She should have gone straight to Professor McGonagall. She knew it then, damn well knows it now, and is hard pressed to figure out why she hasn't. What reason could she possibly have for not turning in a confirmed Death Eater? Better yet, what could compel her to protect Draco frigging Malfoy?
A startling image of his bloodied arm comes to mind and she shakes it away. Okay, besides that. Ginny sighs and heads down the staircase. She's got to visit the public components cupboard if she's ever going to get this potion together in time for tomorrow's class. She should be worrying about Voldemort's newest lackey roaming the halls, but war or not, homework is still a reality in her world.
Her thoughts wander away again and settle on the Malfoy Mystery, as she's coming to think of it. As if being a Death Eater isn't enough reason to alert a teacher, he's also barking mad. The morning after their rendezvous, he'd traded snide remarks and gratuitous sneers with his fellow Slytherins at breakfast. It was like old times, like he hadn't actually spent the entire term until then skulking through the halls in a silent daze.
Ginny had been set to go to McGonagall straight after lunch, but she ran into him on her way there. He was standing by a portrait with slumped shoulders and a fixed stare. To the uninterested passerby, he probably just seemed to be taking in the art; but his vacant expression told Ginny he saw nothing inside the dusty frame. Besides, she didn't know a lot about Malfoy, but after more than five years in the same school she probably would have noticed if he had a fixation with the local artwork.
No, he wasn't enjoying the view; he was completely off his trolley.
She didn't turn him in. Not because she wanted to protect him, but because…alright, she didn't really know why, but it wasn't to protect him, that was for damned skippy sure. Maybe it was because it would feel like kicking the proverbial injured dog.
Whatever the reason, she'd been complying with some vague subconscious decision to hold off on talking to McGonagall until after she figured out why he was acting so strangely. A part of her reasoned that the headmistress would never let her in on the situation once Malfoy was turned in. It made sense to find out more first. Now, if she could get to the finding out part of her plan, all of this justification might actually be worthwhile.
She wasn't going to figure out anything while he was like this, though. Lately, he'd sunk back into silent mode. Last night, he hadn't said a word to anyone. Instead, he pushed his fork back and forth through his bangers and mash without eating a single bite. And she'd watched him do it, because these days, stalking the ferret has become priority number one for her.
Why the hell no one else seems to notice his bizarre behavior is beyond her, but she's well nigh obsessed. It's a pitiful existence. She spends her days alternately analyzing his every nuance when she's near him or obsessing over what he might be doing when she's not. It's ominously similar to the way she once pined for Harry Potter, but she's absolutely refusing to think about that.
"Suppose I could try fire."
His words from the lake replay in her mind and she wrinkles her nose. Has he tried that? Surely she would have noticed. She rolls her eyes at herself irritably. Gods, she needs a hobby; one that has nothing to do with bodily mutilation or quests to remove Dark Marks. But for the record, he hasn't tried taking off his arm altogether, so there are still options, she thinks. Ginny smirks wryly as she hits the last step, bringing her into the dungeon.
The smirk fades into a sigh and she rubs a hand over her tired face. Who exactly is she trying to kid, here? This is madness. She's got to turn him in. Soon.
Returning her focus to the ingredients she needs, she picks up her pace. She jumps when the Potions classroom door bangs open and Malfoy himself emerges with a leather messenger bag. She lurches back to avoid slamming into him and her satchel slips from her fingers, spilling quills and tomes on the stone floor.
"Bred like common cattle, you Weasleys," he says with a hard glare, "Strong but clumsy."
She picks up her belongings with a scowl and shoots back, "I'm not the one who offered up my ass for a branding iron."
He seems to eye her suspiciously for a moment, then scoffs quietly. "You should learn to watch your mouth around your betters, little girl," he says, brushing nonexistent dirt off his cloak as he moves away.
He stalks away in a swirl of black wool and she clenches her jaw so tightly that chipping a tooth is a very real possibility. It is the first time they have spoken since the incident and it is enough. This has gone on far too long already; it's time to turn him in. Better late than never, she thinks, staring daggers in the direction he went.
She turns on her heel, marching primly into the components room and gathering her necessary elements with a little extra force. She's made a hell of a mess, but she's too preoccupied to clean it up. For now, she needs to get to Professor McGonagall before curfew. She's got a Death Eater to expose.
Ginny storms down the hallway and up the stairs that lead out of the dungeon, berating herself for playing the sleuth to begin with. Why in Merlin's name had she waited? There's a bloody war on! She remembers Malfoy's grip on her arm and his cold warning at the lake.
"…you'll pay in ways you can't imagine."
Stupid or something worse? A shameful flush creeps across her cheeks and she speeds her pace, passing an old prefect's bathroom on her way.
A rough murmur greets her ears and she slows down. There is a cough, or maybe a sob, she can't tell which, but it's coming from the bathroom. A chill races down her spine. No one's supposed to be in that bathroom. It took a direct spell hit last year and with the decrease in student numbers was simply closed down. She eases her bag to the floor and pads quietly backwards, pressing her ear to the door.
"…weakness does not befit this face," a voice snarls and now it isn't just a voice. It's his voice. Malfoy is standing in that bathroom. Her heart rate doubles as she dares a peek through the crack. He is at the far side of the room, standing in front of the farthest sink, the only one in the room that isn't busted. She's watching him in profile, but it's obvious that he's staring at his reflection in a mirror mounted over the sink. Given the emptiness of the room, it's also obvious that he's talking to himself, which tips another point to the raving lunatic theory.
He seems to be struggling with something internally, and he shakes his head several times as if to clear his mind. "Breathe," he finally says softly, closing his eyes. He obeys his own command, inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly while Ginny watches from the doorway. After a minute or two, he seems utterly relaxed, almost lethargic. The scowl is gone and his motions are sluggish.
He offers a slow glance around and she holds her breath when his gaze scans the doorway. Apparently the darkness is hiding her well, because he moves on quickly, eyeing the bag on the floor beside him. "Right." Ginny breaks in a cold sweat as he pauses to plug the sink basin and tug a cloth out of his bag.
He runs a hand slowly through his blond hair and unbuttons his shirt, as if in a trance. Everything is happening in excruciating slow motion. Ginny feels like she's in a dream, the kind where your legs are too heavy and every step seems impossibly difficult.
He turns on the water and she pushes the door open a smidgen wider. Is this a ritual? Dark magic, surely. When he slides his shirt off his wide shoulders, she tilts her head at the dance of muscle under pale skin.
Pretty.
Instantly horrified with herself, Ginny pulls a sour face. He turns on the taps and moves a bar of soap to the sink and she feels herself flushing from her ears to her toes. This is obviously not a spell and she really needs to go. She's moving right past curiosity and on to something that distinctly resembles perversion. She starts backwards, then startles when he suddenly straightens, flipping his wet hair out of his eyes with a toss of his head. His profile shows a vastly different expression now, one very similar to the one he wore in the dungeon earlier and here only moments ago. His body is tense, his motions stilted.
Malfoy looks around, obviously perplexed as he gazes at his wet hands and the basin that is still filling with water. His eerie calm is gone, replaced with a frantic energy, and the air seems to have a faintly electric scent now. Despite having no actual basis for such a theory, Ginny is sure that something magical is happening. She worries her bottom lip and watches his hands fumble across the sink, shutting off the taps, slapping the soap onto the floor. He rips his fingers through his hair and glares warily at the mirror.
"Easily distracted today," he growls.
She's still edging back, her heart hammering somewhere near her throat, when Malfoy suddenly shivers all over. It's almost convulsive, as if he's been hit by a terrible spell. His legs shake violently and he lurches forward, catching himself on the sink with his long-fingered hands. Ginny gasps, less concerned now about being discovered and more concerned about the sickly shade of gray Malfoy's face is turning.
The air is sawing roughly in and out of him, catching and dragging as if he can't find the right rhythm. A thin ribbon of terror runs through her as he slips to his knees and hauls himself up again, his face growing impossibly paler. What is this? What the hell is going on?
She wants him caught, wants him punished. But this…this is coiling her stomach in dread. He lurches again and her chest pangs. No, she doesn't want this. Not even for him. She lunges into the room and is halfway to him when he suddenly goes ramrod straight, the tendons taut in his ivory arms.
"No!" he growls at his reflection, and she nearly leaps out of her skin when he slams his forehead into the mirror. "Get out," he groans and when the blood begins to flow, she gives a little cry.
Malfoy spins towards her, clamping a hand over his head and offering a look of pure shock. She forces her rubbery legs to carry her into the room while he swipes at his wound uselessly. She had assumed his words were for her, but he clearly is only just now aware of her presence. He stiffens as she approaches, shaking his head desperately but managing no voice for whatever words he's trying to produce.
"You're bleeding," she states obviously, and a little breathlessly. She wrestles through her robes and curses when she realizes her wand is still on her nightstand, where she'd left it after dinner. He covers the cut again, and Ginny glances at the door. "It's bad. I've got to get help."
"No," he croaks, snatching her wrist when she moves to leave. She yanks free from his grip, but when he sways on the spot, she finds herself grabbing his elbows. The amount of blood is horrifying and she isn't a girl easily horrified. It brings to mind the time Fred caught a Bludger in the nose. There are thin crimson rivers running from his brow to his waistband. His hands are coated and her wrist feels sticky from where he's touched her. Mum always says that head wounds look worse than they really are, but still.
"I don't have my wand," Ginny manages, releasing his arms when he seems sturdy. "We've got to get to Madame Pomfrey."
"No!" he snarls, closing his eyes.
"Fine, be a stubborn ass!" she snaps. "I'll just wait for you to pass out and drag you by your ear!"
Utterly ignoring her, he pulls his wand from his pants. He murmurs a spell, but it barely slows the flow of blood. He coughs and she realizes it isn't a cough, but a laugh. It's the most destitute sound she's ever heard.
"After all this, they'll know. They'll know and he'll know. And I'll die. It's for nothing."
Gods, this is freaking her out. She wants to get help. She really does. But when he stumbles and slides gracelessly down the back wall until he's sitting on the floor, that same something that's been holding her back all this time, refuses to let her go. He leans forward, as if he's thinking of getting up, but she presses a hand to his shoulder and crouches in front of him. After a beat of hesitation, she grabs his forgotten towel, pressing it hard on the wound.
"Hold this," she commands, and he obeys wordlessly, eyes still shut.
She takes the wand from his limp fingers and mutters the same healing spell, satisfied when the bleeding stops and the wound begins to show signs of healing. She curls her lip as she realizes this is the second time she's healed him. It's a hell of a contradiction since she'd been spent a good bit of her summer dreaming up ways to make him suffer.
He starts to say something, but promptly passes out, slumping forward in a very un-Malfoy-like heap. Ginny pushes him back gently, shocked at his bulk. He was so scrawny before, a little slip of snobby boy with silvery blond hair. Now, it's all Ginny can do to ease his upper half to the ground without dropping him. When it's done, he's lying on his side against the wall and she's sitting in front of him. With a shuddering sigh, she waves his wand for the second time, performing a desperately needed Scourgify on both of them.
Her eyes narrow at him. Now that the bleeding has stopped, she should leave him here and get back to the business of turning him in. She will, too, as soon as she stops staring at him. He really should look more evil, but he doesn't. He actually looks sort of angelic with his pale hair and pretty face. Ginny snorts, but it doesn't make it any less true. He also looks terribly sad. It's giving her the strangest urge to brush his hair away from his forehead, and that's going to give her the willies for years she'd bet. But it looks so different, all damp and messy above his pale face. Her fingers move to hover over his forehead of their own volition and her stomach squirms. Disgusted, she yanks her hand back.
"You haven't gone," he says flatly and she jumps at the sound of his voice. She has no idea how long he's been awake, as his eyes are still shut.
"What's wrong with you?" she asks, surprised at how ragged her voice sounds. He only offers up that haunted laugh of his in response. She shakes her head and balls her fists, "I should just leave you here, you know."
"Yes," he agrees and his tone is deadly serious. She leans over him, frowning.
"Look at me," she says, and he doesn't obey, so she just keeps watching him.
It's a little unnerving how easy Draco Malfoy is to look at. He's got a soft, full mouth that contrasts his angular face and eyelashes that are so long she half-wonders if he's charmed them. She's not sure she's ever noticed any of that before, and she's definitely sure she's never noticed his body. Hell, before today, she'd never even considered that Malfoy had a body beneath all those expensive robes. But he does, and she's noticing. She sorely wishes she wasn't.
"Ginny Weasley again." At the gravely sound of his voice, her eyes jump guiltily from the sharp ridges of his stomach to his storm-swept eyes. Pretty flecks of silver are dancing in his irises and her ears are so hot, she's sure they'll burst into flame. "Of all the people to find me twice," he croaks, the barest touch of haughty amusement in his tone. He's holding eye contact and it's making her feel like she's been sucked into a cyclone, her head spinning and her breath caught tight in her chest.
When he closes his eyes again, she feels bereft and relieved at once. "Does the light hurt your eyes?"
"If I don't see, he doesn't see," he murmurs groggily and her world lurches as the blackest of possibilities forms in her mind's eye.
No. Gods, no. Not this.
Ginny scrambles to her feet and chokes on her own breath. She feels sicker than sick, her throat closing up and her hands balling into cold fists at her sides. She looks down at him while her own memories rush at her in blinding speed, the sight of pages flipping, the sound of her quill scratching. She almost feels the rush that would fill her every time his words would appear on the page, responding to her own. Then bloody words on the wall and the sink shifting away to give her access. She presses her hands to her eyes as if it will ward off the onslaught of images. Mercifully, her mind slows and she looks down at Malfoy once more, fear and mercy jockeying for position in her mind.
"He's inside of you isn't he?"
His silence is all the confirmation she needs.