AUGUST 2nd, 1997

Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place, teacups clutched in their hands. It was very late at night now— close to midnight. Harry, exhausted from his vision of Voldemort, had needed to lie down immediately afterward, and his fitful sleep had been plagued with strange, nonsensical dreams. He woke up feeling just as tired as he had before going to sleep, his mind so full it felt like it might burst, and with a wriggling feeling of shame deep in his gut that he had basically shoved the memory into Hermione's hands and checked out as soon as he could.

The visions into Voldemort's mind were useful, but they took such a toll. They were physically and mentally exhausting, but even beyond that, seeing what was happening in real time and not being able to do anything to stop it was agonizing. He felt so much responsibility for it— he was the only one with this connection, after all. But so far, he hadn't been able to save a single person who had been affected in them, not even Goyle.

The trio were silent as they sipped their tea. Harry could distantly hear Kreacher banging around down in the boiler room, where he had chosen to make his nest. Harry had forbidden him from eavesdropping, and he wasn't allowed to leave Grimmauld Place unless Harry expressly told him he could— hopefully that was enough protection.

"Alright, no sense stalling any longer," he said, spinning his cup a bit in his hands. "Sorry for bailing earlier. I just—"

"You don't need to apologize, mate," Ron said. "Anyone would have bailed after seeing that, it was bloody awful."

It wasn't just seeing it— Ron and Hermione had a hard time understanding this, but when Harry accessed this connection, or rather, when it accessed him, it was like Harry was Voldemort. He could watch the scene like a memory, but he was also intimately aware of Voldemort's thoughts and feelings during the whole thing. If the scene was heightened enough, Harry almost forgot that he was not, in fact, Lord Voldemort, and that he was someone else entirely.

"Right," he said after a moment of awkward silence. "So… Hermione, I'm assuming you took notes?"

She nodded her head quickly, sliding a piece of parchment forward; this was a new sheet, as her old one was full to bursting at this point. Her face was pale, and her hands shook just a bit as she flattened the parchment on the kitchen table.

"Where should we start?" she asked.

"Wherever you think makes sense, I suppose," Harry said, running his hand through his hair. "Maybe we just go through it chronologically?"

Hermione bit her lip. "I wrote down the facts of what happened, of course, but I think we also need to focus on what some of this means, even if we don't know ourselves. There's two types of imagery that keep coming up again and again— fairy tale imagery, and religious imagery. Fairy tales obviously because of Beedle the Bard, but Malfoy and You-Know-Who have both made references to fairy tale imagery as well. And then in this memory, both You-Know-Who and Goyle called Ginny a saint."

No one said anything for a moment, the kitchen falling into tense, uncomfortable silence.

"Hallow means holy," Hermione said once it became apparent that no one else was going to speak. "And the way You-Know-Who was explaining it…"

"He thinks Ginny is a fourth Hallow, somehow," Harry said flatly. "An item that isn't an item at all. And Goyle made reference to her powers, which we got to see some of."

Ron's hand was gripping his mug so tightly that his knuckles were white. Hermione put her hand on top of his, which both comforted Harry and made his stomach twist oddly as he thought of Ginny.

"We got further confirmation that he believes that having the Hallows is what's required to defeat you, Harry," Hermione said, looking down at her notes. "And he's including Ginny in that equation— the wand, the stone, the cloak, and Ginny."

"This is fucking mental," Ron muttered, and Hermione rubbed her hand gently over his.

"I know," she said. "If I hadn't seen it myself I would have said—"

"It was impossible?" Harry asked, a humorless laugh escaping his lips. "I think we're well in the realm of impossible at this point."

Hermione nodded. "We also…" her voice grew shaky here. "We also learned a little bit about what happened to Ginny before she was at Malfoy Manor."

Ron broke his mug, making the three of them jump.

"Son of a bitch," he cursed. "Sorry. Reparo." The mug reassembled itself, though tea had spilled all over the counter. With a wave of Hermione's wand, she siphoned it away.

"Rookwood used to work in the Department of Mysteries," Harry said. "Back during the first war— he was passing information from the inside to… Tom, and the Death Eaters." Harry would be damned if he said Voldemort's name ever again, not until this was all over, but he refused to say You-Know-Who either.

"Do you remember that article I mentioned on the train?" Hermione asked. "About the golden light in Godric's Hollow? It had to have been from Ginny receiving this power— her light looked just like what the Muggles described, just smaller. I'm sure You-Know-Who didn't know what to do, if this wasn't part of the prophecy. It makes sense that he would want someone with Department of Mysteries experience for this."

"Yeah, to put her through three weeks of near-unending torment," Ron said bitterly.

"He can't have meant three weeks of the Cruciatus, Ron," Hermione said. "You saw Goyle after seven minutes. There's no way—"

"You don't know that!" Ron said, yanking his hand away, suddenly hostile. "For all we know, her powers let her survive it, and he was trying to drive her insane or something."

"Maybe," Harry conceded, sensing a fight brewing. "But something clearly changed after that first month. She was with Rookwood, then by herself, and then given to Malfoy? It doesn't make sense."

"And not just given to Malfoy," Hermione said. "You-Know-Who is going out of his way to put her in a place of relative honor. It was the same thing as your other vision, Harry— no one else was allowed up on that platform. Something definitely changed, and maybe more than once. Because they're not at Malfoy Manor right now."

"Yeah, you were right about that," Harry said. "And now… Tom… expects us to go rushing in after her for her birthday. I wouldn't put it past him to stage a party as a trap."

Hermione nodded. "I agree. We can't go."

"Did you lot watch the same thing I did?" Ron said. "Ginny is in danger— so much danger. We can't just sit by and do nothing!"

"She'll be in more danger if we try to rescue her when Tom is ready and waiting for us," Harry said. "We'll find her, and we'll get her out. But not on her birthday."

"Soon, though," Ron said. "We can't leave her there with those monsters. We can add murderer to the list of Malfoy's titles, by the way, in case anyone's keeping track. Guess he didn't want Ginny to know about that one."

"It did seem to shock her," Hermione said. "Which is… odd, given everything else. Murder is, of course, shocking, but Malfoy is a Death Eater, and she's seen the consequences of that up close and personal."

"She has a pure heart," Harry said. "Like Tom said. Like the prophecy said. She sees the best in people, even when they don't deserve it."

"I'm not so sure that's true," Ron said. "The Ginny I know can hold a grudge, and can be downright mean when she wants to be. I know you see her differently because of… well, you know… but I wouldn't say she always sees the best in people."

Harry shrugged, not willing to argue the point.

"Alright, let's talk about the thing we're all avoiding," Hermione said, taking a deep breath. "Ginny's power."

The memory of the flash of golden light, the electricity crackling over its surface, and Ginny's bloodcurdling scream filled Harry's mind in an instant.

"It didn't seem like something she could control," Hermione continued. "She got overwhelmed from having to watch Goyle be tortured, and it was like the magic couldn't hold back anymore."

"What was it even doing though?" Ron asked. "It didn't attack anyone."

"I'm not sure," Hermione said. "Malfoy said her powers don't always differentiate between physical and psychological distress… Maybe it was trying to protect her somehow? Even though it certainly didn't look like it."

"Tom didn't know how to end it," Harry said. "He had to ask Malfoy to do it."

"That was bloody bizarre," Ron said. "The way he was describing those memories— he must have gotten them from Legilimency, right?"

"That also points toward the cause being psychological distress," Hermione said. "He was describing happy memories of Ginny's, to calm her down."

"One of which is with him, apparently," Harry said, his stomach tightening. "I'm assuming at Malfoy Manor, out on the grounds."

"That was the memory that ended the light," Hermione said, her brow furrowed. "Interesting." She made a little star next to a note on her parchment. "He also almost got himself in trouble with You-Know-Who at the end, did you notice? He didn't leave when he was dismissed."

Harry's brow furrowed as he remembered Kathleen's words, echoing words Malfoy had spoken so long ago. I would never hurt her, do you understand? Never.

That clearly wasn't true. But he also seemed to have some motivation to take care of Ginny, which Harry could begrudgingly only see as a good thing. They needed to find Ginny and rescue her as soon as possible, because otherwise, Malfoy was the only one looking out for her at all, and Harry didn't trust Malfoy as far as he could throw him.

"So what do we do from here, then?" Ron asked. "We can't raid Malfoy Manor on Ginny's birthday, even if she is there, because it's more than likely going to be a trap. Right now, she's at wherever You-Know-Who's hideout is— which is not Malfoy Manor, but we don't know where it is or how to find it. And even if we do find it, there's the little problem of You-Know-Who being there."

"That sums the problem up pretty well," Harry said drily. "If he constantly keeps her within arm's reach, there's no way we can get her out, not before we destroy the Horcruxes and are ready to face him."

"Which means we need to find them as soon as possible, even sooner than we were already trying to," Ron said. "Ginny needs us. Without us, she's just trapped there—"

"I know, Ron," Harry snapped, slamming his hand down on the table. "I know. So all we can do now is focus on the Horcrux hunt."

"I've been doing some reading, and I think I did learn something about the Horcruxes," Hermione said hesitantly, the tension radiating off of Harry and Ron in waves. "Why basilisk venom worked to destroy the diary. In order to destroy a Horcrux, you need to damage its container beyond the possibility of mundane or magical repair. Basilisk venom is so corrosive that it worked just fine on the diary."

"What else is like that?" Harry asked.

"Not much," Hermione said with a grimace. "Fiendfyre, but it's way too dangerous for us to use, you can't put it out once you start it, and it's basically sentient fire—"

"So that's another no-go then," Ron said. "We can't get basilisk venom, and we can't conjure Fiendfyre, and we can't rescue Ginny, and we don't know where any of the Horcruxes are."

"Look, we're all tired and stressed, and maybe a little traumatized from that memory," Hermione said, her voice rising in pitch a little bit. "I think we should just go to sleep now, and start fresh in the morning. We can't fight each other, we just can't. We have to stick together."

Harry sighed and bowed his head. "You're right. We're tired, and frustrated, and scared— but we have a lot of information, we just have to make it make sense, and that's easier to do with a more well-rested brain. Ginny is in danger, but she's been in danger for three months now, and she's holding on. And she's apparently not defenseless, either— whether that's from these special powers she has, or from Malfoy."

"She's not safe with Malfoy—" Ron started.

"I know," Harry said, fighting to keep his voice patient. "But he got her out of the way of Vo… No. Tom's curses, and he was getting ready to take her off of that platform after she collapsed— you saw the same thing I did. If it's between Tom and Malfoy, I'm picking Malfoy a hundred times over."

Ron had his arms crossed but didn't argue, which Harry would count as a win.

"Alright," Hermione said. "Let's head off to bed then, yeah? Start fresh in the morning."

AUGUST 2nd— AUGUST 3rd, 1997

Ginny collapsed into Draco's arms as soon as he opened the door, startling him some. He caught her, though, and guided her into the room. She could feel Voldemort watching them, but she was so tired she couldn't care.

"Good night, my lord," Draco murmured, a little hesitation in his voice. Voldemort must have made some nonverbal cue indicating the conversation was over, for Draco closed the door and guided her toward the bed.

"Rest now, okay? We can talk later," he whispered.

"Don't leave," Ginny said when he started to pull away.

"Are you… are you sure?"

"Yes. Don't leave."

"Okay." He crawled into bed with her and held her just as he had the night before, and she was asleep within moments, her body freed from the sense memory of torture.

Mercifully, she didn't dream. She just got to rest, truly rest. When she woke up, Draco was still holding her, but he wasn't asleep. The room was dark save for the bedside lamp, and Draco was looking straight ahead, seemingly at nothing.

"What time is it?" Ginny whispered, looking up at him.

"A little after midnight, I think," he said. "You slept for a few hours."

"Did you sleep?"

He smiled wanly. "No. I'll sleep soon though. I wanted to make sure you were alright."

She tucked in closer to him. "I'm fine. Just tired."

Come to the bridge, she sent to him. I'm not lying, I am fine, but we have to talk.

Alright, he sent back, sounding very reluctant. I'll meet you there.

Ginny closed her eyes and focused on the rounded cherrywood door, on the iron hinges on its side and the rounded door handle she would twist to enter onto the bridge. Doing it this time was easier than the night before, or this morning. She could feel the cool metal in her palm, the slight ridges of the design of the handle against her hand as she twisted it open.

The bridge swam into view, the mist obscuring anything else, just like it had the previous times she had been here. Not hesitating, Ginny ran down the bridge, toward where she knew Draco would be waiting.

He was sitting on the same bench they had used this morning. His hands were clasped tightly together, his elbows resting on his knees, and his head was bowed as if in prayer.

"Stand up," Ginny said once she reached him. He did, and she embraced him, and he flinched, just like he did out in the physical world.

"Why did you flinch?" she asked once she pulled away.

"You surprised me," he said. "I didn't think you would want to hug me after… you know…"

After finding out that he had murdered an innocent Muggle.

"Here," she said, grabbing his hand and pulling him to sit down on the bench again. "I'm… obviously not okay with it, but neither are you, and I know that. I'm guessing that if you could have done anything else, like gotten her out of there without the others knowing, you would have done that."

He nodded, his eyes glassy.

"But that wasn't possible, was it?" Ginny said gently.

He shook his head no.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

He shrugged.

"I'm not going to make you talk about it if you're not ready—"

"You're not?" He looked up at her, surprised.

"You already told me what happened," she said. "And you said this morning you weren't ready to talk about it, and while I'm sure part of that was you not wanting to tell me and risk me having a bad reaction, it clearly traumatized you to do what you did. I'm not going to make you talk about it."

He sighed, and extended an arm toward her, inviting her to lean on his shoulder. She did, noticing that he smelled like a mix of his normal piney scent and the ocean here. That was interesting— maybe because this was about their souls connecting? He really was like the ocean.

"I tried to think of ways to get her out," he said, not looking at her. "Greyback and Dolohov made us stalk them first, to cause fear. Stupid, little things— things going missing, then showing up in odd places, things like that. But that meant that I watched her, all day. There were five of them and five of us, so we each got assigned a target. A group of school friends, it seemed like. Once Greyback and Dolohov gave us the go-ahead, around nightfall, we had to more directly cause fear, and pain, and ultimately kill our target. They don't want us to choke on a real mission, you see, so it's better to practice first, according to Dolohov. Although given what just happened, maybe they need to revise their training protocol." Bitterness and anger had crept into his voice, and Ginny put her hand on his leg, just like she had this morning.

"Goyle—"

"Not yet," Draco said. "We're talking about Jane first."

Jane. That was her name. He had held onto it, very intently from what Ginny could tell.

"Okay," she said.

"I don't really know how Muggle school works, but Jane and her friends had just finished one type of school and were getting ready to start another type," he said. "I picked up on her thoughts— mainly when I was actively using Legilimency, at the end, but occasionally throughout the day too, or just overhearing their conversations. Some of her friends were supposed to go to school far away, so this was their last get together as a group. Which I guess they got their wish on that account." More bitterness. More anger.

"Do you want me to talk too, or just listen?" Ginny said, something she had learned from her dad.

"Just listen, I think."

"Okay."

"There was a period of time, during the day, before we were chasing them, where I thought maybe, just maybe, I could try Apparating her out— claim I lost her in the woods somehow. But you see, that would have been a problem on multiple counts. Dolohov had set up a magical perimeter to make sure they couldn't run too far, so claiming she somehow got out of that without magical assistance wouldn't have made any sense. And if they had figured out she had magical assistance… well…"

"You would have been labeled a traitor," Ginny said. "A blood traitor, maybe. Like me."

"And then Jane would have died a horrible death, far worse than the one I gave her, and I wouldn't have ever gotten back to you," Draco said, running his hand along her upper arm. "You would have been trapped alone with the Dark Lord and I never, ever would have been able to rescue you, if I even survived whatever punishment Greyback cooked up. I couldn't let it happen. That's why I had to kill her, and that's why I had to torture Greg."

Ginny's stomach twisted. Did he blame her for that?

"It's not your fault," he said quickly, picking up on her tension. "I didn't mean it like that. I'm more than half the reason you're in this mess in the first place. And I… care about you, a lot. I can't let you get hurt if I can avoid it, and, as we discussed last night, we have work to do."

"About Alys," Ginny said.

"Yes, about Alys, and also… I'm thinking about taking a job at the Ministry."

Ginny sat up, thoroughly taken aback. "What?"

"They're going to be putting new departments together, to deal with blood traitors and Mud… Muggleborns. If I can get a job there, maybe I can slow down or mess up some of what they're doing, in a non-obvious way. Bureaucratic waste, and all that. I look like an enthusiastic supporter of the cause, when really, I'm keeping people safe, as much as I can."

Ginny threw her arms around him so tightly that he choked a bit. "Thank you," she whispered. "I… this means more to me than I can properly tell you."

Here was the Draco she had hoped was there, deep down. Here was the Draco she could… care about. A lot.

"I appreciate that, but I can't quite breathe," he said, making her laugh before she released him. He rubbed the back of his head, embarrassed. "However I thought this was all going to turn out, I never imagined this."

"Speaking of unexpected things," Ginny said. "That's what I wanted to talk to you about. Voldemort. He's jealous."

"Jealous of what?"

"You."

"Me?" Draco said, scandalized. "What on earth for?"

Ginny bit her lip. "Can you do Legilimency on me here, do you think? I can explain it, but it might be easier if you see it— the last couple of dreams I've had, and what happened tonight."

He too bit his lip. "It would be risky, if it's even possible. I would be afraid of compromising the safety of the bridge— we can't connect it to anything else."

"That's fair," Ginny said with a sigh. "Okay, story time." She told him, in as much detail as she could remember, about the dreams that had not come from her own mind— the dream of the vault, the dream of dancing as a princess, the dream of a world destroyed, the dream of being allowed to visit her family, and then the dream about the Antipodean Opaleye, along with her associated painting. She reminded him of the agreement Voldemort had forced her to make to keep her loved ones safe, and told him about her family's recent imprisonment. Draco's silence grew more and more tense as she talked.

"He gave me that tiara while you were gone. And then tonight, he… gave me another gift," she said. "That's what he called it, and I struggle to call it anything else. He took away my memories of pain when I was with Rookwood. Not the full memories, I still know what happened, but the pain… it's gone. Completely gone. It's like a miracle. And he said something you say sometimes… no pain, ever again. And when I made that connection in my mind, he was so annoyed that I was even thinking about you at all. Knowing now that these dreams aren't from me… what if they're from him? I know the magic is from him, but what if the content of the dreams is from him, like him purposely showing me things? In that first dream he said, Go back to him, Ginny, and revel in his attention for now, but know that your heart belongs to me. He's jealous."

Draco's jaw was tight. "I have to get you out of here. Immediately."

This was the reaction Ginny had anticipated but not the one she wanted.

"I don't think so," she said. "That would derail all of our other plans."

"I don't care about our other plans—"

"Hear me out. Just listen, okay? I listened to you, last night and this morning and right now. Just listen. When I was little, before I started at Hogwarts, my dad came home one day with a pack of Muggle playing cards. Like Exploding Snap, but just regular cards. He had those, and he had a book. He told me and my brothers that it wasn't true that Muggles don't believe in magic at all— they do, they just think it's all illusions."

"Ginny—"

"Are you listening or not?"

"I'm listening," he said, his voice so tight it was a miracle he could speak at all.

"My brothers weren't interested, but I was young enough to still find my dad's enthusiasm about things exciting, even if that enthusiasm was about an ordinary stack of playing cards. The book he had taught these types of illusions— Muggle magic— and he showed me how some of them worked. The key, he said, was to direct your audience's attention— both where they looked, and maybe more importantly, where they didn't look. Muggles weren't doing magic, but some of those tricks would certainly fool the average wizard."

"This is all very interesting, but I have no idea where you're going with this."

"You and I are like a Muggle magic trick," she said, turning to face him. "In the vault dream, Voldemort called you an ant underneath his feet. He's constantly looking at my thoughts, even while I sleep apparently. How often is he looking at yours?"

"Not very often," Draco muttered.

"Exactly," Ginny said. "Because, rightly or wrongly, he's decided that your thoughts are not very important. If you try to get me out of here, that will absolutely change, and there goes any chance we have of learning more about Alys, and thus the gem and how to maybe defeat Voldemort, or any chance of saving Muggleborns who are in danger, not to mention my family. If all of his energy and attention is focused on me, that frees you up to take action. I'm the flashy distraction, and you're the real magic trick."

Draco covered his face with his hands. "I don't like this at all."

"Not what I would have signed up for either, but circumstances are what they are. In fact, we probably need to be a little less touchy in the physical world— you should be meaner to me. If you look like you're just using me, that puts you in much less danger."

"How did this get turned around to where you're trying to get me out of danger?" Draco said irritably, taking his hands away from his face. "You're in danger here, not me."

"I don't think so," Ginny said again. "Not in the same way. He can't kill me even if he wanted to, and I don't think he wants to. He's planning on us both living forever. You, on the other hand… your father is right. You would have to be irreplaceable to be safe, and I don't know how to make you irreplaceable in a way that doesn't make him more jealous. But I know how to make you seem unimportant, and maybe that can accomplish the same thing, as far as safety goes."

"I don't think you understand what you're risking—"

"Oh, I don't?" Ginny said, her tone suddenly sharp. "Draco, I'm the one who's had to live through all of this— the Death Eaters cheering for you to rape me and you pulling off my clothes and me living in fear that at any second, the other shoe was going to drop and my relative safety would be over. I know. It was not my decision to end up here, at all, but shouldn't it be my decision on if I stay? Don't take that away from me."

"You know that's not fair."

"Life isn't fair. I think we both know that. This isn't what we wanted, but it's the truth of where we are. We have to take him down, together. And I think the best way to do that is for me to be a distraction."

"What does being a distraction mean?"

"Nothing other than what I've already been doing," she said. "Maybe changing how I interact in the dream world, if I have another one— nothing extreme, nothing that would make him suspicious, but enough to make him think he's winning, you know? If we do that, plus you get this job at the Ministry so you're gone during the day… I think we'll both be relatively safe, and we'll be taking steps against Voldemort. Maybe you occasionally spend the night at the manor, so you can research uninterrupted— that kind of thing. I might even be able to convince him to let my family go after a bit, if he thinks they're not a threat."

"This is incredibly risky."

"So is everything we've both done so far," Ginny argued. "We were just taking separate risks, before. Me with researching Alys right under your nose, you with trying to figure out how to hide memories in my mind without anyone else figuring out what you were doing, you figuring out this soul bond thing… none of that was safe. But we have each other now. Nothing can take that away— you said it yourself. You can be at work at the Ministry, and here on the bridge. I can be in Voldemort's study, and I can know that as soon as he walks away, I can go to the bridge. We're in this together—now and always."

Draco tilted his head back. "You were always complaining about Potter smothering you, and it was so easy for me to agree, before, but now I strongly see the temptation." He sighed. "You're right, but I don't like it. Can we try to set up some type of back up plan, for if things go south?"

"You're not going to like my back up plan."

He covered his face with his hands again. "What is it?"

"If things go south, you get in contact with the Order, let them know where I am, and help them with their efforts, whatever those are. And if they say it's too risky to get me out… you have to believe them."

"That is a terrible back up plan, especially considering your imprisoned family is basically half of the Order."

"Do you have any other ideas?"

He stayed quiet.

"Neither do I. I think if there was some really obvious, really great option, we would have thought of it by now. But this… this could work."

He sighed very dramatically, making her bite back a laugh. "Alright, fine, Weasley, I guess we're doing things your way. I can't just randomly start being meaner to you though— we need to stage a fight."

"Not for a couple of days. My interview is the day after tomorrow. Maybe after that, we can fight."

"Sounds like a date."

Ginny laughed. "It's a date."

Some color rose to his cheeks. "Do you… do you really think we'll all survive this? That we can defeat him somehow?"

"I have to think that," she said. "Otherwise, I would just curl up into a ball and never get up again. But on a serious note, yes, I do think we can defeat him somehow— he has no idea that we're working together, and he shouldn't find out, and he doesn't know anything about Alys, and he shouldn't find out about that either. Besides, he's already focused on other things. He's still focused on Harry, obviously, and he does have to be involved at least somewhat with the Ministry takeover. And… he told me he wants to experiment with getting himself a different body."

"What the fuck?"

"I know," Ginny said. "I doubt it's even possible— which makes it a good thing for him to waste his time on. He wants his younger form back. People long to worship beautiful gods." She wrinkled her nose.

Draco turned to look at her. "I… am going to have a hard time being okay with this plan, to be honest. But I guess that's me getting a taste of my own medicine— you've just been along for the ride this whole time, whether that's with me or with Alys. I guess it's time to let you steer the ship a little bit."

She smiled at him— finally, someone who trusted her enough to follow her lead. "Thank you, Draco."

"You can thank me when this is all over," he said with a smirk. "Don't thank me when we're still in danger."

They looked out at the mist, contemplating things for a moment. No matter how confident Ginny made herself sound, this was incredibly dangerous— a million ways for it to go wrong, and really only one way for it to go right. But she was sure, deep down in her gut, that this was the right decision— this stood the best chance of saving the most people, in the quickest way possible. Anything else was selfish, and could cost the Order the war.

"When this is all over," Draco said, his eyes still on the invisible horizon, "I'd like to ask you on a date, for real."

"Oh really?" Ginny asked in a teasing voice. "Just giving me advance notice, then?"

"Giving you time to think of what you'd like to do," he said. "Or, if it comes to that, time to think of a way to let me down easy."

"What do you mean?"

"You said it yourself— we have a lot to figure out after everything is over, this soul bond thing included. You might think about me differently when we're not in the midst of a crisis, is all I'm saying."

"The reverse could also be true— you might think differently about me."

"No," he said. "That much I know."

Ginny said nothing for a moment, trying to figure out where this was coming from.

"I think," she said, "when the time comes, I'd like you to take me to the beach."

He turned to look at her. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. We could have a picnic."

"That would be nice," he said, his voice going distant.

"Is that a date then?" she asked, nudging his shoulder to bring him back to the present.

He smiled. "It's a date."

AUGUST 4th, 1997

Garrick Ollivander cowered in the corner of his room, keeping his eyes averted as Lord Voldemort stepped inside. The space was sparsely furnished— hardly the opulent suite he had designed for his saint— but it was certainly nicer than an Azkaban cell. The old man was hunched over, leaning against the wall, and even from here, Voldemort could see that he was shaking.

"Get up, Ollivander," he said softly. "I have work for you."

The old man scrambled to his feet but kept his eyes downcast. Voldemort smirked.

"You seem afraid, old man," he said. "You think I'm here to hurt you?"

"N-no, my lord," he stuttered.

"You're quite right," Voldemort said smoothly before walking further into the room. "You helped me greatly with the Elder Wand— as long as you continue to be useful, you have nothing to fear from me."

Ollivander nodded, still avoiding eye contact. Curious, Voldemort reached forward in the barest trace of Legilimency— undetectable to all but the most trained wizards.

"You wish to know when you can go home," he said, making Ollivander tense. "Not for some time yet, I'm afraid. Perhaps when Harry Potter is dead and the Elder Wand has fulfilled its fated purpose— perhaps then you can go home. But until then, you have knowledge that my enemies would very much like to possess. I need to keep you close."

Ollivander said nothing, but Voldemort could sense the man's disappointment. Voldemort walked up to the small table in the center of the room and laid a wand down on it.

"Tell me about this wand, Ollivander."

Ollivander hesitantly moved closer to the table, and, considering he was in a generous mood, Voldemort backed away a couple of steps to give the old man some space. Ollivander wasn't a target— he was a tool. No reason to antagonize him unnecessarily.

Ollivander picked up the wand and lifted it up close to his face, running his hand along the length of it. He glanced at Voldemort before saying, "Yew, with a phoenix feather core. Ten and a half inches, reasonably pliant."

Silence.

"Is that all?" Voldemort finally said, irritated. Why would he be asking the fool about the basic specifications of the wand? He could see that for himself.

"Wh-what is it my lord would like to know?"

Voldemort withdrew the Elder Wand and began fiddling with it— no particular movement, just a reminder to Ollivander of who, and what, was in the room with him. Ollivander tensed. "Tell me more, Ollivander."

"This wand belongs to Ginevra Weasley," he said in a rush, clearly trying to think of anything useful to say. "She acquired it nearly five years ago, when she was ready to start at Hogwarts."

More information he already knew.

"So it does. It's hers still, even after our little mishap with the Elder Wand?"

"She would need to test it to be sure, but I believe so," Ollivander said, sounding more confident. "I don't sense any shift in its magic from when I sold it to her."

Her testing the wand would not be possible.

"Tell me about its attributes."

"My lord, surely you know—"

"It would be unwise to make me repeat myself, Ollivander."

The old man took a deep breath and looked back at Ginny's wand, seemingly deciding that it was a safer place to focus his attention. "A rare wood, and a rare core— not a wand that an ordinary witch or wizard could easily wield. Wandlore experts see yew wood as having a special connection to life and death, as its wands are particularly suited for dueling and cursework. Some say that those with yew wands are more likely to be attracted to the Dark Arts, but this is a common misconception." He quickly glanced at Voldemort before looking back at the wand. "Wielders of yew wands can also be fierce protectors of others— as likely to be a hero as a villain in the eyes of the world. This wood combined with the independent and somewhat temperamental nature of the phoenix feather core only amplifies the connection to life and death. Its owner will be likewise— powerful, but headstrong, and not easily swayed in their allegiances."

Not easily swayed, but profoundly loyal once that allegiance was won. A good thing, overall.

Ollivander paused here and looked up, his hands twitching with nervous energy.

"A rare wood, and a rare core," Voldemort repeated, keeping his eyes on the Elder Wand. "Not a combination you commonly come across?"

"No, my lord."

"Can you recall any others with this combination?"

Ollivander stared at him, and Voldemort knew he was trying to figure out if it was a trick question. "Y-yours, my lord."

With a wave of the Elder Wand, Voldemort summoned his old wand and tossed it to Ollivander, who fumbled but caught it. "Tell me about the differences."

"Hers is shorter, of course," Ollivander said, examining the wand, "but the main difference is in the flexibility. Yours is… quite unyielding, compared to hers."

As it should be, given their roles.

"What do you make of that?" Voldemort asked.

"What do I… make of it, my lord?"

Was the man being deliberately obtuse?

"Yes," he snapped. "What do you make of it, given who she is and who I am?"

"I… I don't know. Maybe nothing—"

"How many different combinations of wood and core do you sell?"

"A hundred and fourteen."

"A hundred and fourteen," Voldemort repeated. "The wand chooses the wizard—isn't that what you always tell impressionable young first years, when they visit your shop? The phoenix feather in my old wand is mirrored in Harry Potter's— fate recognized our prophetic connection, and thus necessitated I seek out a new wand, a stronger wand, the strongest in the world, in fact. You cannot tell me that it means nothing that Ginny Weasley's wand is a mirror of mine, not when we too have been connected by prophecy, not when we have both been found worthy to wield the Elder Wand. So what does it mean, Ollivander?"

Ollivander was pale. "I… I don't know, my lord— I don't want to advise you incorrectly. Perhaps that you share similar magical strengths. Perhaps that you both have great magical potential."

For all of his poetic ramblings about wandlore, Ollivander was blind. How could he not recognize the symmetry here, the signs?

"I see," Voldemort said in a bored tone. "Well, if that's all then, I'll leave you be." He waved the Elder Wand, and the two yew wands flew out of Ollivander's hands and into his. "Think on it some, and let me know if you arrive at a different conclusion."

Ollivander was mumbling nonsense assurances as Voldemort left the room, fighting back annoyance. What bland, vague, non-answers. That hadn't been helpful at all. He could have tortured him for it, but it would have been a waste. Ollivander, like Rookwood, would be difficult to replace, and though he felt confident now that the Elder Wand was his at last, there had been too many odd coincidences where Harry Potter was concerned. Getting rid of Ollivander, or incapacitating him, before Harry Potter was dead would be a mistake.

He had wanted Ollivander to see the same thing he did, to marvel in the miraculous ways of fate, but he had barely reacted at all. A hundred and fourteen different combinations, and he and Ginny Weasley shared the same basic wand attributes, and a rare combination at that. They were the only two people alive who could claim the title of master of the Elder Wand. They were the only two people alive who were immortal, in one way or another. Why couldn't Ollivander see it?

Because he was a fool. That was the only explanation. Knowledgeable about wands, but ignorant to the deeper meaning of things, ignorant of the implications.

The difference was in the rigidity. That was interesting. It made sense, and was favorable for him— she would have to yield to him, headstrong though she may be. Perhaps, when she was ready to use her magic again, he would give her his old wand rather than her own; there could be no better teacher for cursework, after all. There was an odd kind of poetry to that— like his hand in the world, twice. Fitting, for a saint.

That would be a very long time from now, though. She couldn't be trusted, not even an inch. He sighed, and with a wave of his hand, sent the two yew wands back to his study— they would have to be locked away for the foreseeable future.

Her family was the right angle to use, he was fairly certain— and Ollivander did seem to back up that idea by calling her a "fierce protector of others." He had seen that in her mind himself. She would do whatever she had to in order to protect them. It was fortunate indeed that they had gotten themselves arrested. Perhaps he would pay them a visit tomorrow, and see what information that visit yielded.

Not today though. Today, Ginny was giving her interview for the Daily Prophet— a silly venture overall, but it would please his Death Eaters, and it certainly put his agreement with her to the test. Though perhaps Draco would just command her to play the role…

Why did that annoy him so much? The tattoo should answer to him as well, it was true, but what did it really matter if Draco commanded her to recite a script for an interview? She obeyed Draco through the tattoo, and Draco commanded her based on his master's orders. An annoying middleman, but generally harmless, one would think.

Except there was some part of him that clearly had a different opinion. That same little core of spite, deep in his chest, raged against the very idea of Draco Malfoy holding some power over her that he himself did not. It was unacceptable. It shouldn't be allowed.

He would have to check in on Macnair soon. Maybe tomorrow.

He walked down the second floor hallway, heading for Ginny's room. They would be visiting Malfoy Manor today, as they couldn't very well conduct the Prophet interview here. He had had every intention of letting Draco take her for the day and return her this evening, but as soon as he had woken up this morning, he knew he couldn't allow it. It was too risky. Anything could happen, and while he knew that the tattoo would allow him to hunt Ginny down if she should somehow escape… he couldn't bear the thought. It was enough that he was letting her leave at all. This would be freedom enough. He would accompany them to the manor, and simply stay out of sight— not at all difficult, given the manor's size.

With a wave of the Elder Wand, the wall became translucent, allowing him to see inside. Ginny wore a sage green robe and was sitting at her vanity table; Draco stood behind her, brushing her hair. He really was obsessed with that— so many of the girl's memories were about that, in one way or another.

Another wave of the wand allowed him to hear their conversation.

"You'll do fine," the boy was saying, his voice soft and encouraging. "You already memorized everything."

"What if it isn't good enough?" she said, her brow furrowing in the mirror.

"It'll be more than good enough. If you forget something, just say you're nervous— my parents will be there, and can jump in if you need them to. I'm sure someone will review everything before they let the Prophet publish anything anyway—you can't mess it up, I promise."

She nodded. "I hope so. This whole thing makes me sick to my stomach."

"You're serving the Dark Lord," Draco said, his voice growing cold. "This is the first of many— you should get used to it."

That was enough.

He walked through the wall. "Time to go, little saint."