SEPTEMBER 2nd, 1997
Harry, Polyjuiced as a Ministry employee apparently called Albert Runcorn, watched Pius Thicknesse march away along the thickly carpeted corridor of Level One of the Ministry of Magic. The moment the Minister had passed out of sight, Harry grabbed the new invisibility cloak out from under his heavy black cloak, threw it over himself, and set off along the corridor in the opposite direction. Runcorn was so tall that Harry was forced to stoop to make sure his big feet were hidden. He could only pray that the magic of this cloak would be sufficient to do the job. He thought again of Voldemort's white, spider-like hands holding onto his own, true Cloak, and he tightened his fists in anger.
Panic pulsed in the pit of his stomach. As he passed gleaming wooden door after gleaming wooden door, each bearing a small plaque with the owner's name and occupation upon it, the might of the Ministry, its complexity, its impenetrability, seemed to force itself upon him so that the plan he had been carefully concocting with Ron and Hermione over the past four weeks seemed laughably childish. They had concentrated all their efforts on getting inside without being detected: They had not given a moment's thought to what they would do if they were forced to separate. Now Hermione was stuck in court proceedings, which would undoubtedly last hours; Ron was struggling to do magic that Harry was sure was beyond him, a woman's liberty possibly depending on the outcome; and he, Harry, was wandering around on the top floor when he knew perfectly well that his quarry had just gone down in the lift.
He stopped walking, leaned against a wall, and tried to decide what to do. The silence pressed upon him: There was no bustling or talk or swift footsteps here; the purple-carpeted corridors were as hushed as though the Muffliato charm had been cast over the place.
Her office must be up here, Harry thought.
It seemed most unlikely that Umbridge would keep her jewelry in her office, but on the other hand it seemed foolish not to search it to make sure. He therefore set off along the corridor again, passing nobody but a frowning wizard who was murmuring instructions to a quill that floated in front of him, scribbling on a trail of parchment.
Now paying attention to the names on the doors, Harry turned a corner. Halfway along the next corridor he emerged into a wide, open space where a dozen witches and wizards sat in rows at small desks not unlike school desks, though much more highly polished and free from graffiti. Harry paused to watch them, for the effect was quite mesmerizing. They were all waving and twiddling their wands in unison, and squares of colored paper were flying in every direction like little pink kites. After a few seconds, Harry realized that there was a rhythm to the proceedings, that the papers all formed the same pattern; and after a few more seconds he realized that what he was watching was the creation of pamphlets— that the paper squares were pages, which, when assembled, folded, and magicked into place, fell into neat stacks beside each witch or wizard.
"This batch is done, Mr. Malfoy," one of them said, and waved their wand, sending the pamphlets floating through the air. Harry whipped his head around and saw Draco Malfoy sitting at a desk facing the others, a stack of pamphlets in front of him. He was so thrown off that he just stood, frozen, for a second, before creeping closer.
This was his first time seeing Malfoy face to face since the night of Dumbledore's murder. His fingers twitched around his wand as he watched Malfoy's sneering face, skimming through a pamphlet before tapping it twice, causing it to disappear before picking up another one.
He must be quality control, Harry thought, anger coursing through him as he read the title of the pamphlet: Mudbloods and the Dangers They Pose to a Peaceful Pureblood Society. Of course Malfoy would be here— he had always hated Muggle-borns, from the moment Harry had met him. His triumphant voice calling out You'll be next, Mudbloods! after the Chamber of Secrets had been opened echoed in Harry's mind, and he found himself sneering in revulsion underneath the cloak.
Malfoy sighed before tapping the next pamphlet, and a bit of movement caught Harry's eye. He gasped, and it was a very lucky thing that one of the workers coughed just at that moment, otherwise Malfoy certainly would have heard him.
Malfoy had pictures of Ginny on his desk. Harry crept closer still, holding his breath, knowing that this was foolish, that he should focus on finding Umbridge's office, but he had to know—
There were three pictures, grouped together in frames. The two on the outer edges were mirrors of each other, taken on the same day. Ginny was wearing a Weird Sisters T-shirt and what looked like jeans, though it was difficult to tell from the angle of the photo, and she had makeup on like she was going to a party. She was in a massive, cream-colored bedroom with a large canopy over the bed and a crystal chandelier dangling from the ceiling. It looked like, based on the angle, that she had taken these pictures herself. She was playing air-guitar in one, and dancing around in the other, tongue stuck out like she was at a concert. The mini-Ginny's danced around on Malfoy's desk as Harry watched, jamming out to inaudible music and laughing at something not captured on camera.
It was the middle picture that caught Harry's eye, though. This one was of Malfoy and Ginny together, standing in a rose garden with a large manor house rising up behind them— it had to be Malfoy Manor. Malfoy was wearing dark green dress robes and had his arm slung low around Ginny's waist as they smiled for the camera. Ginny was wearing pale pink robes and looked like she was dressed for a formal event. Photo-Malfoy smirked casually out at the photographer, all easy confidence and self-satisfaction, but Ginny's smile seemed to shift the longer Harry looked at it. When she was looking straight ahead, her smile was wooden, false. But when she looked up at Malfoy, right at the end of the loop, her face softened... into the smile he remembered.
Ginny was alive, and she wasn't broken. He didn't know how to make sense of her and Malfoy's dynamic, what had changed since that awful memory of Malfoy's birthday, but the fact that she could genuinely smile at all gave Harry the smallest bit of hope that they hadn't failed her yet, that they could still free her in time. He glanced around Malfoy's desk, looking for any other clues, and noticed a small, maybe book-sized painting, also in a frame. The painting was of a shining white dragon at sunset; its scales reflected pale pinks, purples, and oranges in a hazy, mesmerizing glow. The initials G.W. were signed in the bottom right-hand corner. Ginny must have painted this. Painted it for Malfoy? But why?
"Oh no, these are all wrong!" a woman cried out in dismay.
Malfoy's eyes snapped up. "What do you mean, all wrong?"
"They're out of order, look..."
Malfoy sighed again before standing up and Harry quickly stumbled out of the way so that he didn't run into him. As he watched Malfoy walk toward the woman, his eyes landed on the office door at the back of the room. Rage reared in him like a snake. Where there might have been a peephole on a Muggle front door, a large, round eye with a bright blue iris had been set into the wood— an eye that was shockingly familiar to anybody who had known Alastor Moody.
For a split second, Harry forgot where he was and what he was doing there: He even forgot that he was invisible. He strode straight over to the door to examine the eye. It was not moving: It gazed blandly upward, frozen. The plaque beneath it read: Dolores Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister. Below that, a slightly shinier new plaque read: Head of the Muggle-Born Registration Commission.
Harry looked back at the dozen pamphlet-makers: Though they were intent upon their work, he could hardly suppose that they would not notice if the door of an empty office opened in front of them. Malfoy was leaning over the desk of one of them, who was clearly distraught at all of her work being ruined. This was wildly impulsive... so, so risky to do this right under a Death Eater's nose... Still, though, Harry needed to get into that office, and Malfoy was already at least mildly distracted. He withdrew from an inner pocket an odd object with little waving legs and a rubber-bulbed horn for a body. Crouching down beneath the cloak, he placed the Decoy Detonator on the ground.
It scuttled away at once through the legs of the witches and wizards in front of him. A few moments later, during which Harry waited with his hand upon the doorknob, there came a loud bang and a great deal of acrid black smoke billowed from a corner. The young witch in the front row shrieked: Pink pages flew everywhere as she and her fellows jumped up, looking around for the source of the commotion. Malfoy had his wand drawn, trying to bring order back to the group, and Harry took the opportunity to turn the doorknob to Umbridge's office, slipping inside before anyone could see him and closing the door behind him.
He felt he had stepped back in time. The room was exactly like Umbridge's office at Hogwarts: Lace draperies, doilies, and dried flowers covered every available surface. The walls bore the same ornamental plates, each featuring a highly colored, beribboned kitten, gamboling and frisking with sickening cuteness. The desk was covered with a flouncy, flowered cloth. Behind Mad-Eye's eye, a telescopic attachment enabled Umbridge to spy on the workers on the other side of the door. Harry took a look through it and saw that they were all still gathered around the Decoy Detonator. He wrenched the telescope out of the door, leaving a hole behind, pulled the magical eyeball out of it, and placed it in his pocket. Then he turned to face the room again, raised his wand, and murmured, "Accio Locket."
Nothing happened, but he had not expected it to; no doubt Umbridge knew all about protective charms and spells. He therefore hurried behind her desk and began pulling open the drawers. He saw quills and notebooks and Spellotape; enchanted paper clips that coiled snakelike from their drawer and had to be beaten back; a fussy little lace box full of spare hair bows and clips; but no sign of a locket.
There was a filing cabinet behind the desk: Harry set to searching it. Like Filch's filing cabinets at Hogwarts, it was full of folders, each labeled with a name. It was not until Harry reached the bottommost drawer that he saw something to distract himself from his search: Mr. Weasley's file.
He pulled it out and opened it.
Arthur Weasley. Blood Status: Pureblood, but with unacceptable pro-Muggle leanings. Known member of the Order of the Phoenix. Family: Wife (pureblood), seven children, two youngest school-age. Youngest son confirmed to be on the run with Undesirable No. 1. Daughter is ward of the Malfoy family. Security Status: IN CUSTODY. Interrogation unsuccessful. Trial pending Minister approval.
"Undesirable Number One," Harry muttered under his breath as he replaced Mr. Weasley's folder and shut the drawer. He had an idea he knew who that was, and sure enough, as he straightened up and glanced around the office for fresh hiding places, he saw a poster of himself on the wall, with the words UNDESIRABLE NO. 1 emblazoned across his chest. A little pink note was stuck to it with a picture of a kitten in the corner. Harry moved across to read it and saw that Umbridge had written, "To be punished."
Angrier than ever, he proceed to grope in the bottoms of the vases and baskets of dried flowers, but was not at all surprised that the locket was not there. He gave the office one last sweeping look, and his heart skipped a beat. If Thicknesse had not been looking over his shoulder as he entered, Harry would not have had time to pull the invisibility cloak over himself.
"You're sure it's a Weasley product, Draco?" Thicknesse was saying as he entered the office.
"Positive, sir," Malfoy said from slightly further back. "I don't know whose idea of a joke this is, but it won't be tolerated, do you understand? When I find out who did this, I promise you, you'll be sacked."
"Or at least suspended," Thicknesse murmured, his eyes glassy as he walked further into the office, pointing his wand at the quill standing ready in the ink pot. It sprang out and began scribbling a note to Umbridge. Harry remembered that Thicknesse was under the Imperius Curse, and felt a fleeting moment of pity for the man before, hardly daring to breathe, he backed out of the office into the open area beyond.
The pamphlet-makers were still clustered around the remains of the Decoy Detonator, which continued to hoot feebly as it smoked. They were all busy justifying themselves to Malfoy, swearing that they hadn't brought a joke product to work and set it off during the middle of their shift.
Harry glanced toward Malfoy's desk, where mini-Ginny danced away, oblivious to her surroundings. Part of him felt like he had already done enough impulsive things for one day, but Malfoy was still distracted, and he wasn't sure when, or if, he would get another chance like this.
He hurried over to the desk and, as surreptitiously as he could, grabbed the small painting and slipped it under the invisibility cloak and into his large robes' outer pocket. If he had more time, he would have taken the pictures too, but he didn't dare try to grab more than one thing. He knew what Ginny looked like, and the pictures proved nothing other than what he already knew. But this painting... her hands had held it, had created it. It was like the barest little connection to her, to hold something she had held, to run his fingers over the paint just as she might have.
"Alright, enough of this," Malfoy snapped. "Everyone back to work. You're lucky I've been called down to the courts— I'll be gone for the rest of the morning. No funny business while I'm gone, you understand?"
The workers murmured various versions of "yes sir," though Harry could tell that some of them chafed over having to report to a seventeen-year-old. Harry held his breath as Malfoy walked away from the rows of desks. Malfoy was going down to the courts, and he was clearly involved in the Muggle-born Registration Commission. What were the odds he was going to see Umbridge?
Harry hurried after him, stooping extra low to make sure that Runcorn's body was hidden beneath the cloak. This was not the first time he had invisibly followed Malfoy, and the last time had ended with a broken nose. This time, if he was caught, it would be much worse— he couldn't take any more foolish chances.
Malfoy's sneer dropped as he walked further down the corridor, and Harry thought that he had never looked more tired. Just like at Hogwarts, there were dark circles under his eyes, and his brows seemed permanently on the cusp of furrowing, like he was used to frowning a lot. Harry silently gloated at this— perhaps the labor of sending Muggle-borns to Azkaban was weighing on Malfoy. Good.
Unexpectedly, Malfoy did not go to the lifts. He stopped, looked around furtively, and slipped through an unmarked office door. Harry had to nearly dive in after him, but he made it. Malfoy closed the door, took a deep breath, and then cast an Imperturbable Charm on it. Intrigued, Harry watched as Malfoy stepped further into the room and pulled a mirror out of his pocket, a mirror just like Sirius had given to Harry several years ago.
"Blaise Zabini," Malfoy said, and the surface of the mirror swirled for a long moment before Zabini's face appeared.
"Draco, I know you miss me, but really, I could have been in class," Zabini said. "You're in luck, of course— I have a free period."
"Don't be stupid," Malfoy snapped, running a hand through his hair and mussing up its style a bit. "You told me your schedule, remember? I knew you were free."
"You memorized it? How sweet. I miss you too."
"Blaise."
"Alright, alright, we're skipping the niceties, I see. I haven't found anything yet."
Malfoy's shoulders slumped. "Nothing?"
"No, but to be fair, Morgana is a famous historical figure, and I've only searched for one day. She's mostly mentioned in connection to Merlin—"
"I don't care about Merlin," Malfoy said quickly.
"I know," Zabini said. "You told me that already. Which is why I said I haven't found anything yet."
Malfoy bit his lip; he actually looked on the verge of tears, which shocked Harry. What the hell were they talking about? And why so secretively?
"Can't you tell me what this is about? I'm sure it would be easier to research if I actually knew anything about what I was looking for."
"Morgana, and the Morrigan. The Tuatha de Danaan. That's all I can tell you. I need to find out how they're connected. No one can know that I'm looking for it."
"You know, keeping secrets is my forte," Zabini said. "I think I've proven that, haven't I?"
Malfoy laughed without humor. "Not from the Dark Lord, you haven't."
Harry wasn't sure he was breathing. Malfoy, keeping secrets from Voldemort? But about what? Why?
"Fine, but you've got to give me more to go on," Zabini said.
Malfoy bit his lip again in a way that strongly reminded Harry of Ginny. "If you can't find anything about Morgana..." He trailed off in thought, his eyes distant.
"If I can't find anything about Morgana?"
"Look for something called the ritual of the two who move as one."
Zabini was silent for a moment, then laughed. "You know what that sounds like, don't you?"
Malfoy's brow furrowed. "No."
Zabini laughed again. "You are honestly so thick sometimes. What's that Muggle phrase? The beast with two backs?"
Malfoy scoffed. "Come off it. Don't be stupid."
"I'm not! I'm, for once, being completely sincere. It honestly hasn't crossed your mind?"
Malfoy flushed. "No."
"Well, I'll look for it," Zabini said skeptically, "but that's what it sounds like to me."
Malfoy covered his face with his free hand. "That can't be it."
Zabini paused. "Have you still not—"
"No," Malfoy snapped. "And I wasn't going to, now. Things are... different. I can't explain it."
"Of course not. We can't have a conversation about anything without you hiding something from me— that would break our routine."
"It's better for you not to know, Blaise."
"As much as I appreciate your gallant efforts at protection, I just want to remind you that you don't have to do everything by yourself. Wars aren't won by one man alone."
Malfoy laughed. "They aren't won by two men, either."
"Two men and a saint though, eh? Has a nice ring to it."
"Ugh. This is so dangerous," Malfoy said, trailing off in thought.
"So that is your plan, then."
"What?" Malfoy said in alarm, coming back to himself. "Ugh. Never mind. Thank you for your help— I'll call you again in a few days. I have to go."
"Draco—"
"Umbridge wants me down in court," he said, his voice tight. "Shadowing the proceedings. So I get to go watch some poor fool be sent to Azkaban, if they're lucky. Apparently some people have received the Dementor's Kiss."
"Merlin."
"Yeah. Anyway, I have to go."
"Alright. Send Ginny my love."
"Bye, Blaise." Malfoy tucked the mirror back into his pocket and then rested his hands flat on the unused desk in this empty office, breathing hard. A lock of his hair fell forward into his face, making him look younger.
"The storm rages on and on, but beneath, the sea is calm," he whispered, half-closing his eyes. "The storm rages on and on, but beneath, the sea is calm."
The words didn't mean anything to Harry, but he felt like he was caught in a storm himself, reeling from Malfoy and Zabini's conversation. What was Malfoy planning? What information was he looking for? Did Ginny know about it? Two men and a saint...
After a long moment, Malfoy seemed to pull himself together. His face slipped back into the cold sneer Harry was so familiar with, and he walked briskly for the door, Harry following right behind him. If he stayed close behind, he should be able to get into the courtroom, and with any luck, Umbridge would be there with Hermione. They would have to find Ron and regroup, figure out some other plan of attack to find the locket. Although… was there any possibility she was wearing it? It was a necklace, after all. He focused on his memory of her in the lift— had she had a locket on? He couldn't remember, but he hadn't looked at her very closely, afraid she would recognize something was off with "Albert."
He would have to think about Malfoy and whatever he was plotting later. He had to focus on Umbridge.
SEPTEMBER 2nd, 1997
Ginny hung from the pull-up bar by her knees, her face red as she pulled herself into a reverse sit-up, held it for a moment, and then released.
"Twelve," she murmured, her cheeks burning from blood rush and her core screaming from exertion. Still, she made herself repeat the motion. "Thirteen."
She was trying to get to twenty. But she wasn't sure she was going to get there today. She had regained a significant amount of strength over the last few weeks now that she was working out again, but she still wasn't back to her pre-Rookwood form. There really was no substitute for flight, when it came to that. Or running, which she couldn't really do in here. It was mostly strength-based workouts, which were good, but her stamina still hadn't fully returned.
Hadn't fully returned yet, she reminded herself. She was getting stronger and stronger every day, and soon, very soon, it would be like she had never met Rookwood, or any other Death Eater.
Working out this intensely also helped distract her from the fact that it was Kathleen's seventeenth birthday, and Ginny wasn't there to celebrate it. Had Kathleen returned to Hogwarts? Surely not, with how cautious her mum was… She had almost certainly kept Kathleen home. But would they have known to go into hiding, since attendance at Hogwarts was now compulsory? Ginny knew very little about Kathleen's mum, but she had apparently grown up in the magical world. Surely she would know what a threat Voldemort posed…
On her eighteenth reverse sit-up, the wall rippled and Voldemort walked into the room.
Ginny didn't fall this time, but it was a close thing.
"You do find novel ways to entertain yourself," Voldemort said in a bemused tone. He looked very odd upside-down. He had Nagini wrapped around his shoulders, Ginny noted with dread.
"One second," she panted. "My lord."
She kept her hands' grip on the bar as she reverse-somersaulted off of it, panting. Her hands were now burning in addition to her cheeks and core. She straightened up and pushed a stray strand of hair out of her face, feeling the sweat along her brow.
Voldemort said nothing as he looked her up and down, and Ginny's cheeks felt hotter still. She wasn't wearing Muggle clothes, not wanting a repeat of that conversation, and had opted for Quidditch-style gear instead, which was actually not very easy to do sit-ups in, but it was better than robes.
"I hope you haven't broken your latest promise," he said. "That would be very disappointing."
Ginny frowned, unsure of what he was talking about, before she realized the locket was tucked inside of her tunic. She reached into the neckline and pulled it out.
"I didn't want it whacking me in the face over and over again," she said. "But I didn't take it off. My lord."
She hadn't taken it off since he had given it to her, just like his dream-self had demanded. The Draught of Living Death was too big of a threat for such a petty fight, given that the locket wasn't even magical, not to mention her family's safety always hung in the balance.
"Good," he said with a smirk. He walked across the room and, with a casual wave of his hand, her window reappeared— the real window. Sunshine streamed in, making stripes on the floor. It completely changed the lighting in the room, making everything seem brighter.
"I think you've earned this back," Voldemort continued, keeping his gaze directed out of the window. "No throwing yourself out of it, of course."
"No, my lord." She couldn't do that anyway— she wasn't allowed to harm herself.
"One of the wisest commands he gave you," Voldemort said, Nagini shifting some on his shoulders. Ginny shuddered to watch the movement, at the way her muscular body undulated as she readjusted her weight.
He didn't say anything further for a moment, and Ginny frowned. What did he want? He hadn't visited her like this in weeks.
"I could never figure out why you're so afraid of Nagini," he said, his back still to her. "When there are so many other things you've been through that you face with all the righteous fury of your Gryffindor upbringing. But then I realized."
Ginny froze, keeping her thoughts as far away as she could from her father and the Department of Mysteries. That would be a very bad thing for him to find—
"Do you remember the basilisk?" he asked, and Ginny let out a shocked little sound that made him look over his shoulder at her. Embarrassingly, maybe due to a combination of shock and her workout, her knees gave out a little and she barely caught herself before she collapsed. That had not been what she had been expecting him to say.
"I… no. Not really," she said faintly.
"Your body does, apparently. Tell me what you do remember." He turned to face her again but kept his distance.
"Flashes, I guess," Ginny said, her eyes locked on Nagini. "Not much."
"Be more specific."
Ginny's breathing grew shallow. He was poking at old wounds, at things she never, ever talked about—
"Ginny."
"I remember… dampness. The Chamber was wet, and smelled kind of musty. I remember… green scales, and the sound of its body scraping against the stones—" She clapped her hands over her mouth, her eyes flooding with tears. The sound of scales scraping against stone echoed over and over in her mind, like she had opened the Chamber within her own thoughts and she couldn't shut it again.
"What else?" Voldemort said, his red eyes intent on hers.
"I don't want to talk about it," she whispered through her hands.
"That's not what I asked."
She took a gulping, shaky breath. "It was… cold. So cold…"
"Do you remember my younger self coming out of the diary?"
"Kind of. It's hazy. You were already trying to steal my soul at that point, so little eleven-year-old me didn't have her full faculties," she said, anger coming into her voice, anger at being forced to relive this horror for his apparent amusement.
"Yes, it's very interesting to try to look at your memories from that time," he said, not seeming to take issue with her tone. "Just great black patches in your mind, chunks of time just… gone."
Ginny's vision blurred. That was exactly what it had always felt like, like there was a great black wound inside her that had never healed, and behind it was the Chamber. She could ignore it, push it away, not show it to anyone else… but it was always, always there. And he was making her bring it to the surface.
"I suppose you wouldn't want to remember," he continued, running a hand along Nagini's side. "It would probably be upsetting for you."
"Why are you doing this?" she asked. "Why are you making me remember?"
"I told you, I wanted to understand why you're afraid of Nagini."
"I'm afraid of Nagini because she eats people," Ginny snapped, knowing she should make more of an effort to hold her temper but feeling too raw to control herself. "I don't need another reason."
"No, that's not it," Voldemort said, walking closer to her at last. Ginny made herself hold her ground, but she couldn't deny to herself how her heart raced faster and faster as Voldemort, and therefore Nagini, approached.
"Nagini would never hurt you, little saint," he said. "In fact, she's probably one of your fiercest protectors. If anyone were to try to harm you, she would attack them immediately."
"Unless it was on your orders," Ginny said, fighting to keep a sneer off of her face. "She'd attack me herself, if you ordered it."
"That is true," he agreed. "But why would I order her, or anyone else, to attack you?"
"Sometimes you think horrific things are funny," she said, repeating what she had said in a dream a couple of weeks ago. His hand paused along Nagini's side.
"You misunderstand me," he said, and lifted his hand toward her, picking up the locket off of her chest. "Most things— most people— are expendable. They don't really matter in the end. They can be replaced, or else they outlive their usefulness, and survive due to my mercy, if nothing else. But you're irreplaceable."
He ran his thumb along the locket, along the body of the serpent wrapped around the heart.
"I have to— how did Rookwood phrase it?— keep you on a tight leash, due to the circumstances, and I'm not afraid to punish you if you step out of line, but a random, unprovoked attack? No, never."
He dropped the locket, and it bounced against her chest.
"Besides," he continued. "Even if I did have to punish you, it wouldn't be you directly. We've already established that."
Her mind flashed to the Burrow safe house, to the list of names, and her jaw tightened. He smirked at her, his eyes lingering near her mouth.
"Here's how this morning is going to go, little saint. I'm going to have you do something that I know for a fact you don't want to do, but if you're good for me, I'll give you something you do want, very badly. Do you understand?"
Ginny had a very bad feeling that whatever she didn't want to do had to do with Nagini.
"What if I can't be good?" she asked softly. "What if I can't do whatever you're going to ask for?"
He tilted his head, considering. "Then we'll try again tomorrow. But I think you can get this right the first time. You've done it once before, technically. Stay right there."
He moved to walk around behind her, and Ginny sucked in a breath. Nothing good happened when he was behind her in the dreams. Putting on the locket, brushing her hair, making her torture Rookwood—
"You seemed to enjoy it, if your memory serves," he said. "You wanted to do it."
"I didn't want to be in pain."
"That's not it, little liar. That's alright, though. You're not ready to admit it yet. Now— show me that Gryffindor bravery."
Heavy weight sunk onto her shoulders, and with a start, Ginny realized Nagini was on her shoulders now, just like she had been in the vault. She screamed and stumbled forward, trying to shrug Nagini off, but Voldemort pulled her back.
"Stay still," he said, his hand grabbing her upper arm. "Control yourself. She's not going to hurt you. She knows exactly who and what you are. Stay still."
Ginny whimpered, and tried to think about anything other than Nagini's weight, anything other than the scales gliding over her Quidditch gear—
"If I let go of your arm, are you going to run?"
"Yes," she said, not able to bring herself to lie.
"Then we'll stay like this until you're ready to listen. The sooner you obey, the sooner I'll take her off."
"Okay, okay, I'll stay, I'll stay—" Ginny said, scrunching her eyes shut. "Please."
"Don't run," he whispered, and let go of her arm.
If he left her like this for very long, Ginny was sure she would go into a panic attack. Nagini had always been a trigger, every time they had had a Death Eater gathering and she had eaten someone's corpse—
"She's not going to eat anything," Voldemort said, from further away. "Or anyone. Do you hear her hissing? She's saying trust me, little saint. You have nothing to fear, in Parseltongue."
Ginny could not, in fact, hear Nagini hissing, because the sound of blood rushing in her ears was loud enough that she could barely hear Voldemort. Her palms were sweaty and she tried to focus on that rather than the giant snake covering her upper body, but she couldn't, she just couldn't—
Voldemort entered her field of vision, carrying the tiara. "You're doing very well," he said softly, and placed the tiara on her head. "Just like that. One more."
He stepped away again but returned almost immediately, the sketchbook in hand. He flipped it open, looking absently at drawings she had done, of the Quidditch Pitch and Hagrid's hut and the Honeydukes storefront.
"There's a page missing," he said sharply. "You tore it out. Why?"
"I gave it to Draco for his office," she said, and his eyes snapped to her face. "I painted a dragon."
"I didn't tell you that you could do that," he said.
"You also didn't tell me not to do it," Ginny said, finding that anger made it easier to ignore Nagini. "You wanted me to use the sketchbook, so I did. You didn't say I couldn't take pages out."
He stared at her for a long moment before he ran a finger down the book's inseam. The page recreated itself in the book, blank, as though she had never used it at all.
"Don't do that again," he said. "It's for you, not anyone else."
"Yes, my lord," she said, desperate at this point for him to remove the snake. "Please—"
"Don't ask. Not yet." He walked closer to her and curled the fingers of her right hand around the sketchbook. "There," he said, and seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. "Just like that."
Ginny closed her eyes, unable to bear it any longer, and Tom's voice echoed in her mind as Voldemort remained silent. Draco doesn't like when you close your eyes, but I don't mind it, Ginny. Tom, who haunted her nightmares. Tom, who had made her open the Chamber of Secrets and try her damndest to murder Muggle-borns. Tom, who had tried to steal her very soul—
"That's enough now, little saint," he said from behind her, and mercifully, wonderfully, weight left her shoulders. She gasped in relief, stumbling forward a little, caught off-balance.
"Go put your things back where they belong," he said. "We're leaving this room for the moment."
Leaving this room. Her stomach tightened in trepidation. It wasn't Sunday. Where was he taking her?
Numbly, her shoulders shaking in Nagini's absence, she walked to the vanity and put the tiara back on its pillow, and then laid the sketchbook on a nearby table. The wall rippled, and the door appeared.
"Come," he said, and walked toward the door. Nagini was on the floor now, and slithered after him.
Ginny stood, frozen.
Voldemort sighed dramatically before saying something in Parseltongue. Nagini picked up speed and, as Voldemort waved the Elder Wand to open the door, she left the room, oddly turning right instead of left out of the door. There was only one door past hers on the right… was that where Nagini was going?
"There," he said, and she could hear his eye roll even though she couldn't see his face. "Now come along, and if you make me repeat myself again I'll be very unhappy."
"Yes my lord," she said, and hurried after him through the open doorway. They walked down the empty hallway and down the stairs, toward the front door.
"Are Ollivander and Borgin still here?" she asked, her mind flashing on the series of closed doors.
"Ollivander, yes. I allowed Borgin to return home… under supervision."
Ginny grimaced as she imagined the conditions Ollivander might be in.
"He's fine, pure heart. Fine. Do you want to add him to your list of names?" His voice was laced with cruel amusement as they descended the stairs.
Ginny's grimace deepened. "No."
"Then put him out of your mind."
"Yes my lord."
He opened the front door and they walked outside. Ginny made to walk down the front path, as they always did when he took her to visit her family, but he turned away.
"This way, little saint."
He was walking around the edge of the house. Ginny bit her lip and followed him, feeling like she had in the early days of Malfoy Manor. Any break in routine, any break in the pattern, was dangerous.
They rounded the side of the house and arrived at what had once been a back garden. At some point, there had likely been flowers and hedges here, judging by the planters, but now the large expanse of land was empty, save for the grass. It was flat for a while, and then gradually sloped down— the backside of the hill.
"All the better that it's empty, for our purposes," Voldemort said, and waved his wand in a complicated pattern. The sky above them, maybe fifty feet high, began to shimmer and flash in a pattern almost like a grid. He continued casting whatever spell this was, and the grid arched downward on all sides, making a kind of dome around them— maybe two hundred feet across altogether. The grid touched the ground, making a curved wall.
She was trapped in here.
"The opposite, actually," Voldemort said. "Come here."
Ginny stepped forward, trying to puzzle together what this was. It was a dome like the Burrow was under, but the walls looked totally different— a different kind of spell, maybe?
"You're always so impatient," Voldemort said in an amused voice as he grabbed her left arm and pulled her sleeve up. "Hold still now, this bit is tricky."
Her heart pounding, Ginny held still while he traced the Elder Wand along the tattoo's vines, his thin mouth pursed in concentration. After a moment, there was a snap and one leaf of the pattern lifted itself off of her skin. He levitated it away, letting it float in the air. Ginny's eyes were wide as she flexed her fingers. What had that done?
"I'll hold onto this for now," he said. The bit of ink wrapped itself loosely around the Elder Wand, like a towel hung out to dry on a clothesline.
He waved the wand again, and her new Firebolt appeared in his free hand. Ginny gasped before she could stop herself, surprised.
"I told you I would give you something you really want," he said. "But look at me." She did, and he reached out with his right hand to tilt her chin up, his fingers loosely gripping her jaw.
"He can give you the broom, but only I can give you flight, do you understand?" he asked, his eyes locked on her face. She nodded, feeling remarkably vulnerable in this position. This wasn't a dream, it was really happening… and she was just as powerless here as she was there.
She didn't know if Voldemort had heard that thought, but he seemed satisfied as he finally let go of her chin and extended the broom toward her. "Have fun. The walls will keep you from going too far."
Her hand shaking a little, she hesitantly reached for the broom, and when she finally grasped it, it was warm under her hand.
He had given her her magic back, at least enough to be able to fly.
"Go on," he said. "Fly."
Afraid that if she lingered for even a second longer, he would take it away, Ginny jumped onto the broom and kicked off with full force, shooting into the air at an impossible speed. She couldn't stop herself from laughing as the wind whipped around her, as the world fell away below and she soared higher and higher and higher.
She was flying, she was really flying—
And she promptly bumped into the ceiling of the dome, which crackled and sputtered in protest. That was mildly annoying, but nothing was going to put a damper on this moment. The Firebolt was fast, way faster than her old Cleansweep had been, and moved with her lightest touch, letting her change directions in an instant. She flew down about ten feet, staying away from the top of the dome, and started racing around, reveling in the speed and the joy and the freedom.
Down below, the speck that was Voldemort raised his wand, and toward the far end of the dome, three Quidditch goalposts grew out of the ground. An instant later, a brand new Quaffle was in her hand.
Grinning, Ginny raced for the goalposts, pretending for one short, painful moment that she was back at Hogwarts, playing for the Quidditch Cup.
Her flight path stuttered for a second, the Quidditch pitch flashing in her mind, and she shook her head vigorously. She had already lost so many things— even her ability to connect with her family, even if they were right in front of her. He wasn't going to take this too.
Determined, Ginny gripped the handle of the Firebolt, fingers running along her initials, and picked up speed as she threw the Quaffle with all her might, landing a goal through the middle hoop.
"Ten points to Gryffindor," she whispered, and barreled downward to catch the Quaffle before it fell too far.
She flew in loops and dives around the makeshift pitch, testing the mechanics of the broom and finding it to be even better than she had imagined. She scored several more goals, one of which involved a truly perfect Dionysus Dive, before soaring up to the "ceiling" again.
Harry had done Wronski Feints plenty of times before in Quidditch matches, but Ginny knew that there was an even harder version that combined the maneuver with a barrel roll— she had seen the Harpies' Seeker do it, only twice, but she thought she understood the principle. And really, what better time would there be than now to try it? She couldn't die.
She tightened her grip on the Firebolt and went into a nosedive at top speed, using her thighs to put some spin into it, and soon she was whirling through the air so fast she didn't know which way was up. The ground, a blur of green and brown, raced closer and closer, and just when Ginny was sure she was going to crash, she yanked up on the Firebolt's handle, pulling out just in time. She was so close to the ground that her thighs skimmed against the grass as she lifted up again, her head spinning.
"I did it!" she cried, raising her arms in triumph, forgetting for a moment exactly where she was.
"Very impressive," Voldemort said drily. "You're ending your excursion on a high note. Time to go back inside now, little saint."
Disappointment flooded Ginny's body, heavy and bitter, and she glanced toward the horizon… the horizon which was blocked by Voldemort's magic. She was just as trapped as ever. This was an excursion, as he put it— like a dog on a leash. Not true freedom.
She flew down to the ground, breathing hard from exertion, and landed on shaky legs. She had pushed herself too hard in her excitement. Her muscles were screaming from overuse, her legs quavering beneath her.
"Did you enjoy that?" he asked.
"Yes, my lord," she said, unsure why he was asking when he knew the answer. "Very much… Thank you."
The thanks tasted bitter in her mouth when she knew that he was the reason she couldn't fly in the first place, but it was what he wanted her to say.
He walked closer to her, and pushed some of her loose hair out of her face. "Then perhaps if you're very good, you can do this again."
"I would like that."
"Time to go inside now," he said, turning abruptly away from her. He flicked the Elder Wand back toward her, and the leaf of the tattoo flew back into place, stinging her skin like a wasp. The Firebolt grew cold in her hands before vanishing, and Ginny bit down on her lip to stop herself from crying out at the loss.
He began walking back toward the house, the grid disappearing in an instant. "You need a bath, and to eat something," he continued.
"Yes, my lord," she said. She followed behind him, puzzling over why this whole interaction had occurred in the first place, when Draco's panicked voice burst into her mind.
Ginny! Potter broke into the Ministry of Magic! I don't know why, but they got away— him and Granger and your brother. Yaxley is calling the Dark Lord—
A few feet ahead of her, Voldemort snarled in pain as he gripped his left arm.
"Get up to your room," he snapped at her, his tone chilling her blood. "Now."
He quickened his pace, and Ginny followed behind him, her heart pounding.
—and I have to write up a report since I was there, he finished, oblivious to Ginny's surroundings.
Are you in danger? she asked.
I don't know. The Dark Lord won't be happy. Potter knocked me out, same as Yaxley.
Ginny's stomach roiled spectacularly as she entered the house, Voldemort storming off ahead of her toward the ballroom, and she knew she would be throwing up when she reached her room.
Stay safe, she sent to Draco. I'll do what I can to protect you.
No, Draco said. You can't show too much affection for me, remember? That ruins our whole plan.
Ginny's mind flashed on the torn sketchbook page being replaced, on Voldemort's words as he gave her the Firebolt. Only I can give you flight.
I can't just stand by—
I can survive whatever it is. We have to stick to the plan. I'll take the punishment, lay low for a few days, and then keep researching. Blaise hasn't found anything on Morgana in the Hogwarts library yet, but he's going to keep looking, and I'm going to check the Malfoy vault next— I've exhausted the regular library.
Draco, Ginny said, biting her lip as she dashed up the stairs, her legs still shaking. Just please be careful.
Of course. I'll see you soon.
When Ginny arrived back in her room, the door disappeared, and she ran to the bathroom to throw up. What had Harry been doing at the Ministry of all places? Looking for her? Surely not… but what else would he be trying to do? Something to take down Voldemort? But how? Why? They had to have known that was as good as a suicide mission— they were lucky to have escaped with their lives.
And now Draco would probably be punished, and she couldn't stop it…
She cried, feeling more powerless and lost than ever.
SEPTEMBER 2ND, 1997
"C'mon," said Harry, and he led Hermione and Mrs. Cattermole to the door, leaving Umbridge, Yaxley, and Malfoy behind, the locket Horcrux tucked safely in Hermione's pocket. His and Hermione's Patronuses led the way, keeping them safe from the swarm of dementors.
When the Patronuses glided out of the dungeon there were cries of shock from the people waiting outside. Harry looked around; the dementors were falling back on both sides of them, melding into the darkness, scattering before the silver creatures.
"It's been decided that you should all go home and go into hiding with your families," Harry told the waiting Muggle-borns, who were dazzled by the light of the Patronuses and still cowering slightly. "Go abroad if you can. Just get well away from the Ministry. That's the— er— new official position. Now, if you'll just follow the Patronuses, you'll be able to leave from the Atrium."
They managed to get up the stone steps without being intercepted, but as they approached the lifts Harry started to have misgivings. If they emerged into the Atrium with a silver stag, an otter soaring alongside it, and twenty or so people, half of them accused Muggle-horns, he could not help feeling that they would attract unwanted attention. He had just reached this unwelcome conclusion when the lift clanged to a halt in front of them.
"Reg!" screamed Mrs. Cattermole, and she threw herself into Ron's arms. "Runcorn let me out, he attacked Umbridge and Yaxley and Malfoy, and he's told all of us to leave the country, I think we'd better do it, Reg, I really do, let's hurry home and fetch the children and— why are you so wet?"
"Water," murmured Ron, disengaging himself. "Harry, they know there are intruders inside the Ministry, something about a hole in Umbridge's office door, I reckon we've got about five minutes if that—"
Hermione's Patronus vanished with a pop as she turned a horror-struck face to Harry.
"Harry, if we're trapped here—"
"We won't be if we move fast," said Harry. He addressed the silent group behind them, who were all gawping at him.
"Who's got wands?"
About half of them raised their hands.
"Okay, all of you who haven't got wands need to attach yourself to somebody who has. We'll need to be fast before they stop us. Come on."
They managed to cram themselves into two lifts. Harry's Patronus stood sentinel before the golden grilles as they shut and the lifts began to rise.
"Level eight," said the witch's cool voice, "Atrium."
Harry knew at once that they were in trouble. The Atrium was full of people moving from fireplace to fireplace, sealing them off.
"Harry!" squeaked Hermione. "What are we going to—?"
"STOP!" Harry thundered, and the powerful voice of Runcorn echoed through the Atrium: The wizards sealing the fireplaces froze. "Follow me," he whispered to the group of terrified Muggle-borns, who moved forward in a huddle, shepherded by Ron and Hermione.
"What's up, Albert?" said the same balding wizard who had followed Harry out of the fireplace earlier. He looked nervous.
"This lot needs to leave before you seal the exits," said Harry with all the authority he could muster.
The group of wizards in front of him looked at one another.
"We've been told to seal all exits and not let anyone—"
"Are you contradicting me?" Harry blustered. "Would you like me to have your family tree examined, like I had Dirk Cresswell's?"
"Sorry!" gasped the balding wizard, backing away. "I didn't mean nothing, Albert, but I thought… I thought they were in for questioning and…"
"Their blood is pure," said Harry, and his deep voice echoed impressively through the hall. "Purer than many of yours, I dare say. Off you go," he boomed to the Muggle-borns, who scurried forward into the fireplaces and began to vanish in pairs. The Ministry wizards hung back, some looking confused, others scared and resentful. Then:
"Mary!"
Mrs. Cattermole looked over her shoulder. The real Reg Cattermole, no longer vomiting but pale and wan, had just come running out of a lift.
"R-Reg?"
She looked from her husband to Ron, who swore loudly.
The balding wizard gaped, his head turning ludicrously from one Reg Cattermole to the other.
"Hey— what's going on? What is this?"
"Seal the exit! SEAL IT!"
Yaxley had burst out of another lift, Malfoy right behind him, and they were running toward the group beside the fireplaces, into which all of the Muggle-borns but Mrs. Cattermole had now vanished. As the balding wizard lifted his wand, Harry raised an enormous fist and punched him, sending him flying through the air.
"He's been helping Muggle-borns escape, Yaxley!" Harry shouted.
The balding wizard's colleagues set up an uproar, under cover of which Ron grabbed Mrs. Cattermole, pulled her into the still-open fireplace, and disappeared. Confused, Yaxley looked from Harry to the punched wizard, while the real Reg Cattermole screamed, "My wife! Who was that with my wife? What's going on?"
Harry saw Yaxley's head turn, saw an inkling of the truth dawn in that brutish face.
"Come on!" Harry shouted at Hermione; he seized her hand and they jumped into the fireplace together as Yaxley's curse sailed over Harry's head. They spun for a few seconds before shooting up out of a toilet into a cubicle. Harry flung open the door; Ron was standing there beside the sinks, still wrestling with Mrs. Cattermole.
"Reg, I don't understand—"
"Let go, I'm not your husband, you've got to go home!"
There was a noise in the cubicle behind them; Harry looked around; Yaxley and Malfoy had just appeared.
"LET'S GO!" Harry yelled. He seized Hermione by the hand and Ron by the arm and turned on the spot.
Darkness engulfed them, along with the sensation of compressing bands, but something was wrong… Hermione's hand seemed to be sliding out of his grip…
He wondered whether he was going to suffocate; he could not breathe or see and the only solid things in the world were Ron's arm and Hermione's fingers, which were slowly slipping away…
And then he saw the door of number twelve, Grimmauld Place, with its serpent door knocker, but before he could draw breath, there was a scream and a flash of purple light; Hermione's hand was suddenly vicelike upon his and everything went dark again.
…
Harry opened his eyes and was dazzled by gold and green; he had no idea what had happened, he only knew that he was lying on what seemed to be leaves and twigs. Struggling to draw breath into lungs that felt flattened, he blinked and realized that the gaudy glare was sunlight streaming through a canopy of leaves far above him. Then an object twitched close to his face. He pushed himself onto his hands and knees, ready to face some small, fierce creature, but saw that the object was Ron's foot. Looking around, Harry saw that they and Hermione were lying on a forest floor, apparently alone.
Harry's first thought was of the Forbidden Forest, and for a moment, even though he knew how foolish and dangerous it would be for them to appear in the grounds of Hogwarts, his heart leapt at the thought of sneaking through the trees to Hagrid's hut. However, in the few moments it took for Ron to give a low groan and Harry to start crawling toward him, he realized that this was not the Forbidden Forest: the trees looked younger, they were more widely spaced, the ground clearer.
He met Hermione, also on her hands and knees, at Ron's head. The moment his eyes fell upon Ron, all other concerns fled Harry's mind, for blood drenched the whole of Ron's left side and his face stood out, grayish-white, against the leaf-strewn earth. The Polyjuice Potion was wearing off now: Ron was halfway between Cattermole and himself in appearance, his hair turning redder and redder as his face drained of the little color it had left.
"What's happened to him?"
"Splinched," said Hermione, her fingers already busy at Ron's sleeve, where the blood was wettest and darkest.
Harry watched, horrified, as she tore open Ron's shirt. Goyle had been Splinched, but it had been dark, and Harry hadn't looked too closely. His insides crawled unpleasantly as Hermione laid bare Ron's upper arm, where a great chunk of flesh was missing, scooped cleanly away as though by a knife.
"Harry, quickly, in my bag, there's a small bottle labeled, 'Essence of Dittany'—"
"Bag— right—"
Harry sped to the place where Hermione had landed, seized the tiny beaded bag, and thrust his hand inside it. At once, object after object began presenting itself to his touch: He felt the leather spines of books, woolly sleeves of jumpers, heels of shoes—
"Quickly!"
He grabbed his wand from the ground and pointed it into the depths of the magical bag.
"Accio Dittany!"
A small brown bottle zoomed out of the bag; he caught it and hastened back to Hermione and Ron, whose eyes were now half-closed, strips of white eyeballs all that were visible between his lids.
"He's fainted," said Hermione, who was also rather pale; she no longer looked like Maranda, though her hair was still gray in places. "Unstopped it for me, Harry, my hands are shaking."
Harry wrenched the stopper off the little bottle, Hermione took it and poured three drops of the potion onto the bleeding wound. Greenish smoke billowed upward and when it had cleared, Harry saw that the bleeding had stopped. The wound now looked several days old; new skin stretched over what had just been open flesh.
"Wow," said Harry.
"It's all I feel safe doing," said Hermione shakily. "There are spells that would put him completely right, but I daren't try in case I do them wrong and cause more damage… He's lost so much blood already…"
"How did he get hurt? I mean—" Harry shook his head, trying to clear it, to make sense of whatever had just taken place. "Why are we here? I thought we were going back to Grimmauld Place?"
Hermione took a deep breath. She looked close to tears.
"Harry, I don't think we're going to be able to go back there."
"What d'you—?"
"As we Disapparated, Yaxley caught hold of me and I couldn't get rid of him, he was too strong, and he was still holding on when we arrived at Grimmauld Place, and then— well, I think he must have seen the door, and thought we were stopping there, so he slackened his grip and I managed to shake him off and I brought us here instead!"
"But then, where's he? Hang on… You don't mean he's at Grimmauld Place? He can't get in there?"
Her eyes sparkled with unshed tears as she nodded.
"Harry, I think he can. I— I forced him to let go with a Revulsion Jinx, but I'd already taken him inside the Fidelity's Charm's protection. Since Dumbledore died, we're Secret-Keepers, so I've given him the secret, haven't I?"
There was no pretending; Harry was sure she was right. It was a serious blow. If Yaxley could now get inside the house, there was no way that they could return. Even now, he could be bringing other Death Eaters in there by Apparition. Gloomy and oppressive though the house was, it had been their one safe refuge: even, now that Kreacher was so much happier and friendlier, a kind of home. With a twinge of regret that had nothing to do with food, Harry imagined the house-elf busying himself over the steak-and-kidney pie that Harry, Ron, and Hermione would never eat.
"Harry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!"
"Don't be stupid, it wasn't your fault! If anything, it was mine…"
Harry put his hand in his pocket and drew out Mad-Eye's eye. Hermione recoiled, looking horrified.
"Umbridge had stuck it to her office door, to spy on people. I couldn't leave it there… but that's how they knew there were intruders."
Before Hermione could answer, Ron groaned and opened his eyes. He was still gray and his face glistened with sweat.
"How d'you feel?" Hermione whispered.
"Lousy," croaked Ron, wincing as he felt his injured arm. "Where are we?"
"The Forest of Dean. My parents used to take me camping here when I was a child," said Hermione. She nodded to herself, appearing to make some kind of decision, and sprang to her feet.
"Where are you going?" asked Ron.
"We should put some protective enchantments around this place— here is as good a place as any to stay, now that we… now that we can't go back," she replied, and raising her wand, she began to walk in a wide circle around Harry and Ron, murmuring incantations as she went. Harry saw little disturbances in the surrounding air: It was as if Hermione had cast a heat haze upon their clearing.
"Salvio Hexia… Protego Totalum… Repello Muggletum… Muffliato… You could get out the tent, Harry…"
"Tent?"
"In the bag!"
"In the… of course," said Harry.
He did not bother to grope inside it this time, but used another Summoning Charm. The tent emerged in a lumpy mass of canvas, rope, and poles. Harry recognized it, partly because of the smell of cats, as the same tent in which they had slept on the night of the Quidditch World Cup.
"I thought this belonged to that bloke Perkins at the Ministry?" he asked, starting to disentangle the tent pegs.
"Apparently he didn't want it back, his lumbago's so bad," said Hermione, now performing complicated figure-of-eight movements with her wand, "so Ron's dad said I could borrow it. Erecto!" she added, pointing her wand at the misshapen canvas, which in one fluid motion rose into the air and settled, fully constructed, onto the ground before Harry, out of whose startled hands a tent peg soared, to land with a final thud at the end of a guy rope.
"Cave Iniminicum," Hermione finished with a skyward flourish. "That's as much as I can do. At the very least, we should know they're coming."
Harry and Hermione half carried, half dragged Ron through the entrance of the tent. The interior was exactly as Harry remembered it: a small flat, complete with bathroom and tiny kitchen. He shoved aside an old armchair and lowered Ron carefully onto the lower berth of a bunk bed. Even this very short journey had turned Ron whiter still, and once they had settled him on the mattress he closed his eyes again and did not speak for a while.
"I'll make some tea," said Hermione breathlessly, pulling kettle and mugs from the depths of her bag and heading toward the kitchen.
Harry sat down on the floor next to Ron's bunk, and took this opportunity to pull Ginny's painting out of his pocket. He ran his fingers over the front of it, the glass of the frame separating him from the parchment. He flipped the frame over, sliding its hinges open, and lifted the back off, intent on being able to feel the paint itself.
There was writing on the back of the painting— Ginny's handwriting. It read:
"Native to the wilds of New Zealand, Antipodean Opaleyes are widely considered to be the most beautiful of all dragons thanks to the pearly sheen of their scales. Moreover, they are loyal creatures and not aggressive by nature, only attacking when provoked or cornered." — A reminder of who you truly are, for when things get dark. The gods remember us. We are not forgotten. All my love, Ginny.
Harry stared at the words, read them again, and traced his finger over Ginny's signature. It was definitely her writing. But it was like she had written a riddle. What did it mean? Did Malfoy know what it meant?
All my love, Ginny…
"What's that, Harry?" Hermione asked, returning with mugs in hand.
"When I was looking for Umbridge's office, I found Malfoy's desk," he said. "He had pictures of Ginny on it, and this painting that she apparently made."
Ron grunted awake at this news and tried to sit up, but turned an awful shade of green and immediately laid back down.
Hermione sat down next to Harry and read over his shoulder, silently murmuring the words.
"What's the painting of?" Ron asked, his voice still laced with pain. "I can't sit up."
"A dragon," Harry answered. "There's writing on the back though." And, feeling slightly disconnected from the reality of what was in front of him, Harry read the inscription aloud.
"What the bloody hell does that mean?" Ron said.
"A reminder of who you truly are, for when things get dark…" Hermione said, brow furrowed.
Harry jolted. He had almost forgotten, in the flurry of getting the Horcrux from Umbridge and narrowly escaping the Ministry.
"That's not all," he said. "When I was following Malfoy down to the courts, he went into a side room and pulled out a mirror, like the one Sirius gave me. And you'll never guess who has the other one— Blaise Zabini."
"Zabini?" Hermione asked, her brow furrowing more. "What was he calling Zabini for?"
Harry quickly recounted Malfoy and Zabini's conversation.
"This confirms it," he finished. "Malfoy's plotting something, and Ginny knows about it."
"Malfoy, plotting against You-Know-Who?" Ron asked in wonder. "Seems pretty unlikely, doesn't it?"
"No more unlikely than it would have seemed to anyone who knew Regulus Black," Harry said, his heart pounding. "A young Death Eater from a pureblood family, right? Right in You-Know-Who's inner circle. Maybe Malfoy learned something that spooked him… just like Regulus did."
Could Malfoy know about the Horcruxes? Harry wasn't sure if that would be good news or bad news. Good in that they weren't the only ones who knew, and thus there was a greater chance of them being discovered and destroyed, and bad in that Malfoy spent quite a lot of time around Voldemort, if Harry had to guess, and Voldemort was the most accomplished Legilimens in the world. Malfoy even knowing the word Horcrux would put him in terrible danger, and it seemed that Ginny was included in that as well.
"Quite a change of heart for him to have in the last few months, but anything's possible, I suppose," Hermione said, though her voice was doubtful. "I wish we could just talk to Ginny… or even Malfoy at this point. There's more religious language in here, did you notice? The gods remember us. And Malfoy mentioned some Celtic gods to Zabini… What does that mean?"
"Could you consider Death a god?" Harry asked as he turned the painting over, the dragon's scales glinting in the forest sunlight. "Malfoy said a being, colloquially known as Death, gave Ginny her immortality, and whatever other defenses it has. That burst of light we saw come out of her when Goyle was being tortured, and whatever else it might do. You could call something like that a god, couldn't you?"
He looked at Hermione, who was frowning, then at Ron, whose skin still had a terrible greenish cast, and then back at the painting.
Moreover, they are loyal creatures and not aggressive by nature, only attacking when provoked or cornered.
"Enough about gods for now," he continued, his eyes lingering on the dragon's pale, pointed face. "Let's talk about what to do about the locket."
"You got it?" shouted Ron, raising himself a little higher on his pillows. "No one tells me anything! Blimey, you could have mentioned it?"
"Well, we were running for our lives from the Death Eaters, weren't we?" said Hermione. "Here."
And she pulled the locket out of the pocket of her robes and handed it to Ron.