restitution in absentia

by Aradia Ravenswood

When Voldemort captures Sybill Trelawney after the Death Eaters' disastrous raid on the Department of Mysteries, he alters the course of the war forever. Some say the power of prophecy is in the belief of those who hear it, but Draco Malfoy has always been a believer in fate. Slow burn Draco/Ginny.

46. Chapter 46

AUGUST 5th, 1997

Harry's head spun as he walked down the stairs. They had learned so much information in the last few days. The day after his vision of Voldemort and Ginny, he had decided to explore the upper levels of Grimmauld Place, coming across Sirius's bedroom… and Regulus's. R.A.B. Regulus, barely an adult at the time, had decided to betray Voldemort; he had learned of the locket Horcrux somehow, and given his life to see it removed from Voldemort's possession. Kreacher, overcome with gratitude to Harry for vowing to destroy the locket and giving Kreacher the fake one for his very own, was on the hunt for Mundungus Fletcher, who had stolen the locket out of the trash two years prior. That was two days ago now though, and Kreacher had still not returned. Had he been delayed somehow? Had Dung injured him? Or given him the slip?

The trio were in reluctant agreement to focus on the Horcruxes first, despite Harry's visions of Ginny, but Harry knew that all three of them were thinking of her constantly. Hermione had had him provide her with his memories of Voldemort from his studies with Dumbledore, as well as Harry's and Ron's memories from school where Ginny mentioned anything about Malfoy or the Deathstick. Between those and the memories of Harry's visions, it felt like she was spending more time inside of the Pensieve than out of it, reemerging only to jot down notes or cross something out before diving back in. Now that Kreacher was gone, searching for Mundungus, this left Harry and Ron with precious little to do, which was not helping Ron's psyche. He had taken to using the Deluminator constantly, flicking the lights on and off and on again, driving Harry mad.

Halfway down the flight of stairs into the hall, he heard a tap on the front door, then metallic clicks and the grinding of the chain.

Every nerve in his body seemed to tauten: He pulled out his wand, moved into the shadows beside the decapitated elf heads, and waited. The door opened: He saw a glimpse of the lamp lit square outside, and a cloaked figure edged into the hall and closed the door behind it. The intruder took a step forward, and Moody's voice asked, "Severus Snape?" Then the dust figure rose from the end of the hall and rushed him, raising its dead hand.

"It was not I who killed you, Albus," said a quiet voice.

The jinx broke: The dust-figure exploded again, and it was impossible to make out the newcomer through the dense gray cloud it left behind.

Harry pointed his wand into the middle of it.

"Don't move!"

He had forgotten the portrait of Mrs. Black: At the sound of his yell, the curtains hiding her flew open and she began to scream, "Mudbloods and filth dishonoring my house—"

Ron and Hermione came crashing down the stairs behind Harry, wands pointing, like his, at the unknown man now standing with his arms raised in the hall below.

"Hold your fire, it's me, Remus!"

"Oh, thank goodness," said Hermione weakly, pointing her wand at Mrs. Black instead; with a bang, the curtains swished shut again and silence fell. Ron too lowered his wand, but Harry did not.

"Show yourself!" he called back.

Lupin moved forward into the lamplight, hands still held high in a gesture of surrender.

"I am Remus John Lupin, werewolf, sometimes known as Moony, one of the four creators of the Marauder's Map, married to Nymphadora, usually known as Tonks, and I taught you how to produce a Patronus, Harry, which takes the form of a stag."

"Oh, all right," said Harry, lowering his wand, "but I had to check, didn't I?"

"Speaking as your ex-Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, I quite agree that you had to check. Ron, Hermione, you shouldn't be so quick to lower your defenses."

They ran down the stairs toward him. Wrapped in a thick black traveling cloak, he looked exhausted, but pleased to see them.

"No sign of Severus, then?" he asked.

"No," said Harry. "What's going on? Is everyone okay?"

Lupin grimaced. "Everyone is alive, to my knowledge. But that's what I came to talk to you about— can we sit down somewhere?"

Harry's heart plummeted into his stomach— everyone was alive to Lupin's knowledge, so why couldn't he say they were okay?

"Has someone been tortured—"

"Again, not to my knowledge, but it's complicated," Lupin said. "Please. Let's sit. I have a lot to tell you and I'm guessing a lot has happened to you all as well."

They descended into the kitchen, where Hermione pointed her wand at the grate. A fire sprang up instantly: It gave the illusion of coziness to the stark stone walls and glistened off the long wooden table. Lupin pulled a few butterbeers from beneath his traveling cloak and they sat down.

"I'd have been here four days ago but I needed to shake off the Death Eater tailing me," said Lupin. "So, you came straight here after the wedding?"

"Tell us what's wrong first," Harry said. "We'll share ours after."

Lupin sighed, his careworn face looking heavy, before he turned to Ron. "Your family's been arrested."

"What?" he yelped, jumping to his feet. "All of them?"

"Your parents, your brothers, and Fleur Delacour, yes," Lupin said. "Thanks to Kingsley's warning, most of the wedding guests were able to Disapparate before they arrived, but—"

"Were they Death Eaters or Ministry people?" interjected Hermione.

"A mixture, but to all intents and purposes they're the same thing now," said Lupin. "They interrogated us for hours, trying to get information on you, Harry. At first it seemed like they were going to let everyone go, but they must have gotten new information— at a certain point they started asking about Ron and where he was, why he wasn't with the rest of the family, and when your parents showed them the ghoul… They knew they were lying."

Ron's face had gone ashen. He collapsed back into his chair, putting his head in his hands.

"What did they arrest them for?" Harry demanded. "Lying about where Ron is isn't illegal— what reason are they using?"

"Well…" Lupin pulled out a copy of the *Daily Prophet* from under his cloak. "Here. That's their pretext for going after you."

Harry smoothed out the paper. A huge photograph of his own face filled the front page. He read the headline over it: WANTED FOR QUESTIONING ABOUT THE DEATH OF ALBUS DUMBLEDORE.

Ron and Hermione gave roars of outrage, but Harry said nothing. He pushed the newspaper away; he did not want to read any more: He knew what it would say. Nobody but those who had been on top of the tower when Dumbledore died knew who had really killed him and, as Rita Skeeter had already told the Wizarding world, Harry had been seen running from the place moments after Dumbledore had fallen.

"I'm sorry, Harry," said Lupin.

"So they're looking for me, a murderer, and Ron's supposed to be my accomplice?" Harry said flatly.

"They must have gotten word after Tottenham Court Road," Hermione said. At Lupin's curious glance, she added, "We were tracked there by three Death Eaters. We got away, and one of them— Gregory Goyle— came with us, and he told us the Ministry instituted a magic called the Taboo. Anyone who says You-Know-Who's name now can be tracked by the Ministry, like a Trace."

"Gregory Goyle, the same one in your year?" Lupin asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes," Hermione said.

"Where is Ron's family now?" Harry asked. "The Ministry? They can't hold them forever, they don't know anything, we never told them—"

"I'm not sure where they are, Harry, but they haven't been released," said Lupin, grimacing as he pulled another copy of the Prophet out. "Lying to them about Ron was enough to get them arrested, and this was enough to make sure they aren't released."

He laid the second copy of the Prophet down on the table, and Hermione gasped. Ginny was on the front cover, sitting between Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy on a plush couch. Lucius had his hand on her knee while Ginny spoke, and Narcissa had Ginny's hand clutched in her own. Ginny looked solemn but otherwise well— her sleeves were tight and extended past her wrists, hiding the magical tattoo from the camera. The headline read: YOUNGEST WEASLEY SPEAKS OUT ABOUT ABUSE FROM BLOOD TRAITOR FAMILY.

"It can't get any worse," Ron muttered in a shocked tone. "It absolutely can't get any worse."

"Now we know Ginny's alive," Lupin said, and Harry realized belatedly that Lupin expected that to be news for them. "But she's clearly being used for propaganda. You may not want to read that article Ron—" But Ron had already snatched up the paper and was skimming the front page, Hermione reading over his shoulder.

"In order to let Goyle go, we negotiated getting a memory of Ginny from him," Harry said, making Lupin's eyebrows shoot up. "There's… a lot, but she has a magical tattoo on her arm that's a modified version of the Imperius Curse. The Death Eaters are intending to use those on all blood traitors, in order to make them compliant with the new regime."

"The article does call for rehabilitation measures," Lupin said darkly. "Reeducation, they say."

"But surely people realize what's going on?" Hermione said, looking up from the paper.

"The coup has been smooth and virtually silent," said Lupin. "The official version of Scrimgeour's murder is that he resigned; he has been replaced by Pius Thicknesse, who is under the Imperius Curse. Not this modified version you mentioned though… I wonder why."

"It controls the body, not the mind," Harry said, parroting Hermione. "We've seen it in action, in that memory— the voice of whoever's controlling them changes drastically when they give an order. It's not subtle."

Lupin frowned, considering.

"Why didn't You-Know-Who declare himself Minister of Magic?" asked Ron.

Lupin laughed.

"He doesn't need to, Ron. Effectively he is the Minister, but why should he sit behind a desk at the Ministry? His puppet, Thicknesse, is taking care of everyday business, leaving Vol—"

"Don't say the name!" the trio blurted at once.

"Right you are," Lupin said with a nod. "Leaving You-Know-Who free to extend his power beyond the Ministry. Naturally many people have deduced what has happened: There has been such a dramatic change in Ministry policy in the last few days, and many are whispering that You-Know-Who must be behind it. However, that is the point: They whisper. They daren't confide in each other, not knowing whom to trust; they are scared to speak out, in case their suspicions are true and their families are targeted. Yes, You-Know-Who is playing a very clever game. Declaring himself might have provoked open rebellion: Remaining masked has created confusion, uncertainty, and fear."

"And this dramatic change in Ministry policy," said Harry, "involves warning the Wizarding world against me instead of You-Know-Who?"

"That's certainly part of it," said Lupin, "and it is a masterstroke. Now that Dumbledore is dead, you—the Boy Who Lived— were sure to be the symbol and rallying point for any resistance to You-Know-Who. But by suggesting that you had a hand in the old hero's death, You-Know-Who has not only set a price upon your head, but sown doubt and fear amongst many who would have defended you."

"This article blames Dumbledore for everything though," Ron said, not lifting his eyes from the paper with Ginny on the cover. "The way Rita Skeeter tells it, he was terrorizing poor, innocent little pureblood kids from the moment they entered Hogwarts. Encouraging their families to torture them if they disobeyed."

"What?" Harry demanded, snatching the paper up for himself.

"Playing both sides, a bit," Lupin said. "For those who were already inclined to be suspicious of Dumbledore, this article would reconfirm those doubts— you'll notice how they focus on Harry being close to Dumbledore in that one? And for those who would support Dumbledore, this article about his death puts just enough doubt on its circumstances to make Harry a convincing target."

"This reporter confirmed the reports of abuse as described by Miss Weasley through both direct evidence of an old injury inflicted on the girl's chest by a Muggle knife, and through Healers' records of treating her. A Healer on staff at St. Mungo's, who wished to remain anonymous due to fear of reprisal, stated that he had personally attended to Miss Weasley, whose injuries at the time were extensive," Harry read, his stomach twisting into a horrible knot.

"And," Lupin said with a grimace. "That's not all. The Ministry has started moving against Muggle-borns. Look at page 2."

Harry turned the page in disgust.

"Muggle-born Register. The Ministry of Magic is undertaking a survey of so-called 'Muggle-borns,' the better to understand how they came to possess magical secrets.

"Recent research undertaken by the Department of Mysteries reveals that magic can only be passed from person to person when Wizards reproduce. Where no proven Wizarding ancestry exists, therefore, the so-called Muggle-born is likely to have obtained magical power by theft or force.

"The Ministry is determined to root out such usurpers of magical power, and to this end has issued an invitation to every so-called Muggle-born to present themselves for interview by the newly appointed Muggle-born Registration Commission."

"People won't let this happen," said Ron.

"It is happening, Ron," said Lupin. "Muggle-borns are being rounded up as we speak."

"But how are they supposed to have 'stolen' magic?" said Ron. "It's mental, if you could steal magic there wouldn't be any Squibs, would there?"

"I know," said Lupin. "Nevertheless, unless you can prove that you have at least one close Wizarding relative, you are now deemed to have obtained your magical power illegally and must suffer the punishment— and they appear to be taking a similar track for sympathetic purebloods, what with labeling 'blood traitors' abusive."

Ron glanced at Hermione, then said, "What if purebloods and half-bloods swear a Muggle-born's part of their family? I'll tell everyone Hermione's my cousin—"

Hermione covered Ron's hand with hers and squeezed it.

"Thank you, Ron, but I couldn't let you—"

"You won't have a choice," said Ron fiercely, gripping her hand back. "I'll teach you my family tree so you can answer questions on it."

Hermione gave a shaky laugh.

"Ron, as we're on the run with Harry Potter, the most wanted person in the country, I don't think it matters. If I was going back to school it would be different. What's You-Know-Who planning for Hogwarts?" she asked Lupin.

"Attendance is now compulsory for every young witch and wizard," he replied. "This was announced yesterday. It's a change, because it was never obligatory before. Of course, nearly every witch and wizard in Britain has been educated at Hogwarts, but their parents had the right to teach them at home or send them abroad if they preferred. This way, You-Know-Who will have the whole Wizarding population under his eye from a young age— the article about Ginny calls for something similar, that there needs to be more Ministry oversight over how Wizarding children are being raised. And it's also another way of weeding out Muggle-borns, because students must be given Blood Status— meaning that they have proven to the Ministry that they are of Wizard descent— before they are allowed to attend."

Harry felt sickened and angry: At this moment, excited eleven-year-olds would be poring over stacks of newly purchased spell books, unaware that they would never see Hogwarts, perhaps never see their families again either.

"It's… it's…" he muttered, struggling to find words that did justice to the horror of his thoughts, but Lupin said quietly,

"I know."

Lupin hesitated.

"I'll understand if you can't confirm this, Harry, but the Order is under the impression that Dumbledore left you a mission."

"He did," Harry replied, "and Ron and Hermione are in on it and they're coming with me."

"Can you confide in me what the mission is?"

Harry looked into the prematurely lined face, framed in thick but graying hair, and wished that he could return a different answer.

"I can't, Remus, I'm sorry. If Dumbledore didn't tell you I don't think I can."

"I thought you'd say that," said Lupin, looking disappointed. "But I might still be of some use to you. You know what I am and what I can do. I could come with you to provide protection. There would be no need to tell me exactly what you were up to."

Harry hesitated. It was a very tempting offer, though how they would be able to keep their mission secret from Lupin if he were with them all the time he could not imagine.

"Who's running the Order though, if my family is locked up?" said Ron. "You and Kingsley, isn't it?"

"Yes," Lupin said. "But truth be told, we don't have a solid direction to go in. The Order is doing its best to smuggle Muggle-borns out of the country, at least those who are willing to leave, but that's reactive at best. Kingsley can manage— my time can be better served protecting you all, if you think you can end things for good."

"But what about Tonks?" Hermione asked, a puzzled look on her face.

"What about her?" said Lupin.

"Well," said Hermione, frowning, "you're married! How does she feel about you going away with us?"

"Tonks will be perfectly safe," said Lupin. "She'll be at her parents' house."

There was something strange in Lupin's tone; it was almost cold. There was also something odd in the idea of Tonks remaining hidden at her parents' house; she was, after all, a member of the Order and, as far as Harry knew, was likely to want to be in the thick of the action, particularly with the Weasleys having been arrested.

"Remus," said Hermione tentatively, "is everything all right… you know… between you and—"

"Everything is fine, thank you," said Lupin pointedly.

Hermione turned pink. There was another pause, an awkward and embarrassed one, and then Lupin said, with an air of forcing himself to admit something unpleasant, "Tonks is going to have a baby."

"Oh, how wonderful!" squealed Hermione.

"Excellent!" said Ron enthusiastically.

"Congratulations," said Harry.

Lupin gave an artificial smile that was more like a grimace, then said, "So… do you accept my offer? Will three become four? I cannot believe that Dumbledore would have disapproved, he appointed me your Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, after all. And I must tell you that I believe that we are facing magic many of us have never encountered or imagined."

Ginny's screaming face, surrounded by golden light, flashed in Harry's mind. Ginny, who was all alone. Ginny, who had needed him, and he had ignored her.

Ron and Hermione both looked at Harry.

"Just— just to be clear," he said. "You want to leave Tonks at her parents' house and come away with us?"

"She'll be perfectly safe there, they'll look after her," said Lupin. He spoke with a finality bordering on indifference. "Harry, I'm sure James would have wanted me to stick with you."

"Well," said Harry slowly, "I'm not. I'm pretty sure my father would have wanted to know why you aren't sticking with your own kid, actually."

Lupin's face drained of color. The temperature in the kitchen might have dropped ten degrees. Ron stared around the room as though he had been bidden to memorize it, while Hermione's eyes swiveled backward and forward from Harry to Lupin.

"You don't understand," said Lupin at last.

"Explain, then," said Harry.

Lupin swallowed.

"I— I made a grave mistake in marrying Tonks. I did it against my better judgment and I have regretted it very much ever since."

"I see," said Harry, "so you're just going to dump her and the kid and run off with us?"

Lupin sprang to his feet: His chair toppled over backward, and he glared at them so fiercely that Harry saw, for the first time ever, the shadow of the wolf upon his human face.

"Don't you understand what I've done to my wife and my unborn child? I should never have married her, I've made her an outcast!"

Lupin kicked aside the chair he had overturned.

"You have only ever seen me amongst the Order, or under Dumbledore's protection at Hogwarts! You don't know how most of the Wizarding world sees creatures like me! When they know of my affliction, they can barely talk to me! Don't you see what I've done? Even her own family is disgusted by our marriage, what parents want their only daughter to marry a werewolf? And the child— the child—"

Lupin actually seized handfuls of his own hair; he looked quite deranged.

"My kind don't usually breed! It will be like me, I am convinced of it— how can I forgive myself, when I knowingly risked passing on my own condition to an innocent child? And if, by some miracle, it is not like me, then it will be better off, a hundred times so, without a father of whom it must always be ashamed!"

"Remus!" whispered Hermione, tears in her eyes. "Don't say that— how could any child be ashamed of you?"

"Oh, I don't know, Hermione," said Harry. "I'd be pretty ashamed of him."

Harry did not know where his rage was coming from, but it had propelled him to his feet too. Lupin looked as though Harry had hit him.

"If the new regime thinks Muggle-borns are bad," Harry said, "what will they do to a half-werewolf whose father's head of the Order? My father died trying to protect my mother and me, and you reckon he'd tell you to abandon your kid to go on an adventure with us?"

"How— how dare you?" said Lupin. "This is not about a desire for— for danger, or personal glory— how dare you suggest such a—"

"I think you're feeling a bit of a daredevil," Harry said. "You fancy stepping into Sirius's shoes—"

"Harry, no!" Hermione begged him, but he continued to glare into Lupin's livid face.

"I'd never have believed this," Harry said. "The man who taught me to fight dementors— a coward."

Lupin drew his wand so fast that Harry had barely reached for his own; there was a loud bang and he felt himself flying backward as if punched; as he slammed into the kitchen wall and slid to the floor, he glimpsed the tail of Lupin's cloak disappearing around the door.

"Remus, Remus, come back!" Hermione cried, but Lupin did not respond. A moment later they heard the front door slam.

"Harry!" wailed Hermione. "How could you?"

"It was easy," said Harry. He stood up; he could feel a lump swelling where his head had hit the wall. He was still so full of anger he was shaking.

"Don't look at me like that!" he snapped at Hermione.

"Don't you start on her!" snarled Ron.

"No— no— we mustn't fight!" said Hermione, launching herself between them.

"You shouldn't have said that stuff to Lupin," Ron told Harry. "He might be all we've got now— all the Order's got now."

"He had it coming to him," said Harry. Broken images were reading each other through his mind: Sirius falling through the veil; Ginny in a crown, running away with Malfoy from a furious Lord Voldemort; Dumbledore suspended, broken, in midair; a flash of green light and his mother's voice, begging for mercy…

"Parents," said Harry, "shouldn't leave their kids unless— unless they've got to."

"Harry—" said Hermione, stretching out a consoling hand, but he shrugged it off and walked away, his eyes on the fire Hermione had conjured. He had once spoken to Lupin out of that fireplace, seeking reassurance about James, and Lupin had consoled him. Now Lupin's tortured white face seemed to swim in the air before him. He felt a sickening surge of remorse. Neither Ron nor Hermione spoke, but Harry felt sure that they were looking at each other behind his back, communicating silently.

Lupin needed to go back to Tonks— Harry didn't regret that— but having to turn down his offer of help had highlighted how very alone the trio were. And the Weasleys… What was happening to the Weasleys? Their faces flashed in Harry's mind and his heart twisted. It felt like his fault— if Ron hadn't come with him, the Weasleys wouldn't have been targeted in the same way, he was sure of it. He was in the process of turning to face Ron and Hermione, to apologize for getting them both into this mess, when a deafening crack echoed around the kitchen.

For the first time in three days Harry had forgotten all about Kreacher. His immediate thought was that Lupin had burst back into the room, and for a split second, he did not take in the mass of struggling limbs that had appeared out of thin air right beside his chair. He hurried to his feet as Kreacher disentangled himself and, bowing low to Harry, croaked, "Kreacher has returned with the thief Mundungus Fletcher, Master."

---

AUGUST 5th, 1997

When Ginny awoke the next morning, her door had been returned to her, and by the time she had emerged from her bath, Draco had arrived— Voldemort had kept his word in that regard. She resisted the urge to run to him immediately, and instead made herself offer a polite hello as she walked to the vanity.

You're here! she exclaimed across the bridge.

He quickly disguised his smile as a smirk as he walked up behind her and grabbed the hairbrush. I'm here.

I thought for sure he would keep you away somehow.

Not so far. Maybe that means our plan is working.

Ginny leaned back in her seat, letting herself enjoy his touch. I hope so. Were you able to find anything last night?

Not anything that seemed particularly useful— more like textbook information. The Morrigan is a Celtic goddess, part of a pantheon called the Tuatha de Danaan.

Alys mentioned that! When she was talking about the Morrigan. Her grandmother used to tell Alys and her sister Merilda about how their people were blessed by the Morrigan and this land belonged to them.

The land around the manor? he asked, a frown in his voice. I've never heard of anything like that.

Why would you have? Not something your blood supremacist ancestors would want to advertise, she said wryly. They would dismiss any Muggle claims, whether they were legal ones or apparently divine ones. That's one of the things Alys and Nicholas Malfoy argued about. He showed her a deed to the land from—

William the Conqueror.

Maybe—I didn't actually get to see it. But he said a Muggle king had given the Malfoys the land centuries ago, and Alys said "my people recognize no mortal kings."

Hmm. I'll keep looking. Why were they arguing about the land?

I'm not completely sure. Nicholas Malfoy wanted all the villagers to stay out of the forest— he tortured and killed anyone who disobeyed if he caught them. But Alys didn't let that stop her. I think maybe she saw her connection to the gods as connected through the land? When they would go out to the standing stones, their ceremonies felt very much connected to nature. Not unlike what going to the oak tree feels like, actually. Like you've stepped outside of time for a moment.

I'll look at records regarding the land. Maybe I can find where these standing stones are and visit them. I don't recall ever hearing them mentioned, but, as you've seen, the forest is massive.

Ginny's heart raced as she imagined Draco walking up to the stones, just as Alys had done centuries before. What if Ginny could go there? Would the land remember the gem? Would it give her any clues, or help her access its power?

As a heads up, I'm going to ask Yaxley today about me joining the Muggle-born Registration Commission.

The what? she asked, wrinkling her nose. He slowed his brushing down, giving them the pretense of not speaking out loud for longer.

That's what they're calling it. I told you they would be creating new departments, remember? I'll join, figure out what exactly the agenda is, and slow them down as much as I can without drawing attention to myself.

Ginny didn't get a chance to reply. Voldemort opened the door and walked in, his eyes meeting Ginny's in the small vanity mirror. Draco put the hairbrush down at once and turned to bow.

"Good morning, my lord," he said.

"It's time to go, little saint," Voldemort replied, ignoring Draco completely. "Unless you've changed your mind about seeing your family."

Ginny jumped to her feet. "No, I'm ready." She walked toward him, her heart in her throat, and Draco made to follow her.

"Draco, perhaps you can assist Severus this morning," Voldemort said, looking over Ginny's shoulder at him. "He's brewing some potions down in the cellar for me. He tells me you got an Outstanding on your O.W.L.— I'm sure he would appreciate the help."

Ginny felt a flinch through the bond when Voldemort mentioned the cellar, but Draco bowed beside her. "Of course, my lord."

Good luck, he sent to her, knowing she couldn't respond. I hope you have a good visit.

It hadn't occurred to her that if Draco was here, he wouldn't be allowed to go with her. Perhaps that would be for the best— she had no idea what she was walking into, and managing her interactions with him on top of whatever else felt like more than she could maybe take on, particularly as she doubted she would be left alone with her family.

Voldemort turned away from them and began walking down the hallway, and Ginny hurried to follow behind, her plum-colored robes swishing in her haste. Draco kept a respectful distance behind her, making it clear that he wasn't intentionally following them. Ginny made herself take a deep breath. Muggle illusions. Direct the audience's attention. She could do that. She had to.

They went down the stairs, and while Draco turned left, they went right, heading toward the front door.

"Are there any… rules, my lord?" she asked as he stepped outside. "Rules I should know about?"

"Nothing other than what we've discussed."

"Is there anything I'm not allowed to tell them?"

He looked over his shoulder at her as she shut the door.

"I'll let you use your best judgment there," he said. "Though I'm not particularly worried about them learning anything— you'll see why when we get there."

Ginny's stomach twisted. What the hell did that mean?

They walked down the front pathway, away from the house. It was truly the height of summer now— Ginny could feel the heat of the sun on her face immediately, and she thought of Quidditch with a pang in her heart. Summer and flying were so irrevocably linked in her mind. Would she ever get to fly again?

"Perhaps," Voldemort said as they came to a stop. "You'd have to be very trustworthy for me to allow that."

"In a couple hundred years, maybe," Ginny said with a grimace.

"What?"

"Nothing," Ginny said, shaking her head. "Just a dream."

He eyed her, an unreadable expression on his face. "Such a vivid imagination."

Her chest tightened and she forced her thoughts to stay neutral. "Too vivid, sometimes."

"Hmm." He extended his arm to her and, taking a deep breath, she took it. They Apparated away, and appeared in the middle of an abandoned field. There was absolutely nothing around— no people, no buildings, no nothing.

Ginny took an involuntary step backward. Was this some kind of trick? What was he—

"Patience," he drawled in an irritated voice. "Always so quick to doubt." He walked forward a few paces, drawing the Elder Wand and making a series of complicated motions through the air, which had begun to glimmer. It looked almost like a giant soap bubble— an opalescent sphere in the middle of nowhere.

"You need the Dark Mark to enter and exit," he said. "I need to enchant a temporary exception for you. Come here."

She stepped forward, worry about what she was about to see gnawing at her, and without preamble he grabbed her left arm and pushed up her robe sleeve. Nausea washed over her as his fingers brushed against the tattoo and he frowned.

"Such an annoyance," he muttered, more to himself than to her, before he pressed the tip of the Elder Wand to her wrist. The tattoo glowed with the faintest light for a moment, and then it was over. He flung the energy at the tip of the wand toward the bubble, which shuddered and rippled.

"Time to go in now," he said, satisfaction dripping from his tone. "You can surprise them. They don't know you're coming."

She took another deep breath, very aware of the fact that she had absolutely no guarantee that her family was even here, and made herself step through the wall of the bubble. It felt wet and sticky for a moment, but it subsided almost immediately. Ginny gasped. She was at the Burrow.

"A near-perfect replica, I think," Voldemort said, stepping through beside her. The shimmering edge of the bubble disappeared.

"You've seen my house?"

"I've seen your memories of it."

It was indeed very nearly perfect, down to the chickens wandering around in the front yard.

"This is… incredible," she said, shocked. "I don't know what to say."

"Thank you would be a good start, but you can save that for after," he said. "Go inside."

It even smelled like the Burrow, like wildflowers and baking bread and sunshine. Tears already welling up in her eyes, not quite allowing herself to believe it yet, she ran toward the front door and yanked it open, revealing the Burrow's living room.

Before Ginny could even properly take in the space, Molly Weasley screamed and ran to her, embracing her so tightly that she knocked the breath out of Ginny, but Ginny didn't care at all. Mum was here, she was really here, she was here and she was holding her and she smelled just like Ginny remembered and her arms were so warm and—

"My baby, my baby," she sobbed over and over, running her hand over Ginny's back as though to make sure she was real.

"Hi Mum," Ginny choked out, unable to hold her own tears back at this point.

"Ginny? Ginny!"

Soon everyone was around her, Dad and Bill and Charlie and Percy and Fred and George and Fleur, and even Arnold, perched on George's shoulder.

"Are you alright? Are you hurt?"

"We were so worried—"

"How did you find us?"

"Have you seen Ron? Did he and the others get you out? Are you here to rescue us?"

"I hope I'm not interrupting."

Ginny's blood turned to ice in her veins as Mum pulled her in closer. She looked over her shoulder to see Voldemort standing in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe and smirking as he twirled the Elder Wand casually in his fingers.

Of course he can't let me have this time alone.

Irritation flashed over his face at that thought, but Ginny interjected before he could speak.

"No, my lord. Thank you for bringing me here."

She felt rather than saw Mum look down at her, but she kept her eyes focused on Voldemort's face until he looked relaxed again.

"Go ahead and answer their questions," he said. "They've waited a very long time to see you, after all."

Her father was glaring at Voldemort, and she could tell by the looks on the twins' faces that they were thinking of ways to improvise a weapon.

"I'm okay," she said quickly, pulling back just a bit from her mother's embrace so that she could see everyone properly. "I'm alright, I promise. I'm not hurt. Can we… sit down, maybe?"

She had no idea how long this visit would last. Any second with them could be her last— she had to make it all count.

Mum let go, very reluctantly, and was immediately replaced by Bill, who wrapped her up tightly and kissed the top of her head.

"I thought I would never see you again," he whispered. "I looked for you every day, me and Dad and Charlie. We looked, Ginny, I promise. I'm so sorry we couldn't find you."

Ginny's face scrunched up with tears, but she took a shuddering breath, willing them to subside, acutely aware of the fact that the Weasleys were not alone.

"It's okay," she made herself say. "I believe you. I'm glad you're all okay."

Everyone took their turns hugging her before they finally sat down, with Voldemort still in the doorway.

"My lord—" she started.

"The answer is no, little saint. I never promised you an unsupervised visit."

George opened his mouth to object, but stopped at a fierce look from Ginny.

"I was going to ask if you wanted to sit down," she said instead. She hadn't been, but if he wasn't going to leave…

He stopped twirling the wand, surprised. "How kind of you to offer," he said flatly. "No. You can have this time for yourself. I suggest not wasting it."

Ginny nodded, making herself take her eyes off of him. She looked around at her family's worried, shocked faces. Bill had his arm around Fleur on the couch, her usually beautiful face lined with anxiety. Charlie sat on Fleur's other side, his dragon-burned arms crossed over his chest as he glanced toward Voldemort with suspicion. Percy stood by the fireplace, stiff and formal, but his blotchy face revealed the tears that he, too, had cried. The twins sat on the other sofa, equally mutinous expressions on their faces; Ginny kept one eye on them even as she glanced at the others, knowing she would have to intervene if they tried something impulsive. Mum was sitting in the armchair, hiccuping back sobs, and Dad stood at her side, his face solemn and locked on Ginny's.

Ginny chose to sit down in between the twins, and immediately felt like she was surrounded by bodyguards.

They think they're protecting me, but really, I'm protecting them.

"Congratulations on the wedding," she said to Bill and Fleur, having no idea where to even begin this conversation. "I'm sorry I couldn't be there."

"Do not be sorry," Fleur said fiercely, some fire coming into her voice as she sat up straighter. "It was not your fault! You 'ad been kidnapped!"

Ginny glanced at Voldemort, but he wasn't watching her. He had said she should act like she did in front of the Death Eaters— all of whom knew that she had been kidnapped. Surely she didn't need to pretend otherwise here?

After a second, she nodded. "Yes, it's…" What the hell could she even say about it that wouldn't traumatize them and worry them more? "It's been a shock," she said lamely.

"Are you alright?" Mum asked tearfully. "Truly, you're alright?"

"Yes," Ginny said firmly, wanting to do whatever she could to alleviate their fears and keep them calm. "I'm okay."

"Some might even say spoiled," Voldemort said, laughter in his voice. "Though I will admit, that wasn't always the case."

Ginny grimaced. He was going to make this very difficult.

"All in the past now," she said tightly. "Please don't worry about me— I'm okay. Are you okay?"

"We're fine, Ginny, but what the hell is going on?" Fred asked. "We got arrested because of Ron, but what the hell happened to you? Why are you—"

Visiting with Lord Voldemort? she thought wryly. It would be funny, if she wasn't living through it.

"It's a long story," she said, aware of how lame it sounded. Voldemort hadn't forbidden her from telling them anything, but the more they knew, the less likely it was for her to be able to convince him to release them at some point. She had to play this carefully.

"I think we've got time," Dad said, not unkindly. "We tried to piece things together after we discovered you were gone, but it was… confusing."

Ginny took a deep breath. "I was… tricked… into helping the Dark Lord with something."

The tattoo did not allow her to say You-Know-Who, which annoyed her deeply.

"So cagey all of a sudden," Voldemort drawled. "Afraid your family won't understand just how special you are, little saint?"

"Why are you calling her that?" Charlie demanded, though he quelled quickly under Voldemort's sharp gaze.

"Why don't we show them, Ginny? Stand up— I would hate to miss."

"I—"

"Or we could cut the visit short. Your choice, of course."

Ginny stood up, though she had to extricate herself from the twins' arms, as they both tried to pull her back to her seat.

"It's okay," she told them. "I promise, it's okay."

She moved more toward the center of the room, her heart pounding.

"Ginny—" Mum started, but she was cut off.

"Avada Kedavra."

The room broke out into cries of outrage that turned to shock as golden light erupted from Ginny in a sphere, effortlessly blocking the Killing Curse. It shimmered around her for a moment before subsiding. Unmasked greed shown in Voldemort's eyes, and, if she was not mistaken, a hint of possession.

"I could do that all day, and the result would be the same," he said. "Miraculous, isn't it? Congratulations, Arthur and Molly— your daughter's immortal."

"H-how—"

"She was blessed," he said, his tone growing a little sharper. "She was chosen. Blessed by a god. The same god who gave me this— the strongest wand in the world."

The room stared at her with wide eyes, and Ginny felt her cheeks grow warm. This was definitely more information than she had wanted to share.

"Don't try to hide it," Voldemort snapped at her, making her flinch. "Don't act ashamed of it. This is the glory fate has bestowed upon you."

"I'm not ashamed of it," Ginny said quickly. "I just… didn't think you wanted them to know. My lord."

"What difference does it make if they know?"

That wasn't good.

"I didn't think you wanted the Order to know."

"Your family isn't part of the Order anymore."

"Like hell we aren't!" George said, standing up next to Ginny.

Voldemort laughed. "Impulsiveness runs in the family, I see. What's your name?"

"His name is George," Ginny interjected before George could speak. "George, sit down."

George did not sit down, and Ginny's stomach grew queasy.

"Tell me, George," Voldemort said, twirling the Elder Wand, "if the Order of the Phoenix is a resistance group, how, exactly, are you a part of it if you're here, magicless, for the foreseeable future?"

Magicless! No no no—

Ginny grabbed George's left arm and yanked up his sleeve. It was empty— no tattoo.

"What the hell—" he sputtered.

Voldemort laughed harder at that. "I meant the enchantments around this building, little saint. Only I can use magic here. I've kept to my end of our agreement."

Ginny was breathing hard.

"What did you think was going to be on George's arm, Ginny?" Dad said in a deliberately calm voice. "The Dark Mark?"

Ginny looked at Voldemort, who remained silent.

"Nothing," she said. "My mistake."

Voldemort smirked but did not contradict her.

"What agreement?" Mum said, fighting to keep her voice from quavering.

Ginny bit her lip. How much to tell?

When she didn't answer, Voldemort said, "Let's just say that we've agreed that if she keeps me happy, I'll return the favor. Throwing her entire family into Azkaban would fly in the face of that, though that is what the Daily Prophet is calling for."

"The Daily Prophet?" Dad said, his brow furrowed.

"How could I forget?" Voldemort said, malice in his smile. "You haven't seen it."

"Don't show them," Ginny said desperately.

"Don't show us what?" Percy said, speaking up for the first time.

Please don't show them, she thought, for once wishing that he would look in her mind. I'll be good, please don't show them.

"I suppose they don't need to see," he said, making a show of considering her plea. "What does news of the outside world matter in here? Perhaps they're better off not knowing."

"Ginny, what is he talking about?" Mum said.

This was having the opposite effect of what she had intended— her family was getting more and more agitated.

"The Ministry has decided that…" she took a deep breath. "That blood traitor ideology is akin to child abuse— an arrestable offense. The Daily Prophet reported on that."

"I suppose we shouldn't be surprised," Dad said in a cold voice, his eyes on Voldemort. "Given the beliefs of the one running the new Ministry."

"Indeed," Voldemort said dryly. "Things are changing out in the world. How fortunate for you all that you have someone looking out for you, to shield you from any… unpleasantness."

"You don't have to protect us, Ginny," Fred said, standing up and coming along her other side.

"Oh she's not protecting you," Voldemort said, giving the wand a dramatic twirl. "I am."

"Oh yeah, you protecting us from yourself is a real feat," Fred said with a sneer.

An echo from Ginny's dream, of the wind growing colder around her, brushed through her mind, and she spun on her heel to face Fred.

"Stop," she said, grabbing his wrist.

"My protection of you is a gift to her," he said. "Even for your errant, wayward son— he will not be killed, I have made that very clear to all those under my command. Once he's found, he'll be brought to you."

"Thank you, my lord," Ginny said after a beat of silence.

"Ginny—"

"Listen to me," she said sternly, grabbing Fred's other wrist and holding him in place. She turned to face him. "I know this is… hard. But you need to just stay here. Don't try to escape, don't try to fight— just stay. And I'll visit you—"

It hit her like a freight train. Her dream of visiting her family came back to her full-force, so intensely that she momentarily lost sight of her surroundings.

You would never agree to this. To stay hidden away while the rest of the world suffers. To only see me once a week, and then send me back to hell.

They weren't agreeing to it, but she was.

"Ginny?" Fred said. "Ginny, are you okay?"

Direct your audience's attention. Don't lose focus. It's okay, you're choosing.

She shook her head to clear it. "Yes. Sorry. I'll visit you when I can. Maybe…" She looked over her shoulder, toward Voldemort. "For Sunday dinner."

Voldemort held her gaze, and she felt the barest trace of him in her mind. She focused on her dream, the anger she had felt at its circumstances mixed with the deep, heart-aching longing of wanting to be with her family again.

"My my," he said. "You are growing spoiled." He didn't look upset though. He looked… thoughtful. He stepped inside, and she felt her family scoot back in their seats, keeping as far away from him as they could.

"I suppose it is the day before your birthday," he continued, and the Weasleys tensed, not expecting him to know this bit of information. "That might be a good gift, no? The question is if you deserve it."

"I trust my lord's judgment," she made herself say, making him pause once again. "I am doing my best to uphold the agreement."

"I suppose you are," he mused. A moment of silence passed. "Fine then— let's agree that as long as you're well-behaved until then, you can expect to return here for dinner on the tenth. I'll even give it to you unsupervised."

"Thank you, my lord," Ginny said, relief coursing through her.

He smiled, the sight setting Ginny's teeth on edge, before saying, "I think that's enough excitement for one day. Time to go home now."

Her heart skipped a beat. It was over already. It was too soon, it was—

She took a deep breath. "Okay."

"Please let her stay," Mum said, rising to her feet. "Please, we'll—"

"Be silent," Voldemort snapped, making the whole room flinch. "Do not test my patience. It is a gift that you got to see her at all. You will remain here, safely out of the way, and all of your needs will be taken care of, but do not mistake my generosity for weakness— what I have given, I can easily take away."

"I'll be back in five days," Ginny said quickly. "Not long at all. I'll see you so, so soon. I l-love you." Her voice started to break, tears coming to her eyes once again, and, unable to bear it, she turned away from her family and walked toward the door.

"Ginny wait—"

But Ginny was already out the front door, her breathing coming faster and faster. She couldn't panic here. She had to hold it together.

"No tearful goodbye hugs?" Voldemort asked, amused as he shut the door behind him.

"It's not goodbye," Ginny said. "I'll see them later."

"That's not a guarantee."

Ginny took a deep breath, willing her heart to slow. "No, but I'm doing my best to be good. And you keep your promises."

He reached out, fast as a viper, and grabbed her chin, tilting her face upward.

"What's gotten into you?" he asked, his eyes meeting hers as he dove into her mind.

Ginny clenched her teeth against the intrusion, willing her mind to relax despite the pain.

I'm tired of fighting. I want my family to be safe. I don't want to be in pain. I want to be happy.

All true things. She wasn't lying.

Slowly, he pulled away and dropped her chin. "Come," he said as the bubble wall reappeared. "We're leaving now."

She took a shaky breath before following behind, every fiber of her being screaming at her to stay. Her family was here, they were alive, they weren't hurt…

And they were trapped now, just as she was. Her mind flashed on the list of names. She had to protect them— they were defenseless.

All the more reason that my current course of action makes sense.

She carefully stayed away from the word plan, as she wasn't sure where the cutoff was for thoughts connected to the bridge— she didn't want to take any chances on Voldemort hearing something she didn't want him to.

The bubble disappeared behind them, and they were alone in an empty field.

"Thank you for letting me see them, my lord," she said, remembering his earlier words. "And for… keeping them safe, somewhere pleasant."

He stared at her. "You're tired of fighting, then."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Well, it doesn't seem to be getting me anywhere, does it? But this way…" She looked back over her shoulder, where she knew her family was even though she couldn't see them. "They're not being tortured or murdered or starving in hiding somewhere. It's… better this way."

"So much for your Gryffindor bravery."

"Sometimes bravery is doing something you don't want to do, in order to protect people you love."

"Ollivander said that your wand means you're a fierce protector of others," he said.

Ginny shrugged, not sure what that had to do with anything.

He held his arm out to her. "Time to go home now."

It's not my home. She couldn't stop the thought, and she knew he heard it, but she grabbed his arm anyway and let him Apparate them away. They landed on the front lawn of the brick house, its ivy covering deceptively inviting in the summer sunlight.

"This house used to belong to my father," he said, his eyes on the building as she glanced at him. "When I was scarcely older than you are now, I killed him for being what he was— a Muggle who disdained his witch wife and unwanted son. I have reclaimed this place— it will be the birthplace of my regime, the center of magical supremacy in the world. It is my home now, and so it is yours. Where I go, you go."

Ginny's stomach tightened. "Yes, my lord."

"You must be hungry. Go inside— up to your room. It will give you food."

"Are you not—"

"Not yet. Now go. Don't make me repeat myself."

"Yes, my lord."

---

AUGUST 5th, 1997

Draco walked away from Ginny and the Dark Lord, trepidation in his heart. He wasn't sure which aspect of this whole thing was the most unpleasant— that he was being separated from Ginny mere minutes after he had arrived, that the Dark Lord had sent him to the cellar, or that the Dark Lord had sent him to Snape.

He trusted Ginny to take care of herself, more or less. He couldn't realistically stop anything the Dark Lord chose to do, at any rate— he was there more for her emotional support than anything else, and he could accomplish that through the bridge just as well as he could by physically being there. Going down to the cellar would bring old horrors to mind, but being down there with Snape was worse.

They hadn't spoken since Draco's disastrous attempt to ask for his help at Spinner's End two months ago. How would he react to Draco now? Would he ignore him, as he so often did with things he found beneath his notice, or would he berate him all over again for not doing enough to protect the one he loved?

Ha. If he only knew. What would Snape think of the soul bond? Of Ginny's plan to take down the Dark Lord, hidden in plain sight? Surely he would go running right to his master with the news… Snape had maintained his seat of honor at the Dark Lord's right hand, as far as Draco knew, and he was all too aware of the fact that that seat was not earned by accident or lucky chance. Snape wasn't nearly as fanatical as his Aunt Bellatrix, but Draco was sure that he was equally loyal to the Dark Lord at the end of the day.

He hoped that he wasn't kept here long— he needed to talk to Yaxley, which promised to be a similarly unpleasant task. He had resolved not to even bring up the whole thing with his father, who would surely protest most vehemently at the idea of Draco working at a desk in the Ministry— better to ask forgiveness than permission there.

At least he hoped it would be at a desk. What if they wanted him out there hunting down Mudbloods? How far was too far, and how would he get out of it once he started?

I suppose I should make an effort to say Muggle-born, he mused as he forced himself to lift open the door to the cellar. He was in such a strange position, all things considered. He had been in such a state of constant crisis the last few months, he hadn't had time to think philosophically about how his beliefs had or hadn't shifted as a result of Ginny's presence in his life. He wasn't an Order of the Phoenix member— far from it. He wasn't a Gryffindor, or a Dumbledore acolyte. He wasn't a Muggle-lover. Those things hadn't changed.

But he could no longer maintain that Muggles were something inherently different from himself. Not after Jane, not after having been in her mind. Not after torturing Greg and his family, and watching them die. They were different, obviously, due to their lack of magic, but at the most fundamental, most human level? They were uncomfortably similar. Did the other Death Eaters not see it, or did they just choose not to notice?

I really am a soft-hearted sap, he thought wryly as he descended the stairs, blinking in surprise at the sight before him. When the Dark Lord had said he had Snape "brewing some potions," Draco hadn't imagined he meant a dozen different ones all at the same time, but that was what the cellar held— Snape was bent over a cauldron, stirring rapidly and muttering to himself as he consulted a book he held in his free hand, but this cauldron was just one of many in a long line.

"Hello," Draco said. Snape did not look up from his work, and Draco grimaced. Of course he wouldn't make this easy. "I apologize for the intrusion—"

"Be quiet. I need to concentrate."

Alright then.

Not knowing what else to do, he moved closer to the cauldrons, inspecting them. The clear one was Veritaserum, he was pretty sure, and he recognized Polyjuice Potion immediately. There were two each of those, along with a thick, syrupy substance that Draco realized must be the potion the Dark Lord had given to Ginny. His heart skipped a beat. Was the Dark Lord planning to dose Ginny again? It had been such a disaster last time, surely he wouldn't—

Snape sighed dramatically. "I should have made my meaning plainer. I am busy, as you can see. Go run along and play somewhere else."

"The Dark Lord told me to come down here and help you," Draco said.

The potion Snape was stirring changed from a light green to a lavender color, and he stopped stirring. "How lucky for me." He waved his wand and summoned several large vials to him. "This one is done. Scoop it into these vials, and I'll label them when you're done."

"What is this one?" he asked. Snape moved down the line of cauldrons, toward one of the Polyjuices, and started adding lacewing flies, apparently content to ignore him.

Fine then, Draco thought, fighting back irritation. He would help just long enough for the Dark Lord to be satisfied—maybe an hour or two— and then he would hurry off to find Yaxley. He was probably at the Ministry, now that Draco thought about it. He had been appointed Head of Magical Law Enforcement after Pius Thicknesse had been made the new Minister of Magic; he had to be very busy. What if Draco couldn't speak with him today? He grimaced at the thought of having to make an appointment or some stupid thing. Every time he let himself think about what he was choosing to do here, every muscle in his body urged him to run far away and never look back. This was so, so dangerous— dangerous to get caught in, of course, but also dangerous to involve himself so directly in the Death Eaters' affairs. The Malfoy family had historically protected themselves by being the money behind those doing the actual work— paying black market wizards to hex the political opposition, funding campaigns, that sort of thing. Draco publicly aligning himself with the Death Eaters' mission would look very bad to the Order of the Phoenix if they ever came to power. He was, in some ways, in a lose-lose situation… a very unfamiliar place for a Malfoy to be.

The things we do for love, I suppose, he mused as he continued to portion out the mystery potion into vials. Calling it love was still new, and weird, and not something he would ever, ever say out loud. But that was what it was.

Was Ginny seeing her family right now? He wanted to reach out through the bond to check in on her, but he didn't dare distract her when the Dark Lord's attention was surely fixated squarely on her. He hoped it wasn't a trick— that they were really okay, that she was really getting to visit them. Ginny would be absolutely devastated if something happened to them.

Snape finished with the multiple cauldrons' worth of Polyjuice Potion and moved closer to Draco again. He looked supremely uncomfortable.

"I was…" he started. "Too harsh on you, the last time we spoke." His face was wrinkled like he was drinking the bitterest of medicines. "You're barely into adulthood, and I was holding you to a very high standard. It was… unfair of me." His face wrinkled still further.

Not an apology, exactly, but maybe as close as Snape could get.

"I think you've always held high standards," Draco said, not sure how to read the situation. "You and my father have that in common, though I know you think I'm spoiled. But you were right— sitting on the sidelines is no way to live in the Dark Lord's world."

Snape's eyebrows rose. "Oh?"

"I'm sure my father won't approve, but I'll be speaking to Yaxley today about joining the Muggle-born Registration Commission," he said, ladling more potion into yet another container. "I'm guessing they need all the help they can get, and I'm just sitting around here, doing nothing."

Snape reached forward into Draco's mind, but Draco was ready. The sea was calm and flat, thoughts of faithfully serving the Dark Lord floating on the surface.

"I see," Snape said. "What brought on this change?"

"My training," Draco said blithely, his eyes on his work. "It's one thing to talk about it, but another to really be out in the field, isn't it? How did you phrase it? Sullying my hands?" He looked up at Snape, whose face was carefully neutral.

"You're less like your father than I thought," Snape said, and his tone made it unclear whether that was a compliment or an insult. "He would never do such a thing."

"No, I suppose not," Draco agreed. "He prefers to be behind the scenes, most of the time, or hidden in the shadows, but what's the point of that these days? We own the Ministry now. What is there to hide from?"

What was there to hide from, indeed. Ginny's odd but fervent description of Muggle illusions came to his mind, and he could only hope she was right. Hiding in plain sight. Directing the audience's attention.

"You're going to Yaxley rather than the Dark Lord?" Snape asked. "To ask to join."

"He's already said he doesn't want to be bothered with trivial things," Draco said, finally finished with his task. "How I spend my days is, I'm sure, included in that, outside of any missions he has for me. And surely Yaxley would excuse me from work if the Dark Lord had an assignment for me to take on. I'll only be supporting the Commission in my free time. I will, of course, ask the Dark Lord for permission to join, but I'm going to clear it through Yaxley first."

"And what of the girl?"

Draco's chest tightened a bit. "What of her?"

"I was under the impression that you were enjoying spending your time with her."

He smirked. "I am. But life isn't only about enjoying things mindlessly— sometimes there's work to do. I can better support the Dark Lord's mission this way, and Ginny is fine without me. I'll still see her, I'm sure— I'm not moving into the Ministry building."

That hurt to say. But one piece of it was true— there was work to do, and Draco was the only one who could do it. Ginny needed him, and in order to meet that need, he needed to be away from her at least some of the time.

Snape was silent for a moment. Then, he said, "I may have underestimated you, Mr. Malfoy. You are a great asset to our cause."

He couldn't quite read Snape's tone, but he nodded. "Thank you… er, I guess I shouldn't call you professor anymore. But thank you."

"If you should need… assistance, in the future," Snape said, "do feel free to ask. I'll do my best not to chase you away immediately."

Draco looked at Snape, wishing he trusted his Legilimency skills enough to do it undetected. But he knew Snape would know in an instant, and wouldn't take kindly to it.

"Of course," he said after a moment. "I'll remember that."

Snape turned away. "These Blood-Replenishing potions next to you need stewed mandrake to be added, and then four stirs counterclockwise each."

"Yes, sir," Draco said, feeling like they had reached some sort of truce, though he wasn't sure exactly how.

---

AUGUST 5th, 1997

The day passed quietly. Draco was still gone when Ginny arrived back to her room, though he responded quickly to her through the bridge. He was helping Snape make potions, as directed, and then would be heading to the Ministry to speak to Yaxley; he had told her he expected to be gone until the evening, and that she should do her best to relax until then. So, Ginny ate lunch and spent the afternoon painting the Burrow, her heart aching horribly as the events of the morning repeated themselves on a loop in her mind. Five days. That wasn't very long at all. Less than a week. She could wait five days.

She bit her lip, her hand shaking as she painted the Burrow's chimney. They were okay— real and alive and in front of her, and now she just had to keep it that way. Maybe she could hang this painting up as a reminder, once she was done. The list of names was like a threat, but the painting... that was reaching toward something good.

She was still surprised, when she let herself think about it, that Voldemort had recreated the Burrow rather than putting them in a generic safe house. He could have put them anywhere, and it couldn't have been easy to recreate the Burrow in that level of detail, no matter how skilled he was. She could only think of one reason for it.

The dreams mattered to him too. She and Draco had already surmised that he created the content of them, but this recreation combined with the gift of the tiara told Ginny that the content wasn't random or done on a whim. No, it was carefully orchestrated, which meant Ginny needed to pay even more attention not only to what happened in these dreams, but how she responded to them.

He put them in the Burrow so that he could recreate him granting me visitation there, she thought. He just wasn't expecting me to ask for it before he offered.

How she acted in the real world mattered, but how she acted in the dreams mattered too. Hadn't he said as much, anyway? That she had made this agreement with him in real life and in the dream too?

Her hand steadied, along with her resolve. The plan, new though it was, was working, and he was handing her weapons, though he didn't realize it. Everything Ginny learned about him would help her in the end, and thus, help the Order and Harry.

Draco returned around dinnertime, looking tired but overall in good spirits. They ate together, mostly in silence, content to converse over the bridge instead. Yaxley had been surprised but pleased at Draco's request to join the new department. He had wanted Draco to start immediately, but when Draco spoke to Voldemort about it, he had been instructed to wait until the twelfth, as Ginny would be having a birthday party at Malfoy Manor on the eleventh, which was news to the both of them.

Ginny's stomach had tightened at that news, and she hadn't been able to finish her dinner. She knew exactly why they were having a party— Harry, Ron, and Hermione knew, in theory, that she was at Malfoy Manor, and knew that Draco had floated the idea of celebrating her sixteenth birthday there, all the way back in June. Voldemort was no doubt hoping that they would try to stage a rescue mission to break Ginny out, and he would thus be able to capture them.

Potter's not that stupid, Draco assured her as he finished his plate. He wouldn't just come barging in like that.

Ginny was not at all sure that was true, but she could only hope that Draco was right.

Voldemort didn't suspect anything about you wanting to work at the Ministry?

I don't think so. He did look in my mind, but I just focused on wanting to please him— true, in this instance— and on how much I've always hated Granger, and he seemed satisfied with that.

Ginny frowned. Hermione's not so bad.

I could say the same for Blaise, but I bet you wouldn't agree, would you?

... I suppose not.

We can worry about our respective friend groups after this is all over. As I've told you, I have a feeling that once we're out of crisis—

Stop it.

I'm just saying we'll have a lot to... work through.

A problem for future us.

Agreed.

The evening passed uneventfully. They spent their time reading, for the most part, though Draco did take some time to admire her painting and help her hang it on the wall before they retired to bed.

Now the real test is if I dream tonight, Ginny told him as she curled up in his arms. I would be shocked if I don't, after how today went.

Draco's arms around her tightened a bit. She knew that he didn't like that he couldn't reach her during the dreams, now that they had figured out they might be more real than either of them were comfortable with.

Just remember that they're temporary, he said after a moment. No matter what happens, you'll come back here, and I'll be waiting for you— you should wake in my arms, and if for some reason you don't, you can find me on the bridge.

I'll reach for you as soon as it's over, don't worry. Thank you for... being here, I guess. There's no way I could get through this alone.

Of course, he said, bending down in physical reality to kiss the top of her head. I'll always be here.

With that comforting thought in mind, Ginny drifted off to sleep.

...

Ginny frowned, gradually coming to awareness. These dreams were always so strange that way— she would "wake up" in the middle of a moment, already in the middle of doing something.

She was sitting at her vanity, though the pictures of her improvised Weird Sisters concert were gone. The room was dark, but the vanity seemed to be backlit somehow, shining faint light into the space. She was wearing black, sleeveless dress robes, which showed her the modified tattoo immediately. She had makeup on, like she was getting ready for an event.

She belatedly realized that Tom was standing behind her, and that he was brushing her hair. She stiffened, holding her breath for a second.

"I don't understand the appeal of this," he said. "What's the point?"

"The appeal of what?" she asked.

"Of me brushing your hair. Draco does it constantly. Why?"

Ginny's stomach tightened. "He does it because I like it."

"Hmm."

Of all the dreams so far, this was the most similar to the one she had had back at the manor. She was clothed in this one, thank Merlin, though her robes did swoop down into an uncomfortably deep V-neck. Her scar, she realized, was gone.

He moved in the same way he had in that other dream— clinical, detached, without any attachment to what he was doing.

"I look like I'm getting ready for a party," she said, fishing to figure out what, exactly, the context of this dream was.

"You are," he said, though he didn't elaborate further. He too was dressed for a party, she realized— elegant black dress robes trimmed with gold.

"Is it a Death Eater party?" she asked after a moment.

He laughed. "These days, I think all parties are Death Eater parties."

She frowned a bit, not sure how to understand that comment. Did that mean they were in the future, like he had shown her once before? That world certainly didn't look like somewhere that would be having any parties.

"You're awfully inquisitive tonight," he said as he laid down the brush on the vanity counter.

"I like knowing what to expect."

"You should learn to enjoy the surprise."

Ginny's jaw tightened. That was very hard to do when the surprise could equally be something nice or something horrific.

"If I was going to give you a horrific surprise, don't you think I would have done so today?"

"Sometimes you think horrific things are funny," she said, fighting with her jaw to relax.

He didn't deny it. He reached toward a jewelry box on the counter that she hadn't noticed before and tilted the lid up. A tiny see-through image of a ballet dancer appeared over its contents, dancing as lilting piano music began to play. It was so surprisingly lovely that Ginny just stared at it for a moment, watching the dancer pirouette and jump through the air.

"If you must know, we're going to a play," he said.

"A play," she repeated. "I've never been to a play before."

She could hear the smirk in his voice, even though she couldn't see his face in the mirror. "In this reality, you have." He reached into the jewelry box and picked up the snake locket. "The full set tonight, I think." He lifted her hair, his fingers ghosting over the back of her neck, and he clasped the necklace shut. It didn't burn when it touched her, and Ginny sighed in relief.

"How interesting," he said. "Perhaps you were telling the truth earlier."

"About what?"

"That you're tired of fighting."

She looked back at her reflection, where the locket glinted in the light. "It doesn't get me anywhere."

"Have you given up then?"

Ginny considered her next words carefully. "I haven't given up hope, if that's what you mean. But fighting back makes things worse. And, if today is any indication, not fighting back makes things better."

"So you wait to be rescued," he said flatly. "A princess locked in a tower."

"I suppose," she said cautiously, wishing she could see his face.

"I think you'll be waiting a very long time," he said in a cold voice, making the hair on the back of her neck stand up. He reached into the jewelry box again and pulled out a ring— it was a large black stone, not one that Ginny recognized, and the band was designed to look like a snake.

She went to extend her right hand, but he was already grabbing her left. Her chest tightened as he slid the ring on.

"Ouch!" she yelped, yanking her hand away. The mouth of the snake had bitten into her finger! The tattoo flashed white for a moment, and the snake let go.

Tom was laughing under his breath. "I suppose you're right about my sense of humor."

"What was that for?" she asked, outraged.

"Just giving you a little extra incentive to be well-behaved tonight," he said. He closed the jewelry box and then reached out to her chin, turning her head so that she was looking up over her shoulder at him. "You will not wake up before I give you permission. You will not panic for any reason— your power will not activate unless I will it to be so. You will not seek a way to bypass these commands."

The tattoo pulsed under her skin with each command he gave, like a sick imitation of a heartbeat.

"Is the regular tattoo not enough?" she snapped, losing her patience.

He smirked down at her. "There you are. Pretending to be docile for my sake is very sweet, but we both know you like to fight back."

Her stomach clenched. "You don't want me to fight back."

"I wouldn't say that. I want you to yield to me— not quite the same thing."

He let her chin go, and she looked back at her reflection, her expression sullen. "Then I'm afraid I don't understand the difference."

"Yielding is about allegiance," he said as he opened a box on the counter, revealing the tiara. "About who you're loyal to, who you serve. It goes much deeper than just obeying a command."

And would be much harder to fake. Ginny frowned as he put the tiara on her head.

"There," he said, satisfaction in his voice. "The full set."

A ring, a crown, and a necklace. Just like he had put on her in the vault, though these weren't the same items. That was… potentially interesting. But what did it mean?

"Get up," he said abruptly, pulling her seat back away from the counter. "It's time to go."

She stood up and glanced around the room, dark though it was. She thought it mostly looked the same, but it was hard to tell. There was one notable difference, though— on the wall across from the bed was a massive marble fireplace. Tom waved the Elder Wand and flames roared to life, reminding Ginny for a moment of Nicholas Malfoy. But she couldn't think about that here.

Luckily, Tom wasn't watching. He reached onto the mantelpiece, which was taller than Ginny was, and grabbed a handful of Floo powder, which he quickly tossed into the fire, turning it an acidic shade of green. He extended his hand to her.

"Come on, little saint," he said. "We're going to be late."

The body of these robes was much tighter against her frame than the ball gowns she had been in before, she noticed as she walked toward him. His eyes skimmed her form as she approached, his features cast into shadow from the fireplace.

She hesitated, fear bubbling up in her chest like a living thing, and she lost her breath for a second. She could be walking into anything, absolutely anything, and if that command was real, she couldn't wake up—

"Hurry up," he snapped. The tattoo pulsed and her body propelled her forward, her hand extending toward his. His eyes flashed red for a second as he smiled and grabbed her hand, pulling her into the fire with him. He didn't call out a destination, but Ginny supposed that with dream logic, he didn't need to.

The fire whirled around them for a moment before subsiding, and Ginny closed her eyes at the bright flashes that filled her vision. There was a cacophony of voices, wherever they had landed.

Tom let go of her hand and slid it around her waist instead, making her stiffen.

"Smile and wave," he whispered into her ear as he started walking them forward. "You'll be on the front cover tomorrow."

The flashing lights were cameras, Ginny realized. They were surrounded by paparazzi. Not wanting to see Tom's reaction if she didn't obey, she did as he said, smiling tightly.

"What is going on?" she said through her teeth as they walked further into some kind of formal hallway, surrounded by people.

"You're famous," he said, laughter evidence in his voice. "A public appearance is worthy of the front page."

"I suppose I can guess what I'm famous for," she said tightly as she kept waving at the mass of people and he guided her toward a large carpeted staircase. Everywhere they walked, people moved out of the way for them, making a path.

"Yes, I think you can."

She glanced out at the crowd before they reached the stairs. She didn't recognize anyone.

"Glory to the Dark Lord!" people called as they passed, raising champagne glasses toward them. "Glory to his saint!"

It took everything in Ginny not to turn around and run the other direction. This wasn't real. It was just a dream. If she looked further back, the crowd blended into itself, just like it had when she was a lost princess.

As though reacting to her thoughts, the crowd sharpened in focus, the clumps of people becoming more defined. She grimaced and faced forward again, her eyes on the stairs as they ascended. There were less people up here. They reached a curtain at the top of the stairs, where a man in plain black dress robes bowed to them.

"My lord," he said before pulling the curtain open. Tom pulled her forward and, once the curtain shut behind them, let go of her waist.

They were in a box seat, along the wall of a large theater. They had a clear view of the stage down below. There were two throne-like seats waiting for them. Ginny sat down in the leftmost one, very aware that she was trapped in a relatively tiny space.

Tom sat down next to her, his eyes on the stage. "If you won't stop thinking about how this is all temporary and fake, I'll feed you Draught of Living Death tomorrow when you wake up, and you'll stay in this dream world for the foreseeable future."

She whipped her head towards him, panic seizing her chest. "What?"

He smirked at her. "Whatever I have to do to teach you to enjoy the moment. It's not a half-bad idea, now that I think on it. Your body would be perfectly safe in your room, but you'd get to live a whole life in here— not limited at all."

She took a shaky breath, her hands gripping the armrests of her seat. "This is just a dream. The real you is asleep right now, probably. You're part of my subconscious, trying to scare me."

Or at least, that was what she was supposed to think. The apparent reality was much scarier.

His smirk widened. "Yes, but you know as well as I do that 'the real me' can see your memories of these dreams. And I'd be quite surprised if he had a different opinion of this than I do. By all means, take the gamble if you'd like to. I'll be happy with the outcome either way."

Her breathing was shallow. The tattoo pulsed under her skin.

"How cute," he said. "You're trying to wake up. But you need to stay here right now. The play hasn't even started yet. You told me earlier today that you were doing your best to be good. Now show me."

How the hell was she going to calm down with that kind of threat hanging over her head?

She tightened her grip once again on the armrests, and noticed how cool the wood felt under her palms. If she moved her hands, she could even feel a bit of the wood grain. Her mind flashed on the individual serial numbers of the Galleons in the vault— an unusual detail to have in a dream. Maybe if she focused on small details, she could get through this. Focus on the moment, as he wanted.

She made herself take a deep, deep breath, and lean back in the seat, noticing the softness of the velvet cushion against her back, what it felt like against her bare skin compared to through her dress robes. Her breathing slowed some. Maybe if she just focused on things that were neutral, or even pleasant, here, it would be easier to survive everything else.

"Very good, little saint," Tom said as the lights in the theater fell and people began to clap. "Now relax."

She was trying, damn it. She pushed her momentary irritation aside as a man walked on stage, a spotlight highlighting him. His robes were an odd fashion— something she had never seen before.

"When are we?" she asked.

"About three hundred years in the future, give or take a decade."

Ginny's stomach lurched. So far away.

The curtains on the stage are a pretty shade of red, she intoned, willing herself not to get upset. Tom chuckled.

"In honor of the Dark Lord's victory over the Usurper, we present this pageant," the man declared, and the crowd applauded.

"The Usurper?" Ginny asked, wrinkling her nose.

"Watch the show, and you'll see."

She did. The play was a reenactment— or an imagining, she supposed— of Voldemort's victory over the Order of the Phoenix. It framed Dumbledore as a conniving wizard intent on halting the Dark Lord's much-needed reforms of magical society, wanting to keep them in an inferior place to Muggles, and Harry was some kind of secret weapon Dumbledore had designed to thwart his enemy. It kept to the barest traces of what had happened in reality, but it was so distorted that Ginny was shocked anyone could believe it. But then, if they were three hundred years into the future…

"You do love your propaganda," she murmured.

He laughed. It was dark enough in their box that she couldn't see his face. "They believe what I tell them to."

They reached the Chamber of Secrets, and Ginny couldn't help but gasp when she saw a red-headed little girl on stage, writing in a diary.

"Let's see, that's your… five times great-niece," Tom said. "I forget from which brother."

"What?" Ginny blurted, turning towards him even though she knew she couldn't see.

"I fail to see why you're confused. Did you think your family was just going to die out, hidden away in a bubble forever?"

That was indeed exactly what she thought, if things didn't change.

"Sometimes you understand me very well, and other times you don't understand me at all," he said, a frown in his voice. "They're hidden where they are because we're in semi-open warfare. But they're a pureblood family, one of the oldest in existence. I don't want to wipe them out, if they can be brought into the fold. Weasley is quite a common surname at this point in the timeline, given that you have six brothers."

It hadn't occurred to her that people in the crowd were intended to be descendants of real people. Now she wished she had looked better at their features— it was too dark to see now.

She watched, nauseated, as the play painted her relationship with the diary to be her saving grace under Dumbledore's tyrannical rule of Hogwarts, and the beginning of a fated, divine connection that would reshape the world. How could she keep herself calm?

She ran her hands over her dress, feeling the cool, soft silk. It helped a bit, but not very much.

Come on, focus on something pleasant, she willed herself. Don't lose yourself now…

She watched her apparently five times great-niece giggle on stage, and focused on that sound. In this reality, her family had not only survived, but thrived, apparently. So much so that the name Weasley had become commonplace. This little girl, whatever her name was, not only existed, but seemed perfectly healthy and unafraid to be up on stage. That was much better than the alternative.

"That's right," Tom whispered. "Very good."

She didn't respond, keeping her attention on the play. The years passed, Voldemort was resurrected, and soon, a different red-haired girl appeared on stage.

"Another great-niece, I'm assuming?"

"Mmhmm," Tom said absently. She could see the faint outline of the Elder Wand in his hand as he twirled it. "She's too tall though. And too broad in the shoulders— you're quite petite."

Ginny said nothing as the actress snuck away from the boy playing Harry, grabbed a broom, and flew away as the backdrop of the stage changed from Hogwarts to a riverbed.

There was no Draco in this play.

"You said the surname Weasley is common now," she said. "What about Malfoy?"

He slowly twirled the wand. "That one's not so common, no."

Ginny's jaw tightened as she forced herself to refocus on the play. The girl knelt down, sliced her hand, and bowed her head, at which point light shown all around her.

"A poor imitation of the real thing," Tom said coldly. "Nothing compares."

Actress-Ginny met actor-Voldemort, who looked like Tom, not his adult self, and knelt down before him, offering him her allegiance.

"I'm doing my best to be good, but I'm not sure how much more of this I can take in one night," she said.

"That's my decision, not yours. You will stay here and watch."

She whimpered, and the tattoo pulsed under her skin.

"Be good, Ginny."

"I'm trying."

"Try harder."

If she clenched her teeth any tighter, they would shatter. The tattoo pulsed again.

"Just relax," he whispered. "What bad thing is happening to you right now? You're in a beautiful gown, sitting in a comfortable seat, watching a show. No one is being hurt— your family is thriving, as you saw. I've honored our agreement. Lord Voldemort keeps his promises. You can relax— the fight you're wanting to have is hundreds of years in the past. It's long over now. There's nothing to fight against."

Cold, resigned dread seeped through Ginny's body. This was a dream, but he was absolutely sure that it was also a prediction of future reality. If nothing changed, this would become real. And, for her at least, it was real right now.

She rapidly blinked tears away, and she heard Tom— Voldemort?— let out an irritated huff beside her, but he didn't say anything.

The play carried on. Actor-Voldemort, with actress-Ginny's help, defeated actor-Harry in a great battle on the Hogwarts grounds, to much applause from the crowd, and the play ended with a mass of actors kneeling and bowing for their victory.

"Would you like to meet your descendants?" Voldemort asked.

"No," Ginny said.

"Then let's go home. If you're crying, stop it before we get up."

The tattoo pulsed, and her tears stopped. Voldemort stood up and pulled her to her feet. Her legs wobbled. It was too real. It was too real and she couldn't get away from it—

"You're being ridiculous," he said. "It makes me not want to do nice things for you. Would you rather me pull that little girl back on stage and have her executed? Because I could— I can do anything I want. I am a god, and everyone here knows it except for you."

"No, my lord, please don't," she said in a rush, the little girl's laughter echoing in her ears. "I'm sorry. I'll… I'll be better."

"Show me."

It took everything in her, but Ginny forced herself to stand firm.

"Tell me the truth now. Can you walk back to the fireplace without stumbling or crying? Can you smile for the cameras?"

"I—"

"Tell me the truth."

"No. I can't."

"Then, in that case—" Without warning, he grabbed her and scooped her up into his arms. She yelped, but quickly bit down on her lip to stifle the noise. "We'll give them something else to look at."

She didn't have it in her to protest as he nudged aside the curtain and descended down the steps, cameras flashing. She turned her face away, not wanting to see them.

How much longer would this go on for?

"Not much," he murmured.

The fireplace swirled green, and he stepped through it, and in an instant they were back in her room. He set her down on the edge of the bed.

"It's very late now," he whispered. "You've had a long day. It's time to rest." He reached up and took the crown off of her head. "Lay back, Ginny, and go to sleep."

Overwhelmed, she laid back and closed her eyes, praying that she would wake up again.

She did wake up, and she gasped loudly enough that she woke Draco up too. She burst into tears, all the pent-up stress and fear and frustration pouring out of her in a great rush.

"What's wrong?" he murmured, pulling her towards him. "What's wrong?"

She ran to the bridge, yanking open the cherrywood door and running until she reached the bench. Draco arrived moments after she did, and she threw her arms around him, burying her face in his chest. He embraced her immediately.

"This is going to be impossibly hard," she said, tears falling down her face even here.

He ran a hand along the back of her head. "We don't have to keep going with the plan. I can contact the Order, and we can get you out somehow. I'll make it happen."

"No," she said sharply, gripping his robes in her fists. "I'm staying. We have to destroy him."