The Missing Link

Ginny felt completely unrested as she sat in the common room on the morning after the ball. She had bathed, washed her hair and splashed her face with cold water yet her eyes still felt puffy and gritty from her tears and she still felt unclean. Instead of taking part in the many discussions on the happenings of the previous night, the Trio make-up being a hot topic, she sat on her favourite window seat, behind a curtain, and drew her knees against her chest so no one could see her.

It was a mark of Nat's understanding of Ginny that this was the first place she looked. Not wanting to make it obvious to the rest of Gryffindor house that Ginny had been hiding from them for at least the last half hour, Nat stole quietly up to the window, and so came upon Ginny before she had had the chance to compose herself.

Natalie had always prided herself on understanding her friends completely, and she was almost conceited about the fact that she could find Ginny when no one else could, and, more importantly, understand why she had hidden in the first place. Today, however, she was nonplussed. She knew, from Harry, that Ginny had pleaded a headache last night and left the party earlier, but when Ginny was ill she didn't normally hide away from her housemates. She liked to be petted, and made much of, presumably because this was the way Mrs. Weasley would have treated her at home, and she was not too shy to go to Madam Pomfrey for some medicine, should she think it necessary. That is, unless she had a cold! Nat thought back to the Pepper-Up Fiasco of their first year, and stifled a giggle. Ginny had sworn never to take that stuff again.

Thinking of their first year brought a worried frown to Nat's face. It was certainly true that during that disastrous time Ginny had acted quite similarly to the way she was acting now; very tired all the time; bad dreams; secretive; disappearing for hours without anyone knowing where she was. For a few moments, Nat bit her lip and felt seriously anxious. But back then no one had been able to find her for those missing periods whereas now, from the suspect bulge in the curtain of Ginny's favourite window seat, Nat knew exactly where she was.

Seeing Ginny's expression was something else though, and a bit of a shock to Nat. After the drama of her first year, Ginny seemed to have grown enormously in strength of character; in the next four years Nat had never seen her cry. But she was crying now. Slowly, so slowly, a tear was writing a transparent line of unhappiness down her left cheek. It reached her jaw line, and almost as though it was a relay race, another instantly began to scrawl its own message onto her skin. The weirdest thing about this strange emotional side to her friend, Nat realised, was that Ginny didn't seem to know it was happening. She was gazing out of the window, chin on knees, completely unheeding of the drops of moisture that were falling onto her t-shirt. Nat almost felt as though it wasn't Ginny at all, and that this was some private scene of grief that she had stumbled upon. Embarrassed to be peeping at her friend in this way, Nat took a step or two back, and then re-approached more loudly.

"Ginny, I'm coming in!" she said, and then climbed up onto the seat so that she was facing Ginny without looking at her once, which was quite an achievement. When she did finally glance up, Ginny was looking at her a little absent-mindedly, one hand wiping the tears off her face, almost without her noticing their existence still. Nat decided to go straight to the point.

"Alright. What's wrong?"

"What do you mean?" asked Ginny.

"What do I mean?" repeated Nat, feeling exasperated. "Well, here you are, having spent the Cinderella night of your life - except for having to listen to Sally for half an hour, which I know was torture because she did it to me too - and you aren't even smiling. You went to a ball with the guy most girls would give their right arms to go out with, in fabulous designer robes no less. You danced, you talking, you spent a certain amount of time looking romantically at the moon-" here Nat raised an eyebrow suggestively "-you were walked back to the dormitory in true cavalier fashion, and yet here you are, looking like a month of wet Sundays."

Ginny's expression had been getting more and more morose as the list had grown. Now she said sarcastically, "Well what did you expect? Want me to dance a jig on the cushions?"

Nat shrugged. "If it helps," she said, affably.

"Well it won't, so just drop it," replied Ginny.

Nat shrugged again, and drew her knees up too, so that the two girls looked like a pair of unemployed bookends. "I just thought you'd be happy."

Ginny sighed. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to snap at you. And I am happy, or I was." Nat looked sceptical. "Really, I'm fine. I just... I wish I could get a proper night's sleep."

Nat's worried frown returned. "You're still having bad dreams?"

"Off and on. They're not exactly bad dreams, mind, more just weird."

"Not like, you know, when... in first year-" Nat wasn't sure how to frame the question.

"No, nothing like that! I am allowed to just have normal bad dreams, you know," Ginny replied crossly.

Nat sighed. This was clearly not the morning for emotional confidences. I hope you bloody well have some sleep soon, too, she thought, as she moved to slide off the seat. I'd really rather keep my head, if it's all the same to you!

Out loud, she simply added, when she had stood up, "Oh, Gin, what happened to that comb I lent you? The antique silver one? Only I couldn't see it in the dormitory."

The moon disappearing behind a cloud... A boy moving behind her, pulling her hair free... A sneering, blond-haired face-

Ginny shook her head free of that enduring image and said, "Harry's got it. My hair fell out when we were outside."

Nat smiled a smile that said, "I bet it did." "Can you get it back for me soon, please? I always feel nervous if I don't have it under lock and key. You haven't met my mum - she really would kill me!"

Ginny smiled and nodded, and Nat walked away. Inside however, Ginny was quaking. Her plan of action had been to pretend that last night simply had not happened. Now the loss of Nat's comb was added to the terribleness of the ball night in general, and what was worse - she was going to have to go and find Malfoy and ask for it back. She pictured his pointed, heart-shaped face and his mocking laugh, and she felt suddenly as though she'd like to go and find him just to hex him unconscious. Then, without bidding, the feel of his lips against hers, and the way she had melted against him and into his kiss, sprang into her mind and she felt humiliated. Why was her subconscious reminding her of how much of a brazen hussy she was at a time like this? Get out, get out, get out, she thought angrily, and the memory of the night before was replaced once more by Malfoy's jeering little face. Ginny wasn't sure that on the whole that was much better.

Shit, she thought, and pulled the curtains shut again violently.

*

Dumbledore looked older. His face was greyer, and lined, like ancient unwashed linen, and his shoulders were more rounded: a strange spindly-looking Atlas, carrying the weight of the wizard world on his back. As he saw Harry approach, he drew up a chair out of thin air. Not a cushioned armchair, as usual though, this time it was serviceably wood and Harry knew then that this was not a casual conversation that could have waited. Dumbledore had news.

As soon as Harry had sat down, Dumbledore began. None of the accustomed preliminaries, and Harry was glad that the headmaster respected him enough to give it to him straight.

"Harry, I have received word about Lord Voldemort," Dumbledore said, looking down at his beard and speaking in a murmur. "As we expected he is moving, but not in the way I anticipated."

Harry frowned. "How do you mean, Professor?"

"He's building his armies up, of course, and believe you me they are quite enough to contend with as they are, but they don't seem to be his main focus, and this concerns me."

Harry felt a sense of foreboding. "In what way?"

"Well, Harry," said Dumbledore, steepling his fingers and looking over them at the dance-floor, "if you were Lord Voldemort, why would you not want as many creatures as you could command under your control?"

Harry thought hard. "I suppose, if I didn't need them."

"Precisely. And why would you not need them?"

Harry chewed his fingernails. "Errrm... well... if, err, if you were going to be more stealthy, maybe?"

"Marvellous, Harry. Yes, I think Lord Voldemort is trying to use more stealthy ways to get at what he wants. Luckily, we already know of one way that Voldemort has tried to be stealthy in the past, and my guess is that he will use it again."

Harry was lost. "What way is that, Professor?"

"The link between your scar and the one who gave it to you. My guess is that he is trying to open it up again, to gain access to your thoughts. I doubt very much that he will be as obvious as he was the last time he tried to interfere with your mind in this way, but forewarned is forearmed, and I want you to be careful. If you sense the slightest thing, come to me at once. And I would like you to begin some form of mental defence classes again."

Harry pulled a face. "Not with Snape, sir. That really didn't work!"

"Professor Snape, Harry, and no, not with him. I recognise now that some grudges go too deep to be over-looked." He paused to look over the assembled crowd below him, and then said, "I suppose you and your classmates have been wondering what I am about, not having a proper Defence against the Dark Arts teacher at a time like this?"

He looked enquiringly over his spectacles at Harry, who squirmed a little under his gaze. There had indeed been talk about the fact that, even in these uncertain times, there was no new professor to fill the empty chair at the High Table, and instead a rota of supply teachers had been taking the lessons, with varying degrees of success.

Dumbledore smiled, as though it was only to be expected and then continued, "Well, rest assured, our new professor is finally on her way. She should be with us by next week, and I will brief her to set aside an hour or two in the evening, twice a week, to teach you some blocking techniques, along with other spells. She is something of an expert in these matters."

"If you don't mind me asking, sir," replied Harry, feeling daring for even thinking this question, "what's taken her so long?"

Dumbledore nodded, as though this was another expected question. "Well, she had some unfinished business to attend to, and then of course she has had a long way to travel in these uncertain times."

"Where's she coming from?" asked Harry, interested.

"Australia," was the reply.

That scene had been running through Harry's head ever since the conversation had occurred the night before. He had to admit to an uneasy admiration of the way Dumbledore had dropped a bombshell into Harry's lap and then skilfully led the conversation onto much more mundane subjects. The information Harry needed to know had been told, and yet Harry had left the High Table reasonably happy. It was only when he was halfway across the room that it really began to sink in, and by the time he reached Ginny outside, the last thing he felt like doing was romancing her in the moonlight. He was actually quite relieved when she pleaded a headache. He needed to get away from everyone and clear his head.

The fact that he still hadn't told Hermione and Ron about the prophesy was preying on his conscience, but the longer he had left it the more impossible it had become to broach the subject. Harry couldn't just suddenly turn to them halfway through their Defence Against the Dark Arts reading and break the news that in all probability he'd be dead before they graduated Hogwarts, and that he'd known for several months and hadn't told them, especially after the ruckus he'd kicked up last summer about them withholding information. It wasn't that they would be pissed off; they would understand that Harry had been under a tremendous amount of pressure. It was more that both Ron and Hermione would be hurt that Harry hadn't allowed them to be there for him; and what was worse, Harry now wished that he had done so too. It had been a terrible burden, carrying this secret around with him and telling nobody, and Harry now thought that if he had shared the prophecy sooner, then he might have emerged from his awesome summertime depression more quickly.

However, the decision of whether or not to tell his two best friends had now been taken firmly out of his hands. It was no longer safe to delay. If Voldemort was going to try and mess with Harry's mind again, the people closest to him needed to know to keep their eyes open for anything suspicious in Harry, or the way he was acting, in case he was somehow prevented from noticing himself. But that probably meant Ginny should know too. What a thing to dump on someone you'd been on one date with: Hi, I really like you but I think you should know I have to save the world, and I'll probably die in the attempt. Taxi for one.

Of course, Ginny wasn't just some random girl Harry quite liked the look of, and she knew that things often got very dodgy for him, but she didn't know half of what Ron and Hermione knew, and Harry had a horrible suspicion that even Hermione might cry on him again. Also, there was the fact that Ginny had run off so suddenly last night. At the time he hadn't questioned it too much because he was glad to get some time to himself, but as he had been getting undressed in his dormitory, he was almost certain that such a sudden change of heart wasn't usual. Something else to talk to the other two about, perhaps. Or maybe just Hermione.

Only now as he came out of his reverie did he realise it was raining. Sat on one of the benches set to one side of the castle, great drops of water plastered his hair to his head and ran down his cheeks to drip from his jaw-line without Harry even noticing. Swearing under his breath, he got up and ran inside. His robes were soaked and he felt as though he was carrying an extra person. As he clambered up the stairs he could feel his pace getting slower and slower, until when he finally reached the common room, he wanted to do nothing more than collapse in a heap in front of the fire, lapse into a coma, and not wake up till Ron and Hermione had heard it all from someone else. The likelihood of this happening was severely diminished when, as Harry climbed through the portrait hole, he saw Ron and Hermione sat by the fire. Ron waved heartily, as though to show that they were definitely friends again, and Harry made his way over to join them.

As he flopped down onto the hearthrug, in a desperate attempt to make his dream come even partly true, Hermione tutted and pulled out her wand.

"Oh, Harry!" she scolded, beginning to dry his hair and robes with wafts of warm air from her wand. "Why on earth didn't you dry yourself off in the entrance hall instead of traipsing all the way through the castle soaking wet? You'll catch a stinking cold."

Harry shrugged. "I didn't have my wand with me. I wanted to think."

Hermione stopped waving her wand around agitatedly, and asked, "Think? About what?"

Harry noticed Ron paying a great deal more, albeit understated, attention. Harry knew that they liked to think that they were always in the know when it came to Harry. If he was moody, or snappy, or unusually quiet or cheery, they thought they knew why. He guessed that after the clearing-up of the argument last night, and the seemingly successful date with Ginny, they had expected him to be smiling and happy. A sopping-wet Harry who had clearly been sitting mindlessly in the rain for the last half-hour was not on the agenda. Hermione's forehead crinkled, Ron's eye's became shadowed with lines and Harry had a split second in which he felt a terrible grief for being responsible for this premature aging of his best friends. All of the near-death experiences they had suffered over the last five years were due to Harry and his actions, and although he knew that the pair of them would kill him if they knew what he was thinking, he grasped at an inopportune moment to wallow selfishly in his own guilt.

The creases around Ron's eyes eased for a moment, as he said, "Harry, we know you better than you think. Stop wallowing in guilt over things you couldn't've stopped us doing if you tried, and tell us what's going on."

Harry smiled. That's my cue. It couldn't have been move perfect if it had been scrawled onto a card being held up by a sound engineer. He took a deep breath, and his smile faded.

"Look, there's...err... something I haven't told you guys," he said, haltingly.

Hermione glanced at Ron, confused. Harry couldn't resist the flash of conceited satisfaction at being proved right. You know me so well, do you? Then how did you not see this hanging over me for the past few months?

She spoke carefully. "What is it, Harry?"

He looked up and his eyes met hers. Steady, unwavering brown. He looked across at Ron. Steady, unwavering blue. Harry wondered what he had done to deserve friends like these. The Trio, the kids called them; a triangle of friendship. Triangles were strong. Major religions were constructed around them; wars had been fought, by extension, over them. He hoped he was right in thinking that nothing to break theirs.

Another deep breath. Once he began, there would be no stopping. He could still back out; blub a bit about Sirius and then escape to his bed. For a moment he was tempted, but then he gritted his teeth. He'd done enough hiding in dark places with the Dursleys, and inside himself. It was time to grow up. Deep breath. Don't blurt it out, speak clearly, concisely. Clearly, concisely, he told them about the prophecy, staring into the fire the entire time, letting the flames imprint themselves onto his cornea, so that his friends' shock and horror and panic couldn't.

After he finished, there was quiet in their corner for a few seconds. Then, tentatively, Ron said, "Harry?"

Harry looked up. "You guys alright?"

"Are we alright? Harry, mate, this isn't about us. Are you alright?"

Harry shrugged. "I dunno. I mean, I've had a while to get used to it, but mostly that's just meant blocking it out. Voldemort's the Darkest, most powerful wizard in the world. How am I supposed to kill him?"

A small hand came to rest on his shoulder, and Hermione slid down onto the rug beside him. "Harry, Voldemort may be the Darkest, but that doesn't make him the best. Dumbledore has always terrified him, and one day, you will too. I told you once you were a great wizard, Harry. You are."

When he turned to look at her, Harry saw that her eyes were glistening. She smiled at him, and leant her head on his shoulder. He patted her hair awkwardly. It was all very flattering, but also not true. He'd been thinking about it all summer, and he knew there was no way he could beat Voldemort in a fair fight.

"Hermione, that's a really nice thing to say, but I seem to remember telling you once that you were much better than me, and you are. I'm not a great wizard. I'm not Dumbledore, and I don't think I ever can be anything like him."

A taller, thinner, more gangly person slid onto the carpet on Harry's other side, and a larger hand gave Harry a brotherly thump on the shoulder. In a voice a bit muffled with unmanly emotion that he was trying desperately to hide, Ron said,

" 'Course you're nothing like him! He's always on his tod, isn't he? You've got us."

Harry suddenly moved away from them both. "No. There's no way you two are coming with me."

When they began to protest, Harry burst out, "Look, there's no way I'm gonna win, right? If I go up against Voldemort, I'm going to die, simple as, and I can't have your deaths on my hands too. I've got you in enough shit in the past as it is."

"But Harry, mate, you didn't drag us along - it was our own choice-"

"Yeah, I know, but I'm telling you now that you're not choosing death because Trelawney actually predicted my death right for a change!"

As the two boys looked angrily at each other, Hermione looked up and said quietly, "Harry, you said to us once before that there was time to turn back if we wanted to. We've had time, haven't we?"

Ron nodded. "We're with you, whatever happens."

Harry looked from one dead-set face to the other, and knew suddenly that there was nothing he could say to dissuade them. If he left, they would follow him, and, knowing Hermione, probably catch up with him within the hour. Three corners of the triangle. Would it prove as strong as he'd always believed it to be? Hermione and Ron were still looking at him expectantly, anxiously, ready to fight their corner, and a thought flashed through Harry's mind: How did I ever think I'd be able to manage without them?

He sighed, and nodded, and then the three of them began to talk about the information Dumbledore had given Harry the previous night. To the other Gryffindors, they looked just like always; the Trio, black, brown and red heads bent together, earnestly discussing something. For all they knew, it might be the next Hogsmeade visit; it might be the next way they were going to save the world. Ginny had often thought how funny it was that they looked just like everyone else, yet stood out like sore thumbs. Fred, George and Angelina had never looked like that, when they had bent over the same table, discussing Quidditch tactics.

She could have told Harry herself, if he had asked her, that the Trio was definitely a force to be reckoned with.

*

Draco hated unfinished business. It cast a pall over everything, like a shade half-a-step behind you that repeatedly tapped you on the shoulder when you weren't expecting it. Ginny was quite definitely unfinished business.

He hated himself for it too, almost as much as he couldn't quite make himself hate her. She was a Weasley for heaven's sake, no better than the village girls he'd rolled around in haystacks with back home and he couldn't remember a single one of their names. He searched his memory - Rebecca?... No. Marie? Nope, not one, and several of them had been uncommonly pretty. What was it about this one insignificant brat of the Weasley brood that he just couldn't get out from under his skin?

He tried to look at her objectively. Her skin was all right; her eyes, nondescript; her hair was ... red, best to brush over that; her figure, developing but nothing special. Then he recalled the feel of that figure in his arms, and the silkiness of that hair running through his fingers and he gave a sigh of frustration that made the first year sat nearby jump a little in his chair.

It was impossible, he realised, for him to look at her objectively. He had only two pairs of eyes for her, and he couldn't combine them. She was either a Weasley blood-traitor, according to his parents' doctrine and the rules he had been brought up on, or she was a gorgeous girl who was making him go out of his mind. There was no middle route; no way he could play the disinterested bystander. And the kiss that was supposed to have made that happen seemed only to have intensified an already unenviable position. She would spring into his mind at the most inopportune moments, and even the most mundane things seemed to remind him of her.

Sat by the fireplace in the Slytherin common room, it occurred to him now how much the flames must resemble her hair if she were floating in a lake or river; the strands would spread out from her, spiralling and curling into a flaming aureole. A modern day Ophelia, more spirited and so more worthy of mourning... That was when he knew that he had to get out.

His rising suddenly caused the first year boy to gasp again, and Malfoy snarled, "Maybe you can grow a spine in detention," at him as he swept past.

When the boy looked up teary-eyed, Draco felt as though his last nerve had been grated on. A startling thought made him wonder if this is what had made Snape the man he was today. God help Draco if it was.

Once out of the door, Draco had no clear idea of where he was going to go. Outside it had been raining since breakfast, and showed no obvious signs of letting up before June, which made a walk around the lake less than tempting. Pansy and a few of her cronies were in the library, writing overdue essays. Draco had declined the invitation to go along because he'd already written his and he hated doing work that others took the credit from. The fact that Pansy had been almost literally hanging from his neck when she'd asked him hadn't warmed him up to the idea. No, the library was a no go. The Owlery? What for? The Potions dungeon? Boring, and he was ahead of the others already anyway. He allowed himself a smirk. Being ahead of Potter wasn't exactly hard.

Thinking of Potter led unavoidably to thinking of Ginny and almost automatically Draco turned left and headed for the unused classroom where they had had their unplanned midnight rendezvous.

When Draco had returned to his room the night before and thrown off his robes in a fit of disgust, he hadn't noticed the tinny rattle they made when they hit the floor. This morning when he had woken up, however, he saw that the house-elves had been and gone, taking the dirty robes with them, but had left a slightly dented silver hair-comb on his desk. For a moment he couldn't think where it had come from, but then he had recollected the moon disappearing behind a cloud... a girl gazing out over the water her hair so tightly bound his hands ached to pull it free... a red, angry face framed so fittingly with unkempt russet curls.

He had thought that he never wanted to see her again, or speak to her again. This bewitchment only seemed to grow stronger with every meeting. Now, however, as he crossed the entrance hall and entered the classroom, he felt the weight of that comb sitting heavily in the pocket of his school robes, and just the knowledge that she would have to come and find him made him grin satisfactorily to himself. He took the comb out and held it, tracing the filigree decorating it with his fingers. His mother had several pieces similar to it at home and he was wondering where on earth the Weasleys had found the money to buy one when he heard a small cough, and an icy little voice said, "Excuse me. I believe that's mine."

*

Ginny hated the fact that she had to go looking for Malfoy. She felt that it would have been a much better reaction to his behaviour never to speak to him or even acknowledge him again. Instead of which, she had to seek him out and persuade him to give back a very costly piece of jewellery. She sighed loudly. Where had she gone wrong? Vicky Frobisher never had to contend with anything like this. She pootled along, went to Charms Club every Wednesday and, by the looks of things, never did anything more exciting than find a half-cooked piece of potato in her hot-pot.

Ginny couldn't even think of where to find him. She had no idea where the Slytherin common room was, and even if she had been willing to ask Harry or Ron - which she wasn't - she didn't like the idea of hanging around outside waiting for him to emerge or return for hours, like a disobedient dog that had come back with its tail between its legs. She knew from Ron and Harry's moaning that for all his snide behaviour he was ahead of them with his class work even now that they were at NEWT level, so he wasn't likely to be in the library. Plus, Hermione has just come back to the common room in a huff because Pansy and her crew were making so much noise up there. No, if Pansy was there, Malfoy definitely wasn't.

Where else was there? It was pouring with rain outside, so Mr Perfect Hair wasn't likely to be wandering round the lake, and in this weather the Owlery was miserably cold and dank. In all probability he was snug in his common room, but Ginny couldn't bear to continue to sit in hers with her heart in her mouth, sure that at any moment Nat would come back and ask Harry herself. Then the whole sorry story would have to come out.

Ginny had learned the art of not being noticed by her housemates in the more uncertain times of her youth. Very quietly she slipped out of her seat and left the common room, looking neither right nor left. None of the people that she passed seemed to see her, but from her vantage point in the corner by the fire, Hermione looked up from her conversation with Ron and frowned.

Continuing down the staircases silently in stocking-ed feet, Ginny wasn't really sure where she was going. It wasn't until she reached the entrance hall and saw the classroom door ajar on her right-hand side that she remembered the midnight meeting. Stealing over to the room, she pushed the door open slowly and watched as Malfoy pulled the comb from his pocket and began running his fingers over the decoration. He seemed captivated by it, and Ginny was worried that he had set his mind to keeping it, so she cleared her throat and then said, "Excuse me. I believe that's mine."

Malfoy turned around slowly, and his fingers closed around the comb. Ginny sighed internally. Oh no, he's going to be all soddy. I'm too tired for this! She held out her hand. "Can I have it back, please?"

Malfoy smiled, but Ginny wasn't encouraged.

"No," he said.

Ginny sighed out loud now. "Why not?"

Malfoy shrugged. "You've got something of mine. Now I've got something of yours."

Ginny was nonplussed. "Something of yours? What have I got of yours?" She half-winced as she thought, Please don't say something really cheesy, like my heart - Wait. Where did that come from? I don't bloody well have anybody's heart...

Malfoy was grinning now as though he knew what she was thinking. "My robes, Weasley. Purple, sparkly, worth more than your life... You remember?"

Ginny nodded. Definitely do NOT have his heart. Knob.

"I didn't ask for those robes, you know," she replied, "and frankly, I thought it was a bit creepy for you to send them to me in the first place, so you're welcome to them. Give them to Pansy - from what I hear she'd be much more receptive to your advances!"

She held out her hand. Malfoy ignored it. Instead, he played with the ornament as he spoke. "Well, you see, those robes have been tainted. They're second-hand, and they aren't worth half as much, so I'll keep this to make it up."

"But you gave them to me," Ginny cried, exasperated. "I didn't ask for them, and I certainly didn't want them!" She was horrified to feel tears prickling beneath her lids and she blinked several times quickly to clear them away.

"My, but you've lost your cool quickly tonight," Malfoy continued, moving closer. "And your eyes are all puffy, and dark. You're still not sleeping?"

Ginny backed away. "Good God, if you start coming over all concerned I think I'll scream. What's it to you if I'm sleeping or not? I just want Natalie's comb back so I can go back upstairs."

Malfoy raised his eyebrows. "Natalie's comb? Well, weren't we just a little moorhen borrowing the peacock's tail-feathers last night? So nothing you were wearing was yours? We should all have reclaimed our property - now that would've been worth seeing!" He mock-leered at Ginny and she backed away further, until she hit a wall.

Shit, she thought, this is really not going to plan. Is Malfoy really flirting with me? I must be imagining things. I really need some sleep. She rubbed her hand over her eyes, and then repeated tiredly, "Malfoy. Can I please have Nat's comb back?"

Malfoy shrugged then said affably, "Alright then. Seen as it's not yours."

Ginny looked at him disbelievingly, then quickly snatched it out of his open hand before he could change his mind. She was just turning to leave the room, when he spoke again.

"Of course, now that you've got the comb, there's the question of recompense." Seeing Ginny's blank face, he added, "That means 'payback'."

"I know what it means," Ginny snapped back. "I was registering disbelief."

"Oh, right. Maybe you should make that clearer next time."

"I'll try," she said, following his lead into the weird twilight zone of almost-friendly banter between sworn enemies. " What "recompense" were you thinking of?"

Malfoy shrugged. "I hadn't really thought that far ahead to be honest. Something embarrassing more than likely."

Ginny snorted. "And what makes you think I'd do it? I've got what I want."

Malfoy cocked an eyebrow. "Have you now? I mean, clearly you've got the comb, but there's still damage I could do... if I were that way inclined."

Ginny looked confused. "What, to the comb?" She moved to hide it behind her back.

Malfoy laughed. "Why would I want to hurt the comb, a thing of beauty? You, however..."

"Thanks for the compliment," Ginny muttered. She felt better now they were back on the pre-tested ground of verbal abuse. "And I'm intrigued. How could you hurt me?"

"Well," said Malfoy, rocking back on his heels, "it's more hurting you through someone else. Say, the beloved Mr. P?"

"Harry? How..." Ginny got a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. "You bastard, you wouldn't!"

Malfoy laughed out loud. "Of course I would! Back-handed manipulation is my forte."

"Cack-handed, more like," Ginny replied, but her heart wasn't in it. If Malfoy told Harry what had happened at the ball, he'd never forgive her. It didn't matter that it hadn't been her fault; Harry was too used to people hurting him and letting him down. He'd accept that far more easily than the idea that Ginny really did care about him.

As that last thought passed through her mind, Ginny felt as though a cloud had cleared. All this time she had been pondering over how she felt about Harry and it had been there hibernating, just waiting for Ginny to drag it to the surface. She did care about Harry, she did, even after all this time. She felt as though her troubles had turned to champagne inside her and she longed to find Harry and pet him, and hold him, and kiss him as Malfoy had kissed her last night.

That last thought turned the bubbly flat, and she stepped close to Malfoy, hissing into his face, "If you so much as breathe a word to Harry about what happened last night, I swear down I'll cry rape and violation to the Minister for Magic. And then I won't have to do anything, because my brothers will come looking for you. And then they'll kill you. By hand."

Malfoy flushed a little, but then seemed to remember that he was supposed to be doing the intimidating. Stepping forward too, so that Ginny was forced to strain her neck upwards to look at him, he said, "Don't bother trying to intimidate me. Remember who my father is, and then remember that I've had a lot worse than that. You will do what I tell you to do, or Harry finds out and then he'll never look at you again the way he was looking at you last night. We both know that's the truth. And unfortunate as it is that the world will be deprived your hybrid offspring, I'm sure the world will cope." He smiled a lipless smile, and Ginny gave him a look of absolute loathing before turning on her heel and marching out of the door.

Draco remained behind in the room. He had watched her face after he had threatened to tell Harry about the night before. He had seen the slight flush come over her cheeks, the sparkle come back into her eyes and the almost imperceptible change in her posture as though a weight had been lifted and he realised he had made a terribly mistake, too late to correct it. He might as well have unleashed an acromantula to chase her into Harry's arms, because the result had been the same. He didn't really mean to tell Harry what had happened, because that would damage Malfoy's own image as much as it would hurt Ginny. If his father heard about it, it would probably end up hurting Draco more. Ginny was a clever girl; she'd figure that out. He just had to use this weapon he had as much as possible before that epiphany occurred. So why couldn't he bear the idea of using it at all?

He stood stock still for several minutes before suddenly swearing so loudly that a first year Slytherin boy passing outside jumped wildly for the third time that day.

*

Marietta had often thought that Cho looked just like a cat. Not one of those fattening, overfed suburban cats that sprawled on hearthrugs or patches of sunlight and allowed songbirds to come and go unheeded. No, Cho reminded Marietta of one of her grandmother's Siamese cats. The one that ate the canary.

It was something about the sleek shininess of her hair, her slim athletic build and the way she would appear late at night in the Ravenclaw common room, wrapped in an old towelling bath robe, and curl up on an armchair, hugging her knees to her chest and looking pensively at the rows of books that lined the walls. It was part of her all-absorbing act: the seeming vulnerability, the toss of her hair, the way her voice lowered to a purr when something went her way. Marietta had always willingly recognised herself as being generally vindictive and underhanded, but Cho was a queen in the art of manipulation; nothing and nobody got in her way.

This was why, when Cho appeared on the night after the ball, hair tied up and still clothed, Marietta knew something was going on. Cho's face was scrubbed bare; her eyes clean of the kohl that usually emphasised her lost kitten demeanour, her pout lacking its customary twelve-carat sparkle. Cho only dressed like this when she wanted to blend in. And that meant one of two things: confidences, or plotting.

Silently, she slid into a seat next to Marietta on a sofa as far away from the centre of attention as it was possible to be. This had become Marietta's chosen seat. Being deliberately ignored was infinitely preferable to feeling cold eyes upon you, and hearing the comments that the speaker couldn't be bothered to whisper. Marietta was very much aware of all of her classmates' opinions of her, and it was easier all round if she just kept to herself. There were other positives to encouraging the trip to Coventry that the Ravenclaws had sent her on, mainly that a natural progression from deliberately ignoring someone was to cease to notice them at all. Marietta sometimes felt that she could climb onto her desk in Transfiguration and do the can-can naked and nobody would bat an eyelid. And that was a useful trick to have up your sleeve.

Cho glanced around carefully under lowered lids to make sure nobody was within hearing distance. She noted that Loony Lovegood was sitting only a short way away, but she hardly counted; everyone knew that Luna lived in a world of her own, inhabited by Crumple Horned Snorkacks and (here she allowed herself a small, internal giggle) Nargles.

Satisfied, she turned back to Marietta and said, in a harsh tone of voice, "Who does that Ginny Weasley think she is? What is she doing, going to the Ball with my boyfriend?"

Marietta fought a difficult but silent battle against the sarcastic retort that was making a desperate bid for freedom through her lips. Your boyfriend? You went on one date, cried all over him, fell out with him and didn't speak to him for the last two months of term. That is not a boyfriend. And what was Michael Corner...a figment of your imagination, or mine?

Cho was continuing; Marietta hastened to catch up with what she was saying.

"...I mean, I know I went out with Michael, but really he was just a rebound guy. It was never going to be anything serious - just a bit of fun. It was always Harry..."

Try telling that to Michael, Marietta thought bitterly, but not without a hint of triumph. He was one of the most voluble of the ex-DA members in her house. He had also apparently been inconsolable for weeks after Cho broke up with him. Poor Michael.

"...She thinks she's so great. Just because she went to the Ball with Harry. As if he would've gone with her if I'd asked him. He would've dropped her like a shot. Three year obsessive crushes die hard-"

But true love with blond, handsome Quidditch players and Hogwarts champions dies easier, thought Marietta maliciously.

"...I bet he just felt guilty, what with his fight with Ron, and the fact that her parents do so much for him-"

Marietta felt that this was getting a bit out of hand. Amusing as it was, once given a free rein Cho could happily rant on for hours. It was important to head her off early on, so she interrupted her friend's flow-of-consciousness rant to ask,

"Yes, but what are you going to do about it?"

Cho smiled slowly, revealing small, slightly pointed teeth, and even without her make-up she appeared more feline than ever before.

"We are going to get our own back. Harry'll never go near her again by the time we're through with her... and guess whose shoulder he'll be crying on?"

Marietta pondered this. While she had no great love of Cho and had no overwhelming desire to see her gain what she thought would bring her happiness, at the same time her plan had the spicy, aromatic flavour of appeal. It was clear to Marietta that Harry was happier with Ginny than he had been in a very long time, if not ever. She fingered the shallow craters on her face and felt her deep-seated grudge resurface. If she couldn't get Hermione back in person - yet - then she could do the next best thing. She could strike at the heart of the precious DA, and at the heart of its precious, thrice-beloved leader, Harry Potter.

There was a mysterious camaraderie between the central figures of the Dunces' Army. Of course, the Trio plus Ginny had always been key, but what had happened which had led Neville and Loony on to the centre-stage had never been adequately explained. Splitting Harry and Ginny though, would rupture the DA irreparably, and the Trio with it. Then only a personal attack on the bushy-haired busybody would be required to make her revenge complete.

All of this ran through Marietta's mind in a few seconds, then she turned a chillingly beatific smile on Cho, teeth pearly-white but grin flint-hard and splintered, and said, "I'm in."

The other girl smiled too, and Marietta registered with a flash of surprise that Cho's grin was a perfect reflection of her own. Maybe they were better matched as friends than she thought. Then with barely any movement except to uncross and re-cross her legs a different way and to slightly rearrange her arms, Cho's catty demeanour melted away and she began to talk of her plans for her hair.

*

Having sat near to Cho and Marietta for their whole conversation without their taking any notice of her, Luna reflected on the strangeness of people's perceptions of each other. Cho, because she could be so pretty sometimes, and attract so much attention with a well-chosen mini-skirt and a splash of perfume, presumed that by scraping back her hair and removing her make-up, she could become to all the more ordinary people exactly what they were to her; nothing.

Marietta knew that ignoring her to the point at play-acting her none-existence meant that most people had reached a point where they no longer noticed her, and she exploited this to her own advantage.

Both of them, and most of the rest of her fellow Ravenclaws, saw Luna as living so much in a world of her own that she didn't really count in reality, and therefore, even if she was within hearing distance, she was overlooked without a second thought. Luna smiled to herself. A consequence of being mostly on your own is an enhanced skill in watching others. Honed by long summers spent on bird- and beast-watching with her father, Luna knew that as wrong as everyone else's perceptions of her were, her own ideas about Cho and Marietta were very accurate.

It had been guessed by a select few, Hermione and Ginny among them, that Luna was harbouring burgeoning feelings towards Harry. Anyone who noticed her was worthy of attention, as far as Luna was concerned, but something about Harry's reckless courage reminded her if what she had most admired in her mother and after he offered to help look for her missing belongings, Luna had spent a happy, lonely holiday in the new term of her own imaginings, weaving the blowsy pink roses that waved and nodded outside her bedroom window into her hair.

She had never expected, really, anything more that the brief nods of recognition Harry gave her as he passed her. His grief was still too strong, if sunken, and she was a too tangible reminder of it, in a way that the others who had been in the Department of Mysteries, but who he had known long before, were not. For better or worse, he had come to associate her with his godfather's death, but if it meant that he would stand by his other friends and find some kind of happiness, Luna was happy to bear that burden.

She was not willing to sit silently by, however, while her housemates shot down his dreams. Luna had seen enough of Harry and Ginny together to know that he was as happy with Ginny as she had ever seen him, though she wasn't as yet entirely sure of Ginny's feelings towards him. Still, she would not allow him to lose that if she could prevent it.

Luna sat still and watched until Cho and Marietta became sufficiently embroiled in their rather one-sided conversation, then stood, walked calmly across to the common room door, and left.

Neither Cho nor Marietta saw her go.

*

This time Ginny didn't feel lost; she felt found. All around her was a blinding whiteness, surgical steel fresh, sparkling and cold; a strange over-compensatory brightness that was trying to hide a fact that she could not escape. A lack of darkness did not equal a lack of fear. She might have been found, but she was the only one who had been. She was alone.

Through the stark cleanliness of her surroundings came flashes of darkness, which were all the more comforting in their familiarity. As far as Ginny was concerned, darkness in dreams was to be expected; dazzling whiteness was something else.

Yet she almost regretted the sullying of that blanket blankness, like the deliberate trickling of coal dust onto a wedding dress. There was something unavoidable about it though, as if the white had always been dark really, in hidden secret places.

The dark spots were somehow compelling and Ginny found herself being drawn towards them, almost against her will. What was it the white was trying to hide, deep in the night time of forgotten dreams?

No five second flashes, it ran like a newsreel, playing out in front of her what she least wanted to see. A gigantic snake, a cruel high-pitched voice, a scream and a wail and a boy with a sword. Ginny recoiled, gasping and trying to see anything but the blackness that was now right in front of her face. She expected it to recede, to dissolve back into the secret corners of the white, but instead it became like ink and sent smoky tendrils out across the blankness, spiralling and twisting around and around her, forming symbols that seemed to emanate ill will. It appeared to be out of control and yet it conformed to some predestined pattern as it closed in around her, dousing her hair and blanching her skin until her face was running with sepia tears and written across with clear-to-see fears.

The darkness returned and sucked her into its depths and although she was lost again, in another way, she was home.

Ginny's eyes snapped open and she sucked in a huge, shuddering breath. Reaching blindly for her wand she muttered "Lumos," and almost cried with relief when her bed curtains glowed scarlet five inches from her face. She'd been afraid that she wouldn't ever see colour again.

Neatening her bedclothes which had twisted uncomfortably around her legs, she turned over onto her side, half-ashamed for leaving her wand lit and already concocting an explanation involving cocoa and some boring Defence Against the Dark Arts reading they'd been assigned, when her cheek encountered something cold and wet. Swearing under her breath that if Fred and George had slipped something into her bed then telling Mum wouldn't be the half of what she would do for revenge, she sat up once more and aimed the beam of light from her wand towards her pillow.

Several spots of darkness swallowed any of the light Ginny shone on them. Dabbing at them gently she examined her fingers and then sniffed at them.

Ink, she thought. That's odd.

Casting around for some kind of explanation, she glanced at the shelf by the side of her bed. A couple of books had been knocked over and her birthday necklace was hanging on by a thread. Leaning over to pull it back, she spied the tip of a quill protruding from underneath her bed. She thought back to the previous night. I don't remember having a quill with me, she thought, but that's the only explanation.

Still half-asleep and dozily satisfied, she flipped her pillow over and sank back down onto its cool, crisp and unblemished whiteness. Sleep reclaimed her almost immediately and by morning her bad dream seemed like a distant memory. She didn't recall the ink spots at all.