Foreign Bodies

There is a cant expression: there is always the black sheep in the family. There is another cant expression, as she knew Draco would say: there is always the rose amongst the thorns. She would never really know which she was, but that wasn't the matter. The matter was in her going off tangent from the rest of her family. The matter was her not loving the boy she ought to have loved.

In short, in another cant expression, the matter was with her.

First Year

"Strange, my dear, very strange..."

"Another Weasley, I see...but a difficult one. Much like the third, your older brother, but even more so - difficult."

The murmurs grew.

The small girl at the head of the room, fingers clutching the edges of her chair. Waiting.

"Innocent, yet with an ambition which would rival his...brilliance apparent, of course, but there have others with your potential...and others of his potential..."

"You want power, do you not, Miss Weasley?"

At eleven she did not yet grasp what power was.

She saw the bewilderment in her brothers' countenances, the growing doubt. Gnawing at her, and she wished suddenly, violently, that the Hat would decide - what was it talking about, she knew not, she did not want to guess at the implications, her eleven-year-old mind missing it in its lack of clarity.

' "Internal weakness, my dear...well, we know what they will do about that, since it has always been their failing...I'll say, Miss Virginia Weasley, that you should go to SLYTHERIN!"

A beat.

Weak applause, eloquent in its shock.

"Miss Weasley." A voice, McGonagall's.

Dumbly, numbly, she looked up. A vision of the professor's face swam in front of her, telescopic in quality. Surreal. It was too real.

SLYTHERIN.

Internal weakness.

You want power; do you not, Miss Weasley?

"Join your table, please, Miss Weasley." There was a tremor in the woman's voice, an unmistakable mixture of shock and disappointment and pity in her eyes. The lines of her face seemed to have deepened in the seconds that her own eyes had left them.

"Your table, Miss Weasley."

She felt herself sliding off the chair, still staring blindly at McGonagall.

"To the left, Miss Weasley."

A hundred pairs of eyes followed her as she stumbled towards the table.

A sneer; white-blonde hair framing a sharp, malevolently elfin face. Malfoy, she dimly recognized.

We know what they will do about that, since it has always been their failing...

"I see we've waited long enough for a Weasley with some substance."

~

It was cold and empty in her dormitory: she had been the only girl in her year.

"White, Seldon!"

"SLYTHERIN!"

"Wyck-Devereaux, Lane!"

"SLYTHERIN!"

"York, Byrne-Declan!"

"SLYTHERIN!"

The rest were all boys, all after her.

Accusatory glances from her brothers: outrage from the twins; disdain from Percy. But she didn't know what to do: her Head of House, Professor Snape, had sneered in a manner much akin to Malfoy, saying, "I am here for you to speak to, Miss Weasley, despite what you may have heard."

"There is quite a small number of you this year; I am quite sure there is enough of me to go around."

Each word had been empathic. Her skin had crawled.

We know what they will do about that, since it has always been their failing...

Ginny closed her eyes, her vision having been saturated by the dark green and silver of her surroundings: the silk sheets, gilded furniture, the velvet and the fabric-lined walls...

Why, Virginia, surely you wouldn't be disappointed if you were placed in Slytherin?

She had replied no, her script large and round and childish.

I am a Gryffindor, she had elaborated. My entire family's been in Gryffindor, Tom, for more than a hundred years - it would be unthinkable to be in Slytherin. Especially from what Ron and Fred and George say -

And Harry Potter is in Gryffindor.

She felt the tears burning against her lids.

"Weasley. Virginia Aisling Dearbhla Weasley. Irish roots aplenty, aren't we, Virginia?"

A sibilant voice from behind her, from the bed. Ginny's eyes flew open, and she spun around to find Malfoy lounging on the dark green of her bed, watching her with the sort of expression that he had previously reserved for Harry.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, voice sharp. She had not heard him enter.

Malfoy smiled, a wide, feline smile, but it did not reach his silver eyes, which were watchful, penetrating.

"Welcoming you, of course, sweet Virginia."

"How do you - "

"I have my ways." The smile was gone now, replaced by an expression that was hard, setting his smooth youthfulness into something else altogether. He started again, abruptly, "There is something wrong with you, isn't there, Virginia." The smile again. "There has to something wrong with you. There has to be. A girl from a family of blood-traitors never did get Sorted into Slytherin." He paused, eyes intent on hers, lips collapsing and curving into a smirk. "There is something wrong with you," he repeated, "And I will find out what it is that is wrong with you, Virginia."

Ginny stood frozen, as she watched the boy, not much taller than her, not much older than her, rise up and walk towards her.

"There is something wrong with you, and I will know what it is soon enough." He was directly in front of her now, and the silver eyes held some kind of excited, menacing glee in them. Then the lids shuttered as he blinked, and he turned away, stepping back. She breathed. "I'll be watching you, Virginia Weasley."

He is nothing; he is only a twelve-year-old boy, a brat, and a Death-Eater's son. A coward.

But she did not move.

She watched, speechless, as he sauntered out of her dormitory; watched the way he held his head in the proud, arrogant manner. The way his blond hair was almost as white as his skin, the way the dim lights bled into his pallor, giving it a ghastly, dark-shaded gold.

And then the door closed, and finally the tears came.

"There is something wrong with you."

~

Watching, she saw the way he and the black-haired second year boy reached for each other's ties with long fingers, tapered and white-tipped. Each boy expertly wound the green and silver material around the slim neck of the other's, in identical, crisp actions, both finished the knots, fastening and adjusting the other's, their arms interlinked.

"Draco Malfoy and Blaise Zabini." A boy's voice provided, abruptly. Ginny turned around quickly, only to face Lane Wyck-Devereaux, her fellow Slytherin first-year, at the threshold of the stairwell that led to the Slytherin Common Room. It was still early; other than her, Wyck-Devereaux and the two boys below, there was no one. Wyck-Devereaux was the same height as Ginny, and his sharp pale violet eyes were striking, as was his light gold hair, which reminded Ginny of angel's dust in that moment, then in the next moment she blushed, embarrassed by the childishness of her thoughts. She drew herself taller.

"Lane Wyck-Devereaux." The boy extended a hand, tapered and long and perfect like Malfoy and Zabini's had been. Mark of aristocracy, thought Ginny, only too aware of the slight throb of jealousy, as she saw how her small fingers were far from as delicate as his. His touch was cold, dry. Impersonal. He wasn't any eleven-year-old, eleven-year-olds did not have such hands; they had hands which were just a bit too dirty, and sweaty, and young. But she remembered Malfoy from the night before, and remembered how twelve-year-olds did not speak the way he had. "You are Virginia Weasley, I presume."

His accent was clipped, but there was a lilting tone behind it that made his diction sound almost musical. She nodded, afraid to speak, afraid of the croak that was sure to come in comparison to his.

"White and York are still in bed. Would you by any chance be on your way to the Hall, Virginia?"

"Um, yes, I would. And - and you can call me Ginny. That's what my family and friends call me, anyway." Then she stopped, uncertain; perhaps the boy did not want to make friends, perhaps it was all for politeness' sack.

A light smile graced the boy's face. In the pale fire from the Common Room he looked oddly beautiful, and with his archaic, formal manner Ginny couldn't help thinking that he was much older than she was. "And you can call me Lane, Ginny. Have you gotten your things ready? I hear our schedules will be given to us immediately afterward."

"Uh, yeah, my things are in my - satchel. I'm...carrying some of my books; my satchel's not nearly big enough."

The smile grew wider; Lane really was beautiful, she thought, feeling immensely awkward. "Would you like some help with them, Ginny?"

"No, it's alright, really," she quickly replied, blushing, flustered. Lane continued to smile, and, swinging his slim leather book bag he motioned for her to walk with him. Ginny, gratefully, rose to the occasion, happy to some extent regarding his seeming extension of friendliness.

But just as they passed by Malfoy and Zabini, Ginny saw, from her peripheral view, the sudden feral sneer on Malfoy's face as he watched her; the gothic pale of his skin and the abnormality of his silver eyes seeming all the more apparent. Then in a beat the sneer had diminished into disdainful detachment, mirroring Zabini's expression from next to him.

I'll be watching you, Virginia.

~

The weeks that passed on later, after that first night and morning, she could no longer remember, but she did remember that they had been bittersweet. Bitter with the fear of Malfoy - it was fear, prickling, intangible yet undeniable psychological fear, she knew now, but would never admit - and the backlash of being a Weasley in the Slytherin house. Bitter, too, with the sense that she was becoming further and further divorced from her family: there would be times when she looked to Ron or the twins or Percy and feel as if they could not see her at all, or would not. They treated her, when she did come to them, like a delicate object, caring about any form of maltreatment they thought she suffered to extravagance, asking too many questions, looking at her with eyes which were too concerned. Sweet with the company of Lane, who was beautiful, although he never spoke much; Ginny had always loved beautiful things. Always did, always would, always will. She loved how archaic he was, his beauty in his perfect choir boy's voice, his beauty in his established cheekbones, his beauty in his trained, measured walk, his beauty in the closure of his eyes, as he leant against her shoulder during one of Marcus Flint's tirades during dinner. The beauty in his keen intelligence, which he kept covered and well hidden from most, beneath the façade of impenetrable silence, betraying it only to her in his infrequent whispered words during classes.

(It was only much later that she figured out that Lane had spent their first year observing - his sharp understanding of the weaknesses of their schoolmates would later b apparent. But to elaborate upon that now would be jumping the gun. )

Bittersweet with the knowledge of Tom.

Then she had not yet known what he was, but even so, on hindsight, she could not say that she had not always suspected, at the back of her mind. But she had loved him, and adored him enough; even now she would look at herself, naked, in the mirror, feeling defiled, utterly aware that this was the body that Tom had once looked upon, even if it had changed, over the years. Once you had come to the point of knowing and understanding and perceiving there was no going back to the point where you were too young and too ignorant.

Tom, Tom, Tom.

She had loved the way he had called her.

Virginia. Not the way Draco had called it that year - not roughly, knowingly, but reverently. Beautifully. As if she were beautiful.

She supposed, that having come to the point where she had fallen she couldn't have possibly been completely mended back.

All the king's horses, and all the king's men...couldn't put Humpty-Dumpty together again.

But most bittersweet of all, more so even than Tom, even if she did not realize that either until much later, was Draco.

~

Every other night he would come, and promise her the same thing.

"I will find out what it is that is wrong with you, Virginia."

Sometimes he would appear in the same immaculate robes she had seen him in the first time - the all-black ensemble that he had worn in their first confrontation in Flourish & Blotts. One of the first times she had been aware of the divide between their families, and one of the first times she had been aware of the necessity and truth of her having to be in Gryffindor.

Sometimes he would appear in his Quidditch robes, in its resplendent green and silver, as October came and the Quidditch season drew close. Somehow he looked more human in his Quidditch uniform: less poised, less immaculate, and ironically, more grounded, held down by some kind of earthly weight. Even Ginny could see the light circles around his silver eyes on these days, and sometimes she could even think him beautiful, in a somewhat elfin way, as much as he would be intimidating her - beautiful because of those small evidences of weakness, of imperfection.

Of course she knew of the rivalry between him and Harry, and who usually had the upper hand. Somewhat detached, despite her emotional attachment to the Boy Who Lived and the natural blood alliance with her own family and Gryffindor, her being in Slytherin and being friends with the exotic but quiet, quick and soundly rational Lane afforded her to wonder why Malfoy would be jealous of Harry - in terms of intellect he was by far superior (Ginny had seen some of his graded parchments in the Common Room, and they were very much above average), considering that according to what she deduced Harry often had to depend on Hermione for help in assignments, along with Ron; in terms of financial wealth, although Ginny had been well-informed by Ron that Harry "had loads of money - his parents left him a ton in Gringotts, I reckon", she was certain Malfoy had a good deal more in terms of eventual inheritance. Even in terms of physical attributes Malfoy could easily sway the vote in contrast to Harry - when not smirking or sneering in his feral manner, his defined features were more becoming than Harry's best feature - his large brilliant green eyes - could ever hope to be.

But all these deductions also made her understand why Malfoy was jealous of Harry. Malfoy had all these advantages, but Harry was better known, more kindly looked upon, more praised, more honoured. Even with the talk of Harry being the Heir of Slytherin going about, it was evident that quite a few still looked to him, confident that, far from being the Heir of Slytherin, Harry was to be their saviour from the recent spree of Petrifications; that he could speak Parseltongue was just an extra added advantage - after all, hold your enemies closer, or "zhi ji zhi bi, bai zhan bai sheng, as Sunzi's Art of War says". She had heard that from a pretty Chinese Ravenclaw, a certain Cho Chang, as she and Lane had passed the Ravenclaw Quidditch Team who were on their way down for Quidditch practice one day. Later Lane would explain what Cho had said: know yourself and know your enemy, and you will win every battle you wage.

Malfoy had been a suitable candidate for the esteemed role of playing the Heir of Slytherin in Hogwarts' little drama, but he had been forgotten, no thanks to Harry's rather accidental display of his being a Parselmouth.

That whatever Harry did to ultimately get attention would always irk him, Ginny soon found out, because Harry always did do whatever he did accidentally. When he had defeated You-Know-Who, he had done so accidentally. When he had been discovered to be a natural at Quidditch, he had been doing so accidentally. When he had showed the world his gift of being a Parselmouth, he had also done so accidentally. Malfoy, who had been groomed and manicured into what he was all his life, who had planned and pruned everything he did, could not comprehend how Harry could possibly be famous and everything he wanted to be, in many ways, accidentally. It visibly pained him to think that someone who had been brought up in such contrasting conditions, with such limited advantages compared to his own, could succeed where he could not, and accidentally, at that.

And so he had joined Quidditch, to try to break Harry in that one tangible thing that he could try to succeed him in.

Ginny had seen both fly, in her strolls by the Quidditch Pitch to the Lake with Lane, or sometimes by herself, with Tom in her hand, in her mind. Again she could see the stark difference between the two.

Harry was wild and raw talent, pure natural instinct in the air. Watching him, you would think he revelled in it, as he pushed to higher altitudes, his scarlet and gold robes spreading in the wind beneath him. Not caring, not holding back, completely elemental, almost. Unaware of consequences. Innocent, in a way.

Malfoy was controlled talent, adulterated and tempered with, taught and corrected and enhanced and implemented. It was beautiful to watch him as well, only that you would always inexplicably hold your breath, somehow wishing that he would let go, strip off the baggage of control and cultivated style. It was stifling to watch him.

But in their flying styles, somehow, Ginny felt as if she could see both of their humanity, and in Malfoy's she could not help but feel pity.

And so, slowly, the fear of his visits seemed to slowly ebb away, and Ginny soon fell into the pattern of seeing him every other night, taking his words almost as if they were her mother's soft goodnights. And then she would fall asleep, with Tom's lulling voice in her ears, comforting.

Soon the Quidditch season had arrived.

She began to see the worry in Malfoy's face, his pallor increasing each time he saw Harry. The way he gripped the handle of his broom. The way he ate less. The way he talked less. The way he sometimes lapsed into unprecedented moments of silence in her own dorm, just as he had delivered his usual threat of finding out what was wrong with her. The way he somehow looked more like a boy, less like the son of a Death Eater, less like the future Death Eater he was deemed sure to become, less like the suspected Heir of Slytherin.

When the day itself arrived for the first match of Gryffindor versus Slytherin, she had seen the way he had shakily tied Zabini's green and silver tie, and looked as if Zabini had hung him as he returned the favour.

In that first game, he had lost.

Nobody else, Ginny suspected, had studied his facial expression just as Harry caught the Snitch as much as she did. She had seen the blind rage at Harry, the world, the Snitch, but most of all, the rage at himself. She had seen the immediate fall, the ton of bricks that had descended on him. She had seen, almost, the defeatist sagging of his shoulders, admitting to the inevitability of it all.

And so, in all the frenzy of the aftermath of the game, as he returned limping slightly from the infirmary, she had waited up in the Common Room for him.

"Malfoy."

He looked up, and Ginny was almost afraid of the bare emptiness, the own personal aftermath of his rage, which had followed. But in the next moment the old arrogance seemed to find some semblance of its position in his countenance, even though Ginny could see the obvious effort it took to do so.

"What? Ready to gloat, Virginia?"

"My House team lost, Malfoy; I wouldn't see why I would gloat about that." It was a steady answer.

For a beat Malfoy had an unreadable expression on his face, but it was only for an instant. Quickly, he retorted, "I'm not one for pity, Virginia. Save it for your darling Saint Potter, would you; after all, he is seriously injured, the poor, snivelling Boy Who Lived."

She could not say anything. Instead she walked up to him, and, in a gesture even she could not explain later, she hugged him.

Possibly it was a gesture influenced by her time in her Gryffindor-natured family. Possibly she really did feel pity. But she doubted that it was either.

Possibly it had been understanding.

She could register the shock in his muscles, which tensed immediately. But she could also later feel the gratitude in their relaxation, just a quick second before he pushed her away.

"I don't need your pity, you filthy imp."

He had stalked away, but Ginny knew that the fact was in that, for the first time since their first encounter within Hogwarts's walls, he had not ended his speech with an "I will find out what it is that is wrong with you, Virginia."

Later she would walk back to her dorm to sleep, a deep black sleep with vague dreams which were there but of which she could not remember, and the next morning it would spread like wildfire that Colin Creevey of Gryffindor had been Petrified.

She had begun to doubt, to suspect, when on her hands and her shoddy robes she had seen the flecked traces of blood. Frightened, she had remembered a line in a Muggle play which Bill had once talked about, and had convinced the family into going to, at the nearest big Muggle city - "Out, damned spot." Then she had laughed at Lady Macbeth's words, but now that she was in her position...she had refused to think of that, refused to believe. As far as her family line had been in existence, which was a good few centuries, they had been Gryffindors.

And then a little voice would remind her, maliciously, that a good few centuries was a long time, and who knew whose blood had came into the mix, and, anyway, she was in Slytherin.

And then there were the gaps of time that she could not remember.

"Ginny, it's almost time for dinner. Where have you been?" Lane would ask. She had retreated, starting to become afraid. Finally Lane had resorted to just staring at her, observing her, and all the more she had begun to distance herself from him, even placing herself with Byrne-Declan York and Seldon White instead, trying to purge herself of the fear and the feeling of unease with the company of people she did not care for.

Even Malfoy had begun to scare her again, for she began to finally believe his words, that there truly was something deeply wrong with her.

The Petrifications came after each of these gaps; the Petrifications came after each of these gaps after each time she had spoken to dear, sweet Tom, her constant companion, her confidante, her guiding light.

She had turned on him then, and tried to get rid of him. She could not afford to keep him, she was afraid, she had to be the turncoat, if Tom had turned on her and used her first, she had to lose him, she could not afford to lose so much, she could not comprehend what Tom wanted, she could not overcome his twisting, manipulative power -

And then one day she had woken up from a gap in Malfoy's arms, facing a stonewall along the corridor, tear streaks down her face.

"Quiet, Virginia, quiet." A vehement whisper, so vastly different from Malfoy's usual sneering voice.

She remembered she had looked stricken, then turned tail, disentangling herself from Malfoy, from his strange softness, running.

Later she would find Tom's diary, her diary, in the inner pocket of her robes. She must have tried to retrieve it back from Harry, and in his anger he must have overpowered her again, raping her mind and her soul.

Tom. It was all Tom's doing. It was Tom, Tom, Tom, Tom, Tom. All Tom.

That night, another gap had consumed her.

She had pitched forward, and then all was black.

"There is no need to struggle, sweet Virginia, gullible little Ginny. I have already won, just let me come out, let me, let me, let me..."

When she had awoken, this time, it was in Tom's haven, the Chamber of Secrets, and Tom, his beautiful face hovering over hers, had smiled. Black hair curling softly, framing his face, dark blue eyes wide and youthful, he had smiled, but she had known he was very far from friendly.

"Sweet Virginia. Looking for a constant? 'There is something wrong with you, Virginia.' He would have been your only constant, the silly boy, wouldn't he have been, Virginia?"

And then Tom had breathed, a soft breath, and struggling she had fallen again.

The next time she awoke was to Harry, who swiftly destroyed Tom.

Destroyed Tom, or at least outwardly destroyed him.

Sweet Virginia.

Later, when she had been tucked into bed in the infirmary, she would hear her father's explosive rant concerning Lucius Malfoy's involvement in the entire affair, and her heart would freeze over with the thought of how Draco Malfoy could possibly have know all along.

But unknown to the others, Draco Malfoy had turned up, somehow, at her bedside. No one else other than her parents, not even Lane, had been allowed entry to her. If she was not imagining things he was paler than ever before. Suddenly she wondered, behind her fear of him, how he had come to be holding her that night at the stonewall. He would have, by right, been in the Slytherin Common Room, with Blaise Zabini and Lane and Marcus Flint and all the other Slytherins.

"Don't come near me." She had heard her own voice, and was shocked by how weak and hoarse it was. The older boy did not seem to have noticed, however, and did not heed her words either: instead he walked closer to her bed, settling himself on a visitor's chair. Speechless with fear, she had watched him, unable to say anything more.

"I didn't know." They both knew what he meant. She stared him, weighing whether or not to believe him, wondering why she ought to.

"Why did you come?" she finally returned.

"I will find out what it is that is wrong with you, Virginia." He replied, mechanically.

Somehow the words made her see. Somehow they made her believe his innocence - if his ignorance could be counted as so.

And when he had finally left, the same way he must have somehow managed to come, she had somehow felt comforted.

A day later, when she had finally emerged from the infirmary, Lane had embraced her, not saying anything. And that had been enough.

~