Summary: The summer after Harry Potter finally defeated the Dark Lord was
celebrated one in the wizarding world. Celebrated by everyone except those
closest to the conflict. Now it's time for the trio to return to Hogwarts
for their seventh year, and new discoveries about themselves, their
friends, and their worst enemies. Why is Ginny hallucinating? Why is Harry
sulking? Why is Hermione setting things on fire? Why is Draco brooding? And
most of all, will anyone but Hermione pass their N.E.W.T.S?
Disclaimer: I don't own a thing.Which is sad, because it might be nice to be richer than the queen of England. ________________________________________________________________________
Waking up was always a battle. A frenzied struggle through the depths of her mind to break the surface of consciousness. A struggle against her dreams, her memories; seductive creatures that tore at her spirit, pulled her back into the nightly torture she engaged in, reliving the final battle night after night, only to convince herself, and her family, that she was okay...This morning, she lost the battle....
***
She had a sword.
Heavy...it was too heavy for her frame, really, about the length of her arm, or a little longer, encrusted in jewels and engraved with a name. Godric Gryffindor.
Her hands clutched the hilt so tightly that blood seeped through her cuticles. Her breath was coming in shallow gasps, she knew she should breathe, but couldn't. Couldn't make her chest relax, couldn't unknot her stomach to let the air come in.
The acrid smoke drifting over the graveyard stung her eyes and they welled up, blurring her vision, and she stumbled, the cold metal of the sword knocking against her already bruised thighs. She was clumsy...too clumsy for this...it was too important... Around her, everything was noise, everything was chaos, screams pierced the fog like beacons, reaching out to her, groping for her, trying to touch her with their pain... looking for comfort? Looking for help? She didn't know, couldn't stop long enough to care....she was running. Had to keep running. She chanted this over and over again to herself in time with her pounding footsteps as she bounded across the graves, ducked under a stray spell and thought, this can't be the real world. The real world was quidditch, and butterbeer and late potions homework...
The real world was not wizard against wizard, good against evil, light against dark in a winner takes all battle... The only problem was...this was the real world. For all of Dumbledore's careful diplomacy, meticulous planning...for all of Fudge's narrow-minded politics...they must have known it would come down to this. This terror, this agony, this slaughter.
Which was why Ginny found herself in possession of the sword, running faster than she had ever run in her life, or ever would, because if she wasn't fast enough...it could all be over. The sun was rising over the dingy gray looking horizon, casting an ethereal glow over the ugly scene before her. She was taking too long, she thought wildly, panic rising in the pit of her stomach, it had been too long--she bounded over a cracked headstone--a jet of green light shot past her head and she ran faster, past a crypt that had been split wide open, over the body of a wizard who had been burned beyond recognition...
And suddenly...there he was. She was almost surprised to find him there, though she had been looking for him...The sight of him was almost dazzling, standing there on a low incline, bony frame almost shaking with...pain? power? The rising sun cast a sort of halo around him, and he looked very much what she imagined the archangel Gabriel to have looked like battling down the forces of hell. And if ever the forces of hell were embodied, it was in Lord Voldemort. Dark robes billowing around him, pale, snakelike face grinning malevolently at Harry, he was speaking, his lips were moving, but she couldn't tell what he was saying... It was like a perfect painting of the eternal struggle between light and dark, something was happening, happening to both of them, and she couldn't see...couldn't quite see...
Run! Her brain screamed at her, and her feet pounded against the charred earth once more, taking her closer and closer to the scene that had stunned her. Apprehension took root somewhere deep, deeper than her bones, deep in her soul she felt the power crackling in the air as she ran towards him....and suddenly, right in front of her, no angel after all--was Harry. The look on his face frightened her, and she slowed a little, for now that she was here, there was only one thing to do, and she didn't know how to do it.
"Harry." she gasped," Take this..." her voice cracked as she fumbled with the sword, shoving it into his free hand, the hand that wasn't holding a wand pointed at Voldemort... "Dumbledore says you know what to do with i-" her voice trailed off weakly as the thin, reptilian face of the dark lord turned to her, and he began to laugh...and laugh. It was a low, grating, screeching sound, the worst sound she'd ever heard, and it brought new meaning to the words 'my blood ran cold'. And he kept on laughing, the hysterical, forlorn laughter of a madman in despair.
"You think you've won." the hissing voice said. "You've only just scratched the surface of this, Harry Potter. Go on, go on, stick old Gryffindor's sword right through my heart, you know you want to..."
Ginny felt slightly dizzy and she stumbled back a few steps, as her brain gave up "Run" as a mantra and opted instead for "Oh God I'm going to die."
"Take that final step, Potter. I've learned my lesson...have you learned yours?" Voldemort hissed. "I'll tell you what it is, your dear mum and dad learned it too late, boy, and they died for it, and you'll die too, you'll go straight to hell right along with--"
"SHUT UP!" Harry roared, and Ginny jumped. His arm shot out and he grabbed her hand tightly.
It was like someone had vacuum sucked her insides...she was empty, gasping, couldn't get enough oxygen, couldn't even stand, her knees were buckling, and Harry was lunging forward with the sword, plunging it into the heart of the dark lord, and for one moment everything was dazzlingly clear, oh they had been so stupid...and Ginny screamed. She screamed and screamed for him to stop, but it wouldn't stop, ever...and a pain...a pain like nothing she had ever known a pain like lightning coursed through and as quick as lightning it was gone, and darkness closed over her...
***
Ginny woke abruptly, but didn't open her eyes. Instead she lay very still. Waiting. For what, she wasn't sure. Maybe for Fred and George to come walking through her bedroom door, laughing, talking, Fred would throw her over his shoulder and they'd go downstairs for breakfast, where Mum would be cooking eggs and toast and jam and sausages...her father would be singing in the shower, some muggle tune he'd picked up somewhere...of course none of that happened. The house, as usual, was silent.
No, she wasn't waiting for that. She'd given up waiting for that a long time ago. She was waiting for him. Waiting for that low, musical voice to tell her it was okay to open her eyes, okay to start the day, to tell her that the coast was clear, that she was safe...Ginny snuggled down under her covers, burying her head under the sheets. It seemed everything frightened her these days, but nothing frightened her more than the moment between waking and sleeping, the moment right before she opened her eyes, because she never knew what she'd see.
She took a shaky breath and threw the covers off, blinking in the sunlight streaming in through her bedroom window. Her sleepy eyes perused the room quickly. Same peeling red paint on the walls, same wardrobe, half of the left wardrobe door was missing--she remembered it crashing to the floor, she remember crawling under it, hiding, watching those black boots circle her room, she'd never seen his face, the man who had come in the night and killed her parents...Ginny hadn't let anyone repair it, despite the jagged wood edges of the door. There was the same faded rug on the same wood floor, the same curtains hanging in the same window...she sighed. The same boy who came to her every morning, standing patiently by the window.
He wore shabby Hogwarts robes, which he plucked at unconsciously with slender white fingers, his black hair fell over his forehead in a way that she might have called rakishly charming, had she cared enough to notice. His eyes were black, rimmed with blue and framed by dark lashes. He smiled, revealing two rows of perfect white teeth.
"Good morning, Virginia." he said pleasantly.
She ignored him and slid out of bed, padding quickly across the sun warmed floor to her wardrobe, pulling out her dressing gown. "Not real." she hummed to herself, pulling the dressing gown tightly around her shoulders.
"Did you sleep well?" he asked.
Her gaze flicked over to him warily. "You know I didn't, Tom." she said truculently.
He tutted at her, still smiling. "Manners."
Ginny sighed. "Not real." she said quietly to herself. "Ignore it, ignore it, ig-"
Tom laughed lightly. "Yes, yes, just keep telling yourself that. You know the truth. You..." he paused and grinned malevolently. "You saw..."
"Yes, yes," Ginny murmured. "That's all very well and good....you keep saying that, I saw this, I saw that...If I saw anything, I don't remember, now will you please go away?"
"If I'm a figment of your imagination," Tom replied. "Why don't you make me go away?" he smiled again. "I'll tell you why..." and now his voice was the voice of her mother. "Because it's real. It's always been real, always will be real, Ginny, my love."
Her eyes stung with tears. "Stop it."
Now the voice coming out of his mouth was her father. "Fine. I'm just proving a point, you know. You've got to start listening to me..." he laughed harshly and now his voice was George's. "Wise up, Gin. You know what's going on...you know, and yet you keep quiet...why?"
"Stop..." she whimpered. "Please stop."
He winked at her. "You don't want me to stop," he murmured in Sirius Black's rough tenor. "You like it...hearing them come back to you. Selfish girl."
"Go away." Ginny sniffled, the steady ache of misery twisting in her chest. "Just go."
"Make me." he challenged her again, and he continued speaking in her mother's voice, low and soothing. "I'll never go away, I'll always be here, always with you, always, because deep down you want me here, don't you..."
Ginny pressed her temple against the jagged edge of the wood, feeling the sharp ends cut into the delicate skin. She pressed harder, trying to inflict as much pain on herself as possible. If only the sharp spike of wood would go right through to her brain, pierce whatever part of her held Tom inside.
"Oh stop that, you stupid girl." Tom laughed. "It's so much deeper than electric impulses and gray matter..."
She could feel the slick trail of blood trickling down her cheek. Yes, that's it, she thought. A little more, just a little more...concentrate on the pain and he'll go away because he's not real, not real, not real...
"It's a lost cause, dear, but then again, you always did have a soft spot for lost causes. How's Harry these days?"
The pain in her head was blinding, and Tom laughed harder.
"All right, stop now." he said.
"Go. Away." she gritted out. "GO AWAY!"
Her bedroom door opened suddenly and she jerked away from the wardrobe. Her brother Charlie peeked in. "Ginny? It's breakfast..." he paused. "What happened to your head?"
Ginny blinked. "Nothing." she replied innocently.
_______________________________________________________________________
"This place," Blaise Zabini said with distinction, "is a dive." She cast a critical eye around the Hog's Head and shook herself a little, her delicate grecian features wrinkling with disgust.
Her companion regarded her silently, and a little shiver of fear crept up Blaise's back. She wasn't quite sure what she was doing here; she only knew that she had received a telegram five days ago, bidding her to meet someone her tonight, and she'd felt a strange need to come. But the hooded figure who'd met her had only said enough to introduce himself as 'Piers'.
Blaise examined her fingernails, frowning. "Why is it that if you're the one who's got a message for me, I'm the only one talking?" she continued irritably. "I have places to be, you know."
Piers nodded. "I...have information for you." he said hesitantly. Or, she thought he was hesitant. It was hard to gauge someone's emotions when you couldn't see their face. "For your father..."
The raven haired girl froze. "My father is dead." she snapped. "Some informant you are."
She could have sworn he laughed. "I didn't know if the rumors were true."
"Gee. Not my problem." she glared at him menacingly. "So...the information? Or am I wasting my time here?"
"Not for me to decide." Piers replied airily. "Is it true that you are the last remaining Zabini?"
Blaise hesitated. "Yes..."
"Then you know the location of the Necrominicon."
She gasped sharply, fear flooding her. "Who are you?"
"You do, don't you?"
"I..." she paused."I know who has it..." Blaise frowned. "What do you know about it?"
Piers shifted uncomfortably and Blaise cast a quick look around the pub. Everyone appeared to be going about their business, but looks were usually deceiving.
"I know enough."
"Why did you call me here?" She tensed herself to make a break for it.
"I...uh..." Piers shifted again. "I can't tell you that."
"Can't or won't?" she said nastily, wishing fervently that she had bothered to pass her apparating test.
"I want you to disappear." Piers said abruptly. "I mean-"
Blaise took a sip of butterbeer, before she cut in, "You want me to disappear?"
"This portkey," he set a rusty tailpipe on the table, "will take you to an island off the coast of Ireland, where you'll be...safe."
"Safe from whom?" Blaise asked casually, chewing on her lower lip.
"I think it's best that you don't know."
Blaise leaned forward a little. "I just have one question." she said.
"I imagine you have more," Piers replied with an audible chuckle.
Blaise considered this. "You're right." she said. "But only one more to ask you."
Piers remained silent and she took that as acquiescence.
"Who sent you?"
Piers didn't reply right away. "N-no one sent me."
"No, who sent you?" her voice took on a threatening note. "Who wants The Necrominicon?"
Somewhere in the bar, a fight had broken out; no one was listening to their conversation. Two of the barmaids were trying to break up the fight, something that had to be entertaining to the 90% male population of the Hog's Head. The barmaids, however, seemed to be handling themselves nicely. Blaise didn't give pause to really watch the fight though, she had finally unnerved the hooded stranger, and she wasn't about to let the opportunity slip away.
"No one sent me." the stranger repeated. "Just go, won't you?" He prodded the tailpipe towards her. "Your pride won't do you much good if you're dead."
Blaise's eyes widened. "Who's going to kill me? Who wants the Necrominicon? If you really want to help; you've got to tell me...who sent you?"
"No one sent me." Piers repeated firmly. "But the one who has The Necrominicon is looking for you: Blaise Zabini. And if she finds you, you'll wish you'd never been born."
"Why is she looking for me?" Blaise demanded.
"You're the only one who can consummate the circle...the only one who knows the sacred places, and how to protect them or destroy them."
"The...circle?"
Piers laughed bitterly. "You don't understand, and you won't, not until..." he sighed. "Just GO!"
Blaise set her jaw. "No." she said firmly, slamming her hands on the table and rising to her feet. "I won't run from some cracked, posturing, weedy minion with an overdeveloped sense of authority!" Her voice rose several notches with every word and it wasn't until the last syllable had been uttered until she realized two things. The first was that the bar was completely silent. The second was that no one was looking at her, despite her outburst.
They were instead staring at a procession of robed figures, robes that in fact disturbingly resembled Piers', only way, way creepier. They were chanting something in a language Blaise didn't understand. A hand reached across the table and grabbed her wrist tightly. "Ow!" Blaise hissed, snatching her hand back angrily.
"Go!" Piers hissed at her. "Go now before it's too late!" there was an unspoken 'You mentally deficient bint' tacked onto the end. She opened her mouth to reply, but he dissaparated with a loud crack. The sound seemed to break the eerie spell that had fallen over the pub, and the sinister looking robes all looked at her at once. A tingle of apprehension shivered its way down her back. This was, for lack of a better word, bad. She glanced around the bar for other exits, but there was only the one, and creepy robe guys were advancing on her from every direction. Somewhere a clock was striking midnight. The witching hour, her terrified mind mused...her eyes traveled desperately over the mesmerized faces of the bar patrons, everything seemed to be moving in slow motion, and suddenly her eyes alighted on a face that was familiar, but she couldn't quite place it-- and the girl started screaming at her, "Pick up the portkey, stupid!"
Yes, the only option left was a wholly undesirable one. Blaise wasn't about to trust someone she'd only just met...who knew where she'd end up? Well, she knew where she'd end up if she stayed here...her hand shot out and snatched up the tailpipe, the last thing she saw before she felt the pull behind her navel was a knife flying through the air towards her head.
****
Blaise landed facedown on a beach--it was a sandy, rainy, misty stretch of land and she could see about a foot in front of her at a time. She had just scrambled to her feet when a tall, hooded figure appeared through the fog. Her heart jumped into her throat and she stumbled backwards gracelessly. "Why won't you people leave me alone!" she screamed as he closed in on her.
The figure laughed. It was a kind, soft, vaguely familiar laugh. Two aged hands reached up to push back the hood and Blaise found herself staring at the smiling face of Albus Dumbledore.
"Professor Dumbledore!" she breathed, relief coursing through her. "What are you doing here?"
Dumbledore didn't answer right away; he glanced down at his watch. "12:01 on the dot." he smiled. "You always were very punctual, Ms. Zabini."
Blaise frowned. "I don't understand...how did you know I'd be here?"
"You told me yourself." Dumbledore explained ineffectually. "Now, I suggest we continue this conversation in a warmer environment, perhaps my office?" He retrieved an old leather book out of his pocket. "And don't worry about your things; you've already had them sent up to the school."
____________________________________________________________________________ ______
"Interesting."
"More like 'disappointing', but suit yourself."
"Disappointing?"
"She's alive."
"I was under the impression that it was the other one that mattered."
"The circle remains intact, and that is what matters. Alone, they are insignificant. Together, they may pose a considerable threat."
"So how do you plan to break them?"
"Killing them, obviously, what do you think I was trying to do? Unfortunately, Zabini survived."
"Yes, how did that happen?"
"If you want the truth, my lord, I'm not entirely sure. Someone, or something interfered."
"So we go ahead as planned."
"For now."
"Is there anything else you're not telling me?"
"No, my lord." there was a pause. "May I ask...?"
"Yes?"
"Who is it, the one you've found? I'm just curious to know, I've been searching for her for so long..."
There was a slight, whispery chuckle and the low, musical voice replied. "She's... an old friend."
____________________________________________________________________________ ______
He was killing himself.
Not in the conventional way, but slowly he was doing the job all the same. The boy bestowed with the Malfoy name, and all that came with it-- ruthlessness, cruelty, power--was tired. He was so tired that sometimes breathing wore him down. The idea of waking up every day, only to see the darkness closing in around him frightened him more than anything ever had. But as he feared it, he also found himself embracing it. Embracing the idea that things were going to get worse, and that he would allow himself to slide into that dark night without a whisper of resistance.
It just didn't matter anymore.
Through the window of the carriage he could see the procession of black- winged thestrals, though that was a strange word to describe such morbid looking creatures, they were trundling up the hill towards Hogwarts.
Hogwarts itself rose majestically into the velvety night sky like a beacon of hope, of light, of eternal strength. In the dark you couldn't tell that half of the expansive lawns were scorched black. You almost couldn't see the gaping hole left where the astronomy tower had once been.
But his ability to appreciate things like safety and comfort had vanished with the rest of his emotions. Hogwarts was just another castle, just another place for the exceptionally stupid to get together to celebrate their victory over the dark lord. Another temple to worship bloody Potter.
Victory?
What did that mean now?
His taste for victory, his drive to win, to claim what should be his as a Malfoy...those feelings were gone too, taking with them the only sense of self he had ever possessed. Who was he? Not Draco Malfoy.
What, and who Draco Malfoy had been was gone, and in its place only fear and rage remained. Rage so deep and so consuming it was like another being inside him, writhing, whispering, lying in wait for the right moment to strike. And he chose his moments carefully...his moment of the week was Pansy Parkinson.
He couldn't bear to look in the mirror anymore...the only person who looked back was a man with too many demons. A man who cherished and nurtured the demons that were slowly but surely devouring everything that he had once recognized in himself.
Some sort of silky fabric brushed against his leg and his jaw clenched. "What?" he bit out angrily.
"Aren't you going to talk to me?" Pansy pouted in his ear.
Jerking his head away from the fingernails that scraped against the line of his jaw, he turned to glare menacingly at her. "Wasn't planning on it. Let's face it, darling, you're not the most gripping conversationalist."
Pansy pouted some more and leaned closer to him. "We don't have to talk."
He grimaced.
She changed tack. "You look sad." A pause. "Won't you let me make you feel better?"
He swallowed a nasty remark, then thought better of it. "If you really want to make me feel better, Pansy," she leaned forward eagerly. "I suggest you throw yourself into the nearest available lake." He smirked.
Her green eyes darkened, and she sniffed haughtily, making her look even more like a pug than usual, as she flounced into the seat across from him. "You're despicable, Draco," she said.
Despicable Draco, he mused. It had a nice ring to it.
The carriages rolled to a holt, and Pansy huffed out, running to join her other friends. Draco moved more slowly. He felt old. All his muscles ached and there was a throbbing pain building behind his left eye.
Weary eyes, eyes that were much older than the boy who owned them, scanned the faces of his classmates. They looked tired, too. Worn, beaten...and...hopeful. But none of them looked at him; none of them met his gaze. Their eyes slid over and around him as if he weren't there, and Draco...found he didn't care.
He had entered his own kind of darkness, something deeper than the legions of dim could hope to understand. It surrounded him, it dwelt in him, and he had embraced it.
________________________________________________________________________
Next chapter: Luna Lovegood makes an appearance, as does Draco's Hair Gel, and the trio meet their new DADA professor...eeeeeek!
Disclaimer: I don't own a thing.Which is sad, because it might be nice to be richer than the queen of England. ________________________________________________________________________
Waking up was always a battle. A frenzied struggle through the depths of her mind to break the surface of consciousness. A struggle against her dreams, her memories; seductive creatures that tore at her spirit, pulled her back into the nightly torture she engaged in, reliving the final battle night after night, only to convince herself, and her family, that she was okay...This morning, she lost the battle....
***
She had a sword.
Heavy...it was too heavy for her frame, really, about the length of her arm, or a little longer, encrusted in jewels and engraved with a name. Godric Gryffindor.
Her hands clutched the hilt so tightly that blood seeped through her cuticles. Her breath was coming in shallow gasps, she knew she should breathe, but couldn't. Couldn't make her chest relax, couldn't unknot her stomach to let the air come in.
The acrid smoke drifting over the graveyard stung her eyes and they welled up, blurring her vision, and she stumbled, the cold metal of the sword knocking against her already bruised thighs. She was clumsy...too clumsy for this...it was too important... Around her, everything was noise, everything was chaos, screams pierced the fog like beacons, reaching out to her, groping for her, trying to touch her with their pain... looking for comfort? Looking for help? She didn't know, couldn't stop long enough to care....she was running. Had to keep running. She chanted this over and over again to herself in time with her pounding footsteps as she bounded across the graves, ducked under a stray spell and thought, this can't be the real world. The real world was quidditch, and butterbeer and late potions homework...
The real world was not wizard against wizard, good against evil, light against dark in a winner takes all battle... The only problem was...this was the real world. For all of Dumbledore's careful diplomacy, meticulous planning...for all of Fudge's narrow-minded politics...they must have known it would come down to this. This terror, this agony, this slaughter.
Which was why Ginny found herself in possession of the sword, running faster than she had ever run in her life, or ever would, because if she wasn't fast enough...it could all be over. The sun was rising over the dingy gray looking horizon, casting an ethereal glow over the ugly scene before her. She was taking too long, she thought wildly, panic rising in the pit of her stomach, it had been too long--she bounded over a cracked headstone--a jet of green light shot past her head and she ran faster, past a crypt that had been split wide open, over the body of a wizard who had been burned beyond recognition...
And suddenly...there he was. She was almost surprised to find him there, though she had been looking for him...The sight of him was almost dazzling, standing there on a low incline, bony frame almost shaking with...pain? power? The rising sun cast a sort of halo around him, and he looked very much what she imagined the archangel Gabriel to have looked like battling down the forces of hell. And if ever the forces of hell were embodied, it was in Lord Voldemort. Dark robes billowing around him, pale, snakelike face grinning malevolently at Harry, he was speaking, his lips were moving, but she couldn't tell what he was saying... It was like a perfect painting of the eternal struggle between light and dark, something was happening, happening to both of them, and she couldn't see...couldn't quite see...
Run! Her brain screamed at her, and her feet pounded against the charred earth once more, taking her closer and closer to the scene that had stunned her. Apprehension took root somewhere deep, deeper than her bones, deep in her soul she felt the power crackling in the air as she ran towards him....and suddenly, right in front of her, no angel after all--was Harry. The look on his face frightened her, and she slowed a little, for now that she was here, there was only one thing to do, and she didn't know how to do it.
"Harry." she gasped," Take this..." her voice cracked as she fumbled with the sword, shoving it into his free hand, the hand that wasn't holding a wand pointed at Voldemort... "Dumbledore says you know what to do with i-" her voice trailed off weakly as the thin, reptilian face of the dark lord turned to her, and he began to laugh...and laugh. It was a low, grating, screeching sound, the worst sound she'd ever heard, and it brought new meaning to the words 'my blood ran cold'. And he kept on laughing, the hysterical, forlorn laughter of a madman in despair.
"You think you've won." the hissing voice said. "You've only just scratched the surface of this, Harry Potter. Go on, go on, stick old Gryffindor's sword right through my heart, you know you want to..."
Ginny felt slightly dizzy and she stumbled back a few steps, as her brain gave up "Run" as a mantra and opted instead for "Oh God I'm going to die."
"Take that final step, Potter. I've learned my lesson...have you learned yours?" Voldemort hissed. "I'll tell you what it is, your dear mum and dad learned it too late, boy, and they died for it, and you'll die too, you'll go straight to hell right along with--"
"SHUT UP!" Harry roared, and Ginny jumped. His arm shot out and he grabbed her hand tightly.
It was like someone had vacuum sucked her insides...she was empty, gasping, couldn't get enough oxygen, couldn't even stand, her knees were buckling, and Harry was lunging forward with the sword, plunging it into the heart of the dark lord, and for one moment everything was dazzlingly clear, oh they had been so stupid...and Ginny screamed. She screamed and screamed for him to stop, but it wouldn't stop, ever...and a pain...a pain like nothing she had ever known a pain like lightning coursed through and as quick as lightning it was gone, and darkness closed over her...
***
Ginny woke abruptly, but didn't open her eyes. Instead she lay very still. Waiting. For what, she wasn't sure. Maybe for Fred and George to come walking through her bedroom door, laughing, talking, Fred would throw her over his shoulder and they'd go downstairs for breakfast, where Mum would be cooking eggs and toast and jam and sausages...her father would be singing in the shower, some muggle tune he'd picked up somewhere...of course none of that happened. The house, as usual, was silent.
No, she wasn't waiting for that. She'd given up waiting for that a long time ago. She was waiting for him. Waiting for that low, musical voice to tell her it was okay to open her eyes, okay to start the day, to tell her that the coast was clear, that she was safe...Ginny snuggled down under her covers, burying her head under the sheets. It seemed everything frightened her these days, but nothing frightened her more than the moment between waking and sleeping, the moment right before she opened her eyes, because she never knew what she'd see.
She took a shaky breath and threw the covers off, blinking in the sunlight streaming in through her bedroom window. Her sleepy eyes perused the room quickly. Same peeling red paint on the walls, same wardrobe, half of the left wardrobe door was missing--she remembered it crashing to the floor, she remember crawling under it, hiding, watching those black boots circle her room, she'd never seen his face, the man who had come in the night and killed her parents...Ginny hadn't let anyone repair it, despite the jagged wood edges of the door. There was the same faded rug on the same wood floor, the same curtains hanging in the same window...she sighed. The same boy who came to her every morning, standing patiently by the window.
He wore shabby Hogwarts robes, which he plucked at unconsciously with slender white fingers, his black hair fell over his forehead in a way that she might have called rakishly charming, had she cared enough to notice. His eyes were black, rimmed with blue and framed by dark lashes. He smiled, revealing two rows of perfect white teeth.
"Good morning, Virginia." he said pleasantly.
She ignored him and slid out of bed, padding quickly across the sun warmed floor to her wardrobe, pulling out her dressing gown. "Not real." she hummed to herself, pulling the dressing gown tightly around her shoulders.
"Did you sleep well?" he asked.
Her gaze flicked over to him warily. "You know I didn't, Tom." she said truculently.
He tutted at her, still smiling. "Manners."
Ginny sighed. "Not real." she said quietly to herself. "Ignore it, ignore it, ig-"
Tom laughed lightly. "Yes, yes, just keep telling yourself that. You know the truth. You..." he paused and grinned malevolently. "You saw..."
"Yes, yes," Ginny murmured. "That's all very well and good....you keep saying that, I saw this, I saw that...If I saw anything, I don't remember, now will you please go away?"
"If I'm a figment of your imagination," Tom replied. "Why don't you make me go away?" he smiled again. "I'll tell you why..." and now his voice was the voice of her mother. "Because it's real. It's always been real, always will be real, Ginny, my love."
Her eyes stung with tears. "Stop it."
Now the voice coming out of his mouth was her father. "Fine. I'm just proving a point, you know. You've got to start listening to me..." he laughed harshly and now his voice was George's. "Wise up, Gin. You know what's going on...you know, and yet you keep quiet...why?"
"Stop..." she whimpered. "Please stop."
He winked at her. "You don't want me to stop," he murmured in Sirius Black's rough tenor. "You like it...hearing them come back to you. Selfish girl."
"Go away." Ginny sniffled, the steady ache of misery twisting in her chest. "Just go."
"Make me." he challenged her again, and he continued speaking in her mother's voice, low and soothing. "I'll never go away, I'll always be here, always with you, always, because deep down you want me here, don't you..."
Ginny pressed her temple against the jagged edge of the wood, feeling the sharp ends cut into the delicate skin. She pressed harder, trying to inflict as much pain on herself as possible. If only the sharp spike of wood would go right through to her brain, pierce whatever part of her held Tom inside.
"Oh stop that, you stupid girl." Tom laughed. "It's so much deeper than electric impulses and gray matter..."
She could feel the slick trail of blood trickling down her cheek. Yes, that's it, she thought. A little more, just a little more...concentrate on the pain and he'll go away because he's not real, not real, not real...
"It's a lost cause, dear, but then again, you always did have a soft spot for lost causes. How's Harry these days?"
The pain in her head was blinding, and Tom laughed harder.
"All right, stop now." he said.
"Go. Away." she gritted out. "GO AWAY!"
Her bedroom door opened suddenly and she jerked away from the wardrobe. Her brother Charlie peeked in. "Ginny? It's breakfast..." he paused. "What happened to your head?"
Ginny blinked. "Nothing." she replied innocently.
_______________________________________________________________________
"This place," Blaise Zabini said with distinction, "is a dive." She cast a critical eye around the Hog's Head and shook herself a little, her delicate grecian features wrinkling with disgust.
Her companion regarded her silently, and a little shiver of fear crept up Blaise's back. She wasn't quite sure what she was doing here; she only knew that she had received a telegram five days ago, bidding her to meet someone her tonight, and she'd felt a strange need to come. But the hooded figure who'd met her had only said enough to introduce himself as 'Piers'.
Blaise examined her fingernails, frowning. "Why is it that if you're the one who's got a message for me, I'm the only one talking?" she continued irritably. "I have places to be, you know."
Piers nodded. "I...have information for you." he said hesitantly. Or, she thought he was hesitant. It was hard to gauge someone's emotions when you couldn't see their face. "For your father..."
The raven haired girl froze. "My father is dead." she snapped. "Some informant you are."
She could have sworn he laughed. "I didn't know if the rumors were true."
"Gee. Not my problem." she glared at him menacingly. "So...the information? Or am I wasting my time here?"
"Not for me to decide." Piers replied airily. "Is it true that you are the last remaining Zabini?"
Blaise hesitated. "Yes..."
"Then you know the location of the Necrominicon."
She gasped sharply, fear flooding her. "Who are you?"
"You do, don't you?"
"I..." she paused."I know who has it..." Blaise frowned. "What do you know about it?"
Piers shifted uncomfortably and Blaise cast a quick look around the pub. Everyone appeared to be going about their business, but looks were usually deceiving.
"I know enough."
"Why did you call me here?" She tensed herself to make a break for it.
"I...uh..." Piers shifted again. "I can't tell you that."
"Can't or won't?" she said nastily, wishing fervently that she had bothered to pass her apparating test.
"I want you to disappear." Piers said abruptly. "I mean-"
Blaise took a sip of butterbeer, before she cut in, "You want me to disappear?"
"This portkey," he set a rusty tailpipe on the table, "will take you to an island off the coast of Ireland, where you'll be...safe."
"Safe from whom?" Blaise asked casually, chewing on her lower lip.
"I think it's best that you don't know."
Blaise leaned forward a little. "I just have one question." she said.
"I imagine you have more," Piers replied with an audible chuckle.
Blaise considered this. "You're right." she said. "But only one more to ask you."
Piers remained silent and she took that as acquiescence.
"Who sent you?"
Piers didn't reply right away. "N-no one sent me."
"No, who sent you?" her voice took on a threatening note. "Who wants The Necrominicon?"
Somewhere in the bar, a fight had broken out; no one was listening to their conversation. Two of the barmaids were trying to break up the fight, something that had to be entertaining to the 90% male population of the Hog's Head. The barmaids, however, seemed to be handling themselves nicely. Blaise didn't give pause to really watch the fight though, she had finally unnerved the hooded stranger, and she wasn't about to let the opportunity slip away.
"No one sent me." the stranger repeated. "Just go, won't you?" He prodded the tailpipe towards her. "Your pride won't do you much good if you're dead."
Blaise's eyes widened. "Who's going to kill me? Who wants the Necrominicon? If you really want to help; you've got to tell me...who sent you?"
"No one sent me." Piers repeated firmly. "But the one who has The Necrominicon is looking for you: Blaise Zabini. And if she finds you, you'll wish you'd never been born."
"Why is she looking for me?" Blaise demanded.
"You're the only one who can consummate the circle...the only one who knows the sacred places, and how to protect them or destroy them."
"The...circle?"
Piers laughed bitterly. "You don't understand, and you won't, not until..." he sighed. "Just GO!"
Blaise set her jaw. "No." she said firmly, slamming her hands on the table and rising to her feet. "I won't run from some cracked, posturing, weedy minion with an overdeveloped sense of authority!" Her voice rose several notches with every word and it wasn't until the last syllable had been uttered until she realized two things. The first was that the bar was completely silent. The second was that no one was looking at her, despite her outburst.
They were instead staring at a procession of robed figures, robes that in fact disturbingly resembled Piers', only way, way creepier. They were chanting something in a language Blaise didn't understand. A hand reached across the table and grabbed her wrist tightly. "Ow!" Blaise hissed, snatching her hand back angrily.
"Go!" Piers hissed at her. "Go now before it's too late!" there was an unspoken 'You mentally deficient bint' tacked onto the end. She opened her mouth to reply, but he dissaparated with a loud crack. The sound seemed to break the eerie spell that had fallen over the pub, and the sinister looking robes all looked at her at once. A tingle of apprehension shivered its way down her back. This was, for lack of a better word, bad. She glanced around the bar for other exits, but there was only the one, and creepy robe guys were advancing on her from every direction. Somewhere a clock was striking midnight. The witching hour, her terrified mind mused...her eyes traveled desperately over the mesmerized faces of the bar patrons, everything seemed to be moving in slow motion, and suddenly her eyes alighted on a face that was familiar, but she couldn't quite place it-- and the girl started screaming at her, "Pick up the portkey, stupid!"
Yes, the only option left was a wholly undesirable one. Blaise wasn't about to trust someone she'd only just met...who knew where she'd end up? Well, she knew where she'd end up if she stayed here...her hand shot out and snatched up the tailpipe, the last thing she saw before she felt the pull behind her navel was a knife flying through the air towards her head.
****
Blaise landed facedown on a beach--it was a sandy, rainy, misty stretch of land and she could see about a foot in front of her at a time. She had just scrambled to her feet when a tall, hooded figure appeared through the fog. Her heart jumped into her throat and she stumbled backwards gracelessly. "Why won't you people leave me alone!" she screamed as he closed in on her.
The figure laughed. It was a kind, soft, vaguely familiar laugh. Two aged hands reached up to push back the hood and Blaise found herself staring at the smiling face of Albus Dumbledore.
"Professor Dumbledore!" she breathed, relief coursing through her. "What are you doing here?"
Dumbledore didn't answer right away; he glanced down at his watch. "12:01 on the dot." he smiled. "You always were very punctual, Ms. Zabini."
Blaise frowned. "I don't understand...how did you know I'd be here?"
"You told me yourself." Dumbledore explained ineffectually. "Now, I suggest we continue this conversation in a warmer environment, perhaps my office?" He retrieved an old leather book out of his pocket. "And don't worry about your things; you've already had them sent up to the school."
____________________________________________________________________________ ______
"Interesting."
"More like 'disappointing', but suit yourself."
"Disappointing?"
"She's alive."
"I was under the impression that it was the other one that mattered."
"The circle remains intact, and that is what matters. Alone, they are insignificant. Together, they may pose a considerable threat."
"So how do you plan to break them?"
"Killing them, obviously, what do you think I was trying to do? Unfortunately, Zabini survived."
"Yes, how did that happen?"
"If you want the truth, my lord, I'm not entirely sure. Someone, or something interfered."
"So we go ahead as planned."
"For now."
"Is there anything else you're not telling me?"
"No, my lord." there was a pause. "May I ask...?"
"Yes?"
"Who is it, the one you've found? I'm just curious to know, I've been searching for her for so long..."
There was a slight, whispery chuckle and the low, musical voice replied. "She's... an old friend."
____________________________________________________________________________ ______
He was killing himself.
Not in the conventional way, but slowly he was doing the job all the same. The boy bestowed with the Malfoy name, and all that came with it-- ruthlessness, cruelty, power--was tired. He was so tired that sometimes breathing wore him down. The idea of waking up every day, only to see the darkness closing in around him frightened him more than anything ever had. But as he feared it, he also found himself embracing it. Embracing the idea that things were going to get worse, and that he would allow himself to slide into that dark night without a whisper of resistance.
It just didn't matter anymore.
Through the window of the carriage he could see the procession of black- winged thestrals, though that was a strange word to describe such morbid looking creatures, they were trundling up the hill towards Hogwarts.
Hogwarts itself rose majestically into the velvety night sky like a beacon of hope, of light, of eternal strength. In the dark you couldn't tell that half of the expansive lawns were scorched black. You almost couldn't see the gaping hole left where the astronomy tower had once been.
But his ability to appreciate things like safety and comfort had vanished with the rest of his emotions. Hogwarts was just another castle, just another place for the exceptionally stupid to get together to celebrate their victory over the dark lord. Another temple to worship bloody Potter.
Victory?
What did that mean now?
His taste for victory, his drive to win, to claim what should be his as a Malfoy...those feelings were gone too, taking with them the only sense of self he had ever possessed. Who was he? Not Draco Malfoy.
What, and who Draco Malfoy had been was gone, and in its place only fear and rage remained. Rage so deep and so consuming it was like another being inside him, writhing, whispering, lying in wait for the right moment to strike. And he chose his moments carefully...his moment of the week was Pansy Parkinson.
He couldn't bear to look in the mirror anymore...the only person who looked back was a man with too many demons. A man who cherished and nurtured the demons that were slowly but surely devouring everything that he had once recognized in himself.
Some sort of silky fabric brushed against his leg and his jaw clenched. "What?" he bit out angrily.
"Aren't you going to talk to me?" Pansy pouted in his ear.
Jerking his head away from the fingernails that scraped against the line of his jaw, he turned to glare menacingly at her. "Wasn't planning on it. Let's face it, darling, you're not the most gripping conversationalist."
Pansy pouted some more and leaned closer to him. "We don't have to talk."
He grimaced.
She changed tack. "You look sad." A pause. "Won't you let me make you feel better?"
He swallowed a nasty remark, then thought better of it. "If you really want to make me feel better, Pansy," she leaned forward eagerly. "I suggest you throw yourself into the nearest available lake." He smirked.
Her green eyes darkened, and she sniffed haughtily, making her look even more like a pug than usual, as she flounced into the seat across from him. "You're despicable, Draco," she said.
Despicable Draco, he mused. It had a nice ring to it.
The carriages rolled to a holt, and Pansy huffed out, running to join her other friends. Draco moved more slowly. He felt old. All his muscles ached and there was a throbbing pain building behind his left eye.
Weary eyes, eyes that were much older than the boy who owned them, scanned the faces of his classmates. They looked tired, too. Worn, beaten...and...hopeful. But none of them looked at him; none of them met his gaze. Their eyes slid over and around him as if he weren't there, and Draco...found he didn't care.
He had entered his own kind of darkness, something deeper than the legions of dim could hope to understand. It surrounded him, it dwelt in him, and he had embraced it.
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Next chapter: Luna Lovegood makes an appearance, as does Draco's Hair Gel, and the trio meet their new DADA professor...eeeeeek!