly and malevolently that the laughter died away and the first two took a step backward. The short, ugly man fixed him with a stern glare.

"Put down the stick boy, we'll go easy on yeh. Yer only warning." Draco continued to stare at him. "All right then. Have at im, then." The six men started to move.

"Crucio!" Draco bellowed, and Donnal dropped to the ground, howling in agony and rolling about. Draco released him and the others stared at the sobbing, drunken oaf curled on the pavement. As one, the other five turned to look at Draco, and rushed him.

"AVA -" was all Draco could get out before he was crushed under the five enraged men, his wand snapped and useless immediately. Pounding, crippling blows rained on him, he tried to writhe out of their grip but strong hands held him by the shirt and the hair, two more wrapped around his neck and squeezed mercilessly.

"Yeh like that, pretty boy!" screeched one of them, hitting Draco in the stomach. The young wizard jerked painfully forward, gasping. His silver hair flopped sadly over his forehead as he heavecd convulsively. Rough hands pulled off his school vest and shirt. Draco fought madly, fighting, biting, kicking and hitting every scrap of flesh he could reach. A heavy fist crashed into the back of his head, and he staggered. Another smashed into his lower back and he crumpled forward onto his hands and knees, blood dripping from his split lips over his pale, pale face. Bright red welts and purple bruises were already rising on his thin exposed sides and arms, both eyes were black and swelling. A vicious boot landed in his ribs and he fell sideways, sprawling on the filthy stone. He couldn't find the strength to curl in on himself, and he lay bare-chested with his arms flung outward on his back.

He heard mocking laughter and he could barely see through his swelling eyelids that one of the men was wearing his vest over his tattered leather jacket and they were all laughing at him. He tried weakly to move his legs and croaked in pain through his sore throat. Another boot kicked him hard in the hip.

"Leave 'im here, he's learned 'is place," sneered one of them, and they slowly meandered back down the alley away from him, bored once more. Draco lay still, unable to move, making an effort to just keep breathing. After the last footsteps echoed off the walls he tried to move, but he froze suddenly. Hot, whisky smelling breath was puffing over his face.

"This is fer what you did to Donnal, yeh bloody fuckin' coward," he heard the gravelly voice of the short man say. He didn't have time to brace himself before he felt the cold smoothness of a knife put against his ribs. He choked and flailed his cramping arms weakly against the man, but the blade went on sliding across his skin. His arms were caught above his head and pinned cruelly to the stone under the man's knee, and the terrible, slow pressure of the knife increased gradually.

Draco struggled feebly against the waves of pain crashing over his bruised skull and pulsing through his arms. The knife popped through his skin with a sickening feeling of released tension and hot, wet warmth flooded out over him. Draco gasped and flailed, and the cold sliver moved so very, very slowly between his ribs. The knife suddenly thrust downward sharply and Draco felt something inside him break and collapse, then the man hissed softly in his ear and jerked the knife away, running after his friends.

The young wizard coughed and jerked for several long moments, spasmodically, before slowing his breathing desperately. He could feel one side of chest getting heavier, and heavier... Thick liquid tickled his throat and he coughed wetly, feeling blood spray past his lips and cling to them. There was a rushing in his ears he hadn't noticed before, getting louder and pounding pounding pounding away, slower and slower yet somehow still getting louder. His body began to shiver, even though he didn't feel the cold, only the numbness spreading through him from his head downward and the sharp pricking from the edge of the knife wound every time he breathed. Then slowly, slowly, he felt himself falling and twisting away into the darkness inside his head.