Jewel of the Harem: The Grindelwald Continuum Book One

The shadow by my finger cast
Divides the future from the past:
Before it, sleeps the unborn hour,
In darkness, and beyond thy power:
Behind its unreturning line,
The vanished hour, no longer thine:
One hour alone is in thy hands,
The now on which the shadow stands.
--The Sun-Dial At Wells, Henry van Dyke.

Prologue:
Shadows and Beginnings

"Uh," said Neville.

"Mmm-hmm?" Ginny gave him a vaguely encouraging look from across the little table.

The light from the tiny lantern flickered on his face. It was hopelessly flustered and growing redder by the moment.

"Do you, uh..."

Ginny fancied that his big brown puppy-dog eyes were pleading with her. If they could have spoken, their words seemed likely have been something along the lines of, Can't you see that I've completely forgotten the English language?

"Would you like to, er..." The words trailed off, and there was an unbearably long pause.

Ginny wondered if there were any way of putting Neville out of his misery. A Stupefying charm would work, although some might argue that it would be less than kind. Of course, her feet might pipe up with another point of view, since they were throbbing from dozens of separate little bruises under their thin green leather slippers. If only she didn't know exactly what he was going to ask.

All evening long she'd been watching him slowly screw up the courage to say what he so longed to say, making little bets with herself regarding at what point in the endless purgatory of the Yule Ball his bravery would finally overflow into words. She'd known it wasn't going to be during the dancing since all his energy had been going towards the losing battle of standing up straight and not stepping on her feet. (More than once she'd devoutly wished that she'd actually worn those steel-toed boots as Hermione had recommended.) It probably wouldn't be when they were standing around the punch bowl, slurping cup after cut-glass cup of fruit juice with a gradually increasing proportion of Ogden's Old Firewhisky. (Ginny wondered if the evening might be improved by grabbing the bottle from Goyle's hand and swigging it down as he sniggered with Crabbe behind the refreshment table.) And it certainly wasn't going to take place while a stream of Gryffindor fifth and sixth years sat at their table and the shrill giggles of the girls pierced Ginny's head. But almost everyone else had cleared out of the Great Hall by now. The Bavarian dwarf band was playing accordion and flugelhorn slowly and dreamily for the few remaining couples circling round the dance floor. So it was bound to be now.

"D'you want to, uh, uh, er, go outside, Ginny?"

Poor Neville.

She sipped from her glass of punch, buying a moment's time. A group of caroling Rhine fairies chose that moment to hover in the air between them.

"O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum, wie grun sind deine Blatter!" they chirped in trilling little voices, their blurring wings beating faster than sight.

"Go away," Neville said irritably.

"St. Niklaus vill put coal in your stocking, naughty boy," said the smallest fairy, wrapped from head to toe in a blue and white striped scarf with purple tassels. She waved a miniscule finger threateningly.

"Oh, you-- I'll chance it. Shoo." Neville flapped a hand at the fairy choir.

The fairies stuck their tongues out as one and flew off through his hair, leaving each strand sticking out in a different direction. He blushed an extraordinarily violent shade of red which clashed rather badly with his dark purple dress robes. Ginny couldn't help smiling. The look on his face tore her with guilt. She knew it was the first time she'd smiled at him all night long.

"Well? We could, ah, go for a walk in the rose garden, it's not really all that cold, and anyway I'll keep you warm, I mean, uh-" Obviously horrified at his own boldness, Neville backpedaled quickly. "I think I've got an extra scarf somewhere, my Gran sent me two for Christmas and there's this green one and it would really look good on you, I mean with your hair and the dress and all, and-"

Neville did look so like a Golden Retriever puppy hunting for an owner. Ginny wondered in a detached sort of way if he'd actually grow a tail and start wagging it next.

"I saw a really pretty rose bush last week, I'm sure it's blooming this week, I've been watching the buds start to open, I'd love to show it to you," he was saying. Ginny smiled again, vaguely. Neville moved forward a little, his brown eyes wide and adoring. "It's called 'Maiden's Blush.' The pink roses remind me of your cheeks," he added in a rush. She felt his clammy hand pressing hers under the table. How sweet he was. His eager, simple heart was in his face. He was as plain and good as bread and water.

And he made her want to scream.

What would happen, Ginny wondered, if she simply leaped on top of the table, opened her mouth as wide as it would go, and began screaming?

But it wasn't his fault. None of it was Neville's fault.

Then she looked up and saw the one of the people on her ever-increasing list of those she would have given her right arm not to see. Another was Neville, of course. But that was rather a tall order, since he was her date. Colin Creevey was advancing on them with a fixedly bright smile and a camera. "Say cheese!" he chirped through gritted teeth, raising his new Hasselblad.

"Oh, no, Colin, please, I'm--" Ginny threw her hands up. A horribly bright flash of light went off directly in front of her face.

"Ooh! Sorry! That was too close, wasn't it? It'll be all out of focus. Here, let me get another! If you don't mind!"

"Colin--"

"I know! Let's have a picture of the two lovebirds together!" Colin plopped down between Neville and Ginny, turning the lense attachment back and forth with exaggerated sweeps of his elbow.

Neville's chair scraped against the stone flags of the floor as he rose to his feet. "Skive off, Creevey," he growled.

"Well, I think that's for Ginny to decide, isn't it?" said Colin.

"This table isn't big enough for the three of us."

Colin rose as well. "Then someone'll have to leave, won't they?" The two boys glared at each other and Ginny stifled a groan. They might as well be wearing tigerskin loincloths and carrying clubs!

She saw movement out of the corner of her eye. Harry, Ron, and Hermione were walking out the front doors of the entrance hall into the gardens outside, their heads together. Ginny put a hand on Neville's arm.

"I would like to see that rosebush," she said firmly. "Won't you show it to me?"

Colin glared at Neville. Neville sneered at Colin. The expression was very odd on his pleasant face. Looks like he's trying out his best Draco Malfoy imitation, thought Ginny. She shuddered. That was the crowning touch to this miserable evening-- thinking about Malfoy.

It was much warmer than it should have been in late December; the air had an almost springlike feeling, but maybe that was because of the enchantments needed to force the rosebushes to bloom. The scent of roses was in the mildly chilled air and Ginny sniffed it as Neville arranged her cloak around her shoulders. His hands lingered on her bare neck in an almost-caress. Well, this was the price of getting away from Colin Creevey, she supposed. They walked down one of the winding gravel paths. She searched for something to say.

"You shouldn't let Colin get to you like that. He lives for people's reactions, you know."

Ginny immediately decided that that had been the wrong subject to bring up. She should have known better. After all, Neville remembered every bit as well as she did that Colin had been her date for the Yule Ball last year. His face darkened.

"Oh-- I don't want to talk about Colin Creevey right now-- can we not?"

"All right."

Unfortunately no alternate topics of conversation presented themselves.

"Nice night," was Neville's profound observation after several minutes of walking.

"Mm-hm."

More silence, broken only by the crunch of their footsteps on the gravel and the light tinkling of a faraway fountain.

"You look-- pretty," he said awkwardly.

"Thanks." Ginny sighed almost unconsciously, spreading out the skirt of her fitted green dress robes with their darker green ribbon threaded through the bodice and waist. She remembered what she'd been thinking when she'd picked them out at Madam Malkin's dress shop, and who she thought would be admiring them tonight-- no, it was better not to think of that.

"There's the rosebush." Neville pointed. It had dark green foliage and was covered with pink roses in all stages of rose life, from buds to full-blown. They sat on the granite bench in front of it. He looked from side to side and then picked the largest rose, handing it to her. She smiled and brought it to her nose.

"Oh really, Neville, you shouldn't have done that."

"I'd do anything for you." The words were undoubtedly meant to be casual, but came out as a rather choked and high-pitched declaration. Ginny sat silent, still smelling the rose. Well, there it was, yet another thing to be added on the credit side of the Neville Longbottom list. She pictured herself scratching away with a quill on a long parchment, grimacing horribly as she did so. Put it right under nice, sweet, sensitive, carries my books for me, likes the dreadfully bad poetry I write, tried to beat up Draco Malfoy the time he sneered at me for dancing with Harry on May Day... knows I have a hopeless crush on Harry and waits patiently, sure I'll eventually figure out what's in my heart... Ginny examined her heart. What was in it at this moment mostly seemed to be a desperate panicky desire to run out off the cliff and into the lake rather than let Neville kiss her. His face was very earnest in the moonlight, and he was leaning closer to her. She really shouldn't be thinking that he resembled a sheep more than a puppy.

I do wish his lips weren't quite so... rubbery. A lot of fumbling followed. Ginny couldn't quite understand; she wanted desperately for someone to kiss her. She'd been practicing her best kisses on the back of her hand for weeks now. So why was it that all she could feel was a vague distaste? A counter was whirring in her head. All right, if I let him kiss me for five minutes, does that make up for half the list... a quarter of the list? Three-sixteenths of the list? If I let him put his hand down the front of my dress-- erggh, feels sort of-- slimy-- could I say that equals the time I made him read that awful sonnet I wrote for Harry, My Deepest, Darkest Secrets of the Soul-- wait a minute-- that's Harry's voice, I'm sure it is! She sat bolt upright, trapping Neville's hand between her chest and the tight bodice of the dress.

"I reckon you've got to draw another cone at the bottom if you expect it to work," Harry was saying on the other side of the hedge.

"I don't see why." That was Ron, speaking in his most stubborn voice.

"Don't you remember what Feynman said?" That was Hermione, speaking in her bossiest voice.

"Ginny, if you could just lean forward a bit--" said Neville.

"Shh!" Ginny said.

"Who?" asked Ron.

"Honestly," sighed Hermione. "How did you managed to pass Magiphysics class? Richard Feynman. The Nobel Prize winner? The CalTech physicist?"

"Oh. The Muggle."

"Ron, you're so thick sometimes it's a wonder you don't walk into walls."

"I'm sorry we can't all be as brilliant as you, 'Mione."

"I hate that nickname and you know it!"

"Stop it," said Harry. "We're wasting time."

Ginny scrambled onto the bench. Neville was yanked up with her.

"Ow! Ginny, my hand's caught in your--"

She looked down on three heads pressed together, one bushy brown, one black, one fiery red, all mulling over a piece of parchment in Hermione's hand. Trust her to bring homework to the Yule Ball. Or was it? Ginny stood on tiptoe, trying to see more clearly. Yes, it was Harry; she'd know him anywhere even without seeing his face. His dark hair was messy as always, and there was that little mannerism he had of jerking his neck slightly when he was arguing with Hermione. Unobserved, she looked her fill. Just as she'd thought. He didn't have a date. It wasn't that he wanted anyone else; he just didn't want her. The old familiar pang of pain rushed into her chest. She'd been so sure, so sure that this time--

Ginny felt a pinch in a very uncomfortable place. "Neville!" she hissed.

"Ginny, I'm not trying to, my hand's stuck!" he hissed back.

"So it would have to be a wormhole?" said Harry.

"Some of us are paying attention, apparently." Hermione spoke to Harry, but glared at Ron.

Ginny leaned closer, her brows knitting. Their words meant nothing to her. But then, so much of what they'd been talking about all fall long was a mystery. There had been so many snippets of conversation, hurried whispered conferences that had ended the moment any of them saw her, and carefully blank faces turned towards her when she interrupted them. They were pondering how to most discreetly have her hauled off to the booby hatch at St. Mungo's for all she knew. Harry's head was bent over the parchment and she could almost see what was on it. If she could just get a bit closer...

Ouch!

"Neville, this really is going too far!" She turned on him. "If Ron saw you doing that--"

Neville's answer was not terribly articulate. With a whimper he pitched headlong into Colin Creevey, who was lurking about the hedge in an attempt to get candid photos of Harry.

"What on earth?" screeched Hermione, jumping backwards and dropping the parchment.

"Mmph--mpph-phh!" explained Neville as he rolled over and over the gravel with Colin.

"Maybe I should have agreed to pose for that calendar he wanted," Harry said in a stricken voice.

"Who cares about that stupid git and his stupid camera-- Neville!" Ron growled. He leaned down and spoke directly into his right ear as Colin boxed the left one. "I told you to keep her away from us."

Neville turned his head towards Ron. "Just a sec, Colin, I need to explain-- how was I to know that you'd end up behind that rosebush! I told you I'd be taking her there and I told you where it was and--"

"Wait a minute!" exclaimed Ginny. "You mean that you discussed our date with my brother?"

"Gin, I had to have an itemized list of everything he planned to do tonight before I was going to let you out of my sight," Ron said impatiently. "We spent hours negotiating it and hammering out terms. I tried putting him under a Nolo Meus Soror Tangere charm so he'd have to stay six inches away from you at all times but McGonagall caught me at it and took ten points from Gryffindor." He looked at Ginny suspiciously. "Only one kiss, right? On the forehead?"

"Well, actually, he had his hand stuck down my dress, but that wasn't altogether his fault--"

"Right then," said Ron. "Out of the way, Colin. It's my turn."

"Stop it!" Ginny pulled at her brother's arm.

"I ask you to do a simple little thing like keepingg my sister away from here, and as usual you manage to bollocks it up," said Ron, between blows, only slightly hampered by Ginny, who was dragged slightly forward with each punch.

"What do you mean, keeping me away from here?" Ginny demanded.

Ron's fist froze in mid-punch, and he exchanged looks with Harry, Hermione, and at last, reluctantly, with Neville. A secret understanding seemed to pass between them all. Colin stomped off, sniffling slightly. In the silence that followed, Ginny's hands grew colder and colder. The little comedy of errors was over.

"Ginny, we just-- we needed to have a private conversation, that's all," said Hermione.

"You mean, like the ones you've been having all term long? The ones I've been excluded from?"

"Look, sis, there are things you can't understand," Ron said awkwardly. He helped Neville to his feet.

"How do you know? You haven't told me. None of you have," said Ginny.

"Maybe someday we can, but not now."

"Why not?"

"You're a child," said Ron.

"That's ridiculous. I'm almost sixteen!" Ginny could hear the slight whine in her voice and knew that she should shut up, but something was driving her on, pushing her to say words she might later regret.

"Ginny. Be reasonable. You don't tell us everything, now do you?" Hermione's voice was coaxing and firm, and her face was fixed in a smile. Ginny could feel the anger bubbling and rising in her; oh, how she needed to keep it down and under control. The best thing to do would be to turn and leave. Graciously. Silently. Elegantly. Instead, she turned to Harry.

"And what do you think, Harry?" she asked. "Do you think I should know?" Her eyes couldn't help going over him, just once, his lean muscular body in his gray dress robes, his lanky graceful hands, his handsome face; scanning all of him and taking in another image to turn over and over in her mind later, in privacy.

"I-- I suppose I think," he said haltingly, "that it's safer if you don't know. It really is, Ginny. It's best." He looked soberly back at her, and she saw herself mirrored in the edge of his glasses. She winced at the eager hunger on her face.

All four of them looked back at her in a united front. All of their faces were closed and distant, waiting for her to be quiet and go away-- yes, even Neville's. He'd been happy enough to grope at her five minutes before but now he was standing with them, in whatever plan they were hatching. Without her. When it came to anything important, it was always without her. She heard herself yelling before she even realized that she'd opened her mouth.

"Who wants to know what your stupid secret is anyway! I don't! Keep it from me, if you want!"

Hermione was coming towards her now, her smile more fixed than ever. "Ginny, you shouldn't be getting so upset over--"

That was the final straw.

"I hate you! I hate you all!" She sounded juvenile and stupid and laughable; she knew her face was turning the red that so clashed with her hair and dumb tears were pouring down her face, and before she could do anything to make herself look an even greater fool than she had already, she turned and ran down the gravel path in the opposite direction. Something rustled around Ginny's feet. It was the parchment Hermione had been holding; she must have dropped it. In one swift motion, Ginny picked it up and kept running.

She stopped to catch her breath. There were footsteps coming after her. She turned down one path, then another. "Ginny!" she heard Neville's voice calling. "Please come back, do! I'm sorry-- I didn't mean--" She ran faster and he followed her, tracking her with uncanny accuracy. "Ginny, please, if you just stop acting like a child we'll--" That was Hermione. Ginny put on an extra burst of speed. She headed away from the center of the garden maze, back towards Hogwarts. She slipped through a side door and stood, breathing so hard that she was sure they could hear her. All four of them went by, yelling her name. Then they were gone.

But she didn't dare go back outside; they might still be waiting for her. She slowly climbed the winding staircase that led up to the high north tower. It was exposed to the wind and would be horribly cold. She'd be sure to be alone there. She reached the top of the stairs and stood on the balcony, looking out over the grounds. She could see the faint twinkling lights far below in the garden, the movement of students strollling with each other, holding hands, kissing. There were Ron and Hermione, by themselves now. She leaned her head on his shoulder; he said something, and she threw back her head and laughed. Probably at me, Ginny thought. She shivered. She was alone with her tangled thoughts. Alone with the anger that tore through her veins, setting her teeth, clenching her hands into fists. She no longer knew what she was angry at, if she ever had known; she no longer could have said when the anger began, or even if it really could be called anger at all. But it was something that pulsed through her at random times, always when she least expected it, a feeling more intense than anyone else seemed to know.

Her brother and Hermione were kissing now, his hands in her hair, her head turned up to his. Watching them, Ginny felt something very close to envy. They both seemed so... uncomplicated. If only she could be like that. Sometimes, this term, she would cry into her pillow late at night, muffling her sobs with a Silencing charm so her roommates wouldn't hear them. Sometimes she tossed and turned in her bed when the moonlight spilled through the window, turning her sheets to a sea of bleached blood. She didn't have the grace or coordination to play on the Quidditch team, but some mornings she rose before dawn and slipped silently out, taking one of the school brooms up over the pitch to fly, fly, fly for hours through the coldest part of the morning. She would bend low over the broomstick of a Shooting Star or Clean Sweep, feeling the icy wind whistle past her ears, the tension in her head dissolving for a few moments. When she eased back to earth, her fingers numb, scarcely able to feel her feet, the restless thing in her would be quieted for a little while.

Ginny felt a dull pain in her hand and realized that she was pounding her fist against the stone balustrade. She swore softly. If Ron even suspected I knew words like that... The thought made her smile. She was really starting to grow cold now, she realized. She turned to go back down.

But then she heard a faint rustling. Someone else was coming up the steps. Probably Neville! Ginny groaned and slipped behind a large potted bush. With any luck, he wouldn't even see her.

"Mmmmm," said Pansy Parkinson as Draco Malfoy pressed a little line of kisses along her throat, her head thrown back. Her hands moved under her robes, caressing his back, easing round front to his chest. "Do you like that?" she asked.

Oh, yes, I like it fine. I just don't like you. The words were on the tip of his tongue as it lingered over the pulse at Pansy's bony collarbone, but, on reflection, he knew that it would be far better not to say them. His hands pulled her closer, feeling her tiny frame, her ribs separate and distinct beneath his fingers. She moved back, cocking her head towards the hedge behind them.

"Did you hear a noise? I heard a noise." She smoothed down her pink robes. "That's all we need, to get caught by creepy old Snape. Not that I think he'd give you detention." She giggled. "He'd probably want to watch."

Thanks, Parkinson. There's nothing quite so stimulating as thinking about Snape watching me snogging you; has it all over staring at Playwizard centerfolds.

The noise was not repeated, but he did not move towards her again. She nestled against his chest. He fought down an urge to shove her off the bench. It wasn't really Pansy's fault, after all. She tried to put her arms around him again, but Draco's muscles stiffened, subtly pushing her away. Pansy cleared her throat.

"I don't know, I think these robes make me look fat. Do you think I look fat?"

"No, Pansy." Draco shook his head, rolling his eyes slightly. Girls ought to be given a list of topics not to bring up or even think about on a date, and asking if they looked fat should be written at the top in blazing red letters. Of course, he really couldn't talk. Number one on the boys' list was likely to be snogging a girl who made your skin crawl, just because you felt this sort of desperate unfocussed desire that had to go somewhere before it tore you apart.

She shifted on the bench and apparently decided to change the subject. "Are you going home for Christmas holidays?"

Well, there was number two. On his own personal list, anyway. "I don't know," said Draco. "I suppose so."

"But we had to tell Snape last week if we were staying."

"Father hasn't told me yet."

"Oh."

There was something about that one syllable, Draco decided, that sounded strange on Pansy's lips. As if she knew something he didn't... Did she? "What about you?"

She jumped slightly, as if she'd been deep in thought. "I'm going home of course. I don't know how cheerful it's likely to be."

"Yes, I know what you mean," said Draco curtly.

Pansy sighed. "It's a bit of a low point for us, you know?" She emphasized the word slightly, and Draco knew what she meant.

The wind rustled through the bushes, bringing the scent of roses to them both. Draco remembered the overgrown rose gardens at the von Drachen estate in Linz, blooming when they were supposed to, in summer. There was something rather creepy and unnatural about roses in December for all that it was supposed to be charming. Linz. Oh Gods, how he wished he were there now. Or stepping on board the ship to head there for the Christmas holidays, or even staying here at Hogwarts, anywhere on earth except Malfoy Mansion--

"Your birthday's going to be over the holidays, isn't it?" Pansy was asking. Draco dragged his mind out of the peaceful fields and woods of Bavaria with an effort.

"The day after Boxing Day, yes."

She leaned back further against his chest. "Your seventeenth birthday..." He knew what she was thinking. It was what he was thinking, as well. "So, are they going to--"

He tapped a finger against his lips, scowling at her.

"Oh, of course, I'm sorry. Not very clever to talk about it here. Too much punch!" She giggled. "But there might be surprises in store for you... you never know..."

She did know something he didn't!

"What have you heard?" he whispered intensely in her ear.

"Oh, that tickles. I pick up things. I overhear Mum and Dad at home. And..." Her last word trailed off tantalizingly.

Draco glowered down at her. Her smile was teasing; that look was meant to be enticing, he supposed, but at that moment he wanted nothing so much as to shake her by her thin shoulders and get the whole truth out of her. A fleeting image flashed through his mind of grabbing her by the throat and choking her until she gasped out all her secrets; her dark eyes mocked his silvery ones, and the violence of his feelings overflowed in the only way available. She growled as he grabbed her and started ravaging her mouth with his; he snarled as she tore at the front of his robes, and, with the finesse of two wild animals battling over a kill, they fell on each other.

Later, thinking the whole thing over in the relative privacy of his prefect's room in the Slytherin dormitory, Draco would be profoundly grateful to Colin Creevey. When the boy stumbled out of the hedge a few minutes later clutching his camera and sprawled onto the stone bench, however, he seemed a most unwelcome intrusion.

"Ooh! Oh, I'm sorry!" he gasped. His round face blushed bright red. "Not a good moment, is it?"

Draco yanked his head up from Pansy's bare chest. " What the hell are you doing here, Creevey?"

"Complete accident!" Colin backed away from Draco's murderous expression. "Never meant to-- er, you really ought to pull your trousers up, Malfoy--" He ducked as Draco took a swing at him.

"Get off me!" shrieked Pansy. Colin pushed himself up, but his hands, unfortunately, were very much on Pansy's not-quite-clothed body as he did so. He backed away from Draco across the bench, raising his Hasselblad.

"I'll-- I'll take a picture of you!" he threatened in a squeaky voice.

"I'll smash your camera," Draco said flatly, reaching out to make good the threat.

Flash!

"You little bastard!"

Colin scampered down the path with the agility of a rat. "Ha-ha!" he called over his shoulder as he ran. Draco tried to chase him, became entangled in his own trousers, and fell headlong onto the path with a thud. Oof. Gingerly, he picked bits of gravel from his cheek. Then he heard the shrill sound of giggling. He turned to see Pansy clutching the side of the bench and snorting with laughter.

"Stop laughing," he said, picking himself up.

"Oh, I can't help it, you looked so funny--" She was seized by new transports of merriment.

"Don't you dare to laugh at me!"

She patted the bench next to her. "Come on, Draco. Why don't you let me finish what we started."

"No." He turned away from her and began buttoning his robes.

Her mouth fell open. "No?"

"Do you have a hearing problem? No."

"Boys don't tell me no."

"This one just did."

Pansy put her hands on her hips. "What's the matter with you?"

Oh, how he itched to tell her; the words were on his lips, scalding, furious words.

Her voice grew wheedling. "You must be nervous. I'll bet that's it. You've never done this before, have you?"

"Yes, I most certainly have, and no, that's not it. "

Pansy looked at him with unflattering surprise. "Who? It was Milicent Bulstrode, wasn't it?"

Draco was silent.

"Or that fifth-year prefect, what was her name, Xanthia?"

He finished fastening the top button on his velvet dress robes.

"Or Sadina von Tussel... Is it true what everybody says, does she really have handcuffs permanently fixed to her bedposts?"

Yes, yes, and yes. To all your questions, Pansy. But if it's any consolation, I despised all of them every bit as much I do you. He ran a hand through his hair, restoring it to its customary neatness.

"What you need," she said spitefully, "is a harem."

Hmm... it would simplify matters, wouldn't it?

"You don't really care anything about anyone, do you, Malfoy?" Pansy looked into the darkness.

"Don't tell me that you care about me, Parkinson." Reverting to last names was, he supposed, a sign that the romantic portion of the date had come to an end. What a relief.

"Oh, I don't. Don't think I do." She looked at him with glittering eyes. "Neither does anyone else, you know." And then she was laughing at him again, very softly.

"Stop it. Stop that!"

"Or you'll do what?"

"Don't-- push me like that," he said through gritted teeth. "Or you'll be sorry."

"Then why don't you try making me sorry, Malfoy," she whispered, and he nearly jumped on her out of sheer anger and frustration and all the feelings coiled deep in the pit of his stomach that needed some kind of release, somewhere, with someone.

"No. No, I won't," he said instead.

"You were happy enough to try five minutes ago."

What she said was true. That fact only made him angrier.

"Do you want to know the truth?" he spat. "All right, I'll tell you. I can't stand having you or any of those other Slytherin bitches anywhere near me ninety percent of the time. You all make me want to throw up. The only time I can endure being near any of you is when I want a shag so badly that I don't care how much I hate you, and the moment I've got what I needed out of you, you could fall off the face of the earth for all I care. In fact, I wish all of you would. Especially you."

"You can't mean that."

"I do. If you knew what I really thought of you, you'd run screaming down that path."

Pansy turned her face away. "I suppose you haven't noticed that none of those other girls have exactly been hanging about you lately."

Draco said nothing, because there was nothing to say. She was right. His little triumphs with Xanthia and Milicent and Sadina were all very much in the past.

"They know. They know that it's over. They know that your father's become--"

He gripped her wrist. "Don't say another word. Not one more."

"You're hurting me. Oh! Let go. "

"Should be around your throat. Pity it isn't. Maybe I'll--"

"You're mad," she whispered.

He leaned his face down to hers. "Don't-- ever-- say-- that."

"Why? Does it make you afraid?"

It did. He would have died before admitting it to her. But she already knew something; he was sure of it.

"It is true what they say, then, isn't it? About your father? It's true that he's been--"

"Shut up!" Draco's tortured cry hung in the air between them. There was a long moment of silence. Pansy's face was white and frightened. Draco realized that he'd been advancing on her, pushing her further and further back along the bench, and he knew from the numb, tingling feel of it that his own face was suffused with fury and fear. Suddenly, unexpectedly, he was ashamed of himself. Without another word, he rose and stalked down the gravel path.

The soft wind, the indistinct murmuring of happy students strolling, the scent of roses-- it was all more than he could bear. Draco needed to feel cold lashing at his face, icy fingers down his spine, solitude. Only one place to go, then. He turned his steps toward the high north tower. The endless steps of the winding stone staircase left his thigh muscles burning, but he welcomed the pain. Alone, oh God he'd be alone there, it was all he wanted. But even as he reached the balcony, he heard the rustling of other footsteps behind his. Cursing softly, he slipped behind a large bush at the edge of the terrace.

The footsteps Ginny had heard hesitated, stopped, then headed in her direction. Sure enough, it must be Neville. Ginny groaned at the thought of all the apologizing she'd have to do. But then she heard the faint sound of other footsteps. Not the same as the first set. No, these were-- she listened closely-- at least two people walking together. So much for solitude! She stood indecisively, biting her lip. As she wondered what to do, an arm snaked around her and a hand went over her mouth.

"Mmph!" She struggled in vain. The arms holding her were thin but wiry and strong, and they pulled her back against a lithe, sinewy body that held her firmly. She saw out of the corner of her eye that whoever had his hands on her was a little shorter than she, but then many boys were; there was a movement of black velvet dress robes swirling around him. This was not Neville! Ginny jerked her head to the side and caught a flash of blond hair, the profile of a pale face with a small, straight nose and pointed chin, the glint of a strangely light eye--

Oh God.

"Malfoy?" she asked incredulously.

"Be quiet," he whispered.

"Let go of me!"

In response, his arms tightened around her even further. They felt like iron bands; she never would have guessed from looking at him that he was so strong. Not that she'd ever spent any time looking at him, of course. He pulled her head down to his mouth.

"Someone else just came up here. In fact--" Draco peered between branches of the bush. "At least three people from what I can see. Now, do you really want us to be seen together? Everyone at Hogwarts would hear about it within the hour."

"No!"

"Then keep your mouth shut." He gave her a slight shake to emphasize his words.

An angry retort sprang to Ginny's lips, but she bit it back. The footsteps were coming closer. She tensed in Draco's arms, and was still. Through the irregular green leaves of the bush, she saw a figure leaning against the stone balustrade. Cornelius Fudge? She squinted at him. Yes, it was; she'd certainly seen him with Dad often enough to be sure of that.

"Lovely night, isn't it," he said to someone behind him. "Such a treat to enjoy this sort of weather in December, don't you think?"

"That's as may be." The second person moved out from the shadows with a clump-thump, clump-thump, clump-thump. Just behind her ear, Ginny heard Draco suck in his breath. She could feel his chest moving, too. A strange sensation. She'd never, never been anywhere near this close to him, not since the first day she ever saw him in Diagon Alley, jibing at Harry. Harry. Probably still looking for her along with the others. The thought made her shift a little, restlessly, which only caused Draco to grasp her more tightly.

"Don't! I'm not trying to get away," she said as quietly as she could.

He hardly seemed to hear her. "Mad-eye Moody," he said. "What's he doing here?"

"I'm sure I don't know. What, are you afraid he's going to turn you into a ferret?"

"I wasn't talking to you." Draco's grip did not loosen.

The Minister of Magic turned again, in the other direction, and spoke to a third person. "The view's delightful, Albus, isn't it?"

Ginny saw the familiar figure of Professor Dumbledore step out onto the balcony and into her field of vision. "A very clear night," he said musingly. "I do believe that the Milky Way is visible."

Fudge cleared his throat. "Well, as pleasant as all this is, it's rather cold on this side." He pulled his pinstriped robes more closely about him. "I must say that I really don't quite understand why we've been brought up here."

"Discussion," growled Moody.

"But what can there be to discuss?"

Moody leaned against the balustrade next to Dumbledore. "Very private place, this north tower. Good if you don't want to be overheard."

Dumbledore nodded gravely.

"Now, really, gentlemen... overheard?" Fudge laughed a bit nervously.

"They picked the wrong place, didn't they?" muttered Draco.

"I thought you said we should be quiet," said Ginny.

"So I did. Shh."

"I've been hearing things," said Moody. "Rumblings. Some of the Death Eaters are moving again."

Fudge made an impatient movement with his hand. "Rubbish. There's nowhere for them to move."

"That's what you think."

"Moody, do be reasonable."

"Yep. That's what I always am. Reasonable. Which means listening to reason. Which means paying attention to what's going on about me." Moody turned so that he was fully visible, and the cold white light of the moon flooded over his scarred face. It seemed about as expressive as a block of wood, but there was an alertness on it that was impossible to mistake.

The other man sighed. "Since it seems necessary, Professor Moody, to provide a recap of events-- may I remind you that we've heard nothing of, er, You-Know-Who in well over a year?"

"So what did the Department of Mysteries finally decide?" drawled Moody. The twisted face looked almost amused.

Fudge shrugged. "As to that, you know very well. So far as can be determined, the Priori Incantatem spell had a quite unexpected effect. V- I mean, You-Know-Who was so ill established in a physical form that such powerful magic jolted him from it. Quite permanently, as far as we can tell. None of his followers have ever been able to return him to what he was."

"He remains only as a spirit of malice," said Dumbledore quietly, and Ginny realized that it was the first time the Headmaster had spoken. "Gnawing the ends of his old plots,choking on his own evil, but never able to take form or shape again."

"Quite," said Fudge, a relieved tone in his voice. "Goodness. I feel like a schoolmaster myself!" He attempted a chuckle, which fell flat.

"So why are you still afraid to say his name, Fudge?" asked Moody.

"I don't like the sound of it, that's all," the other man snapped. "Don't tell me that you think Voldemort-- there, all right, I've said it-- has a prayer of rising again!"

Moody paused. "No," he finally said. "No, I don't."

"Then there's nothing to worry about."

Moody leaned towards Fudge. "There were other powers than Voldemort," he said. "Older ones. And darker."

"Yes, well, nothing fascinates me quite so much as history, my dear man, but the dead past doesn't concern us now."

"Dead," Moody said derisively, under his voice. "Dead, is it?"

Fudge turned to Dumbledore as if he hadn't heard. "Which reminds me. Albus, you really ought to relax some of the security about Hogwarts, you know. It simply isn't necessary anymore. And quite honestly we don't really have the manpower to keep it up."

"I think it will remain, for the time being," Dumbledore said gravely.

"Well, as you wish. And now, I really must return; the tips of my ears must be frozen by now." Fudge reached up and felt them, shivering. On the threshhold of the stairs, he turned. "Truthfully, Albus-- and, er, Moody-- a little less paranoia would suit you better."

They stayed where they stood as Fudge trotted down the stairs, his footsteps receding. Then Moody said, "Stupid git."

"Cornelius is rather short-sighted, I'm afraid," said Dumbledore thoughtfully.

"He's lucky if he can see anything written in red letters a metre high and shoved right under his nose."

"I had hoped-- well, no matter. You could have been clearer about Grindelwald, you know."

Moody snorted. "It wouldn't have done any good and you know it. He wanted to dismiss me as a raving old crackpot anyway; why make it easier for him?"

"I suppose you're right." Dumbledore turned, and Ginny wondered if they were both going back down. And that name. Grindelwald. Where had she heard it before? But then he leaned closer to Moody and spoke in a lower tone. "I believe that we must go ahead with the plan."

The other man nodded. "We don't have a choice. He'd never listen to reason."

"How close is it to readiness?"

"Everything's set up in the lower dungeon. We have containment. The Tenere spell did the trick, all right-- I've been there twice myself and returned."

"Alistair!" Dumbledore put his hand on Moody's shoulder. "That was incredibly risky."

"So you're saying the plan's not?" Moody asked dryly.

"You have a point." The headmaster looked at him. "It doesn't seem to have done you any harm."

"Nope. And it won't do them any either."

"I wonder," said Dumbledore, staring out into the darkness, "if it is right to involve... They may agree, but they won't really understand."

"Does anyone? Did I? Did you?"

"No. I suppose not." Dumbledore sighed.

"Then there's only one thing we're waiting for. We need a sixth. And no, I don't know who, not yet. I'll know when I find them. I think--" Moody began clumping towards the door "-- I think I'll be led to them. Looking won't do any good. And now we'd better go. We've been up here far too long already. You never really know who might be listening." Ginny gulped at that.

"So... the hunt for Al-Juhara Har-am begins?" said Dumbledore softly.

"Yes," replied Moody. Both men nodded, as if a sign and countersign had been given. And maybe they had been, thought Ginny. Her head was spinning wildly. She didn't have the faintest idea what their last words meant, but almost none of the rest of the conversation had made any sense either.

They were alone on the balcony. Ginny shivered, feeling the cold wind across her low-necked robe for the first time and huddled closer to the warm body behind hers in the split second before she remembered that it was Draco Malfoy. Then she struggled to get away.

"Let me go," she said, trying to sound unafraid.

"In a minute." Draco's hand actually seemed to be tightening on her wrists.

"Ow-- you're hurting me-- I'll scream!"

He put a hand over her mouth. She bit it.

"I ought to strangle you," he said.

"Try it," she said.

Draco trapped both her hands beneath his and forced her against the balustrade. He's going to push me over, Ginny thought almost calmly. I heard something I wasn't supposed to hear and now I'm going to die for it. And my last sight in this life is going to be Malfoy's face. I wonder, if I go to hell does that mean I have to keep seeing his face for all eternity? But long moments passed, and nothing happened.

"I'm not going to do anything to you, Weasley," he said. "Just tell me why you were here and I'll let you go."

"I wanted some--fresh air," she said weakly.

He snorted. "The air on the ground wasn't fresh enough?"

"With everyone running about shagging in the gardens, no, it wasn't." If she was really going to get pushed over the edge of the north tower by her worst enemy, Ginny decided that there was no point in being meek.

Draco laughed mirthlessly.

"What's so funny?"

"Your stupid friends don't know how sharp that little tongue of yours really is, do they?" He leaned closer to her, and his face was absolutely without expression, the silvery eyes glittering like miniature moons. "Potter and your stupid brother and that jumped-up mudblood Granger... they all think you're a sweet, innocent little girl, don't they?"

Ginny gulped, unsure what to answer. The conversation had taken a sudden and strange turn. He was frightening her, but in a different way than when she'd thought he was going to heave her over the edge of the tower. She didn't really think he'd do that now. But she felt no safer than she had before. The parchment rustled in her hands, and she remembered that she'd been holding it all the time. From the Desk of Hermione Granger was stamped on the top. Draco sucked in his breath and tried to grab it from her; she held on so tightly that it ripped in half. Impatiently, he shoved the two torn edges together. They both stared at it.

Two cones were balanced on each other with several straight lines intersecting them, each headed in a different direction. On another part of the paper was drawn a tunnel with two flat mouths, snaking across the parchment. There were little charts and graphs. There were scribbled words. Forward timeline. Spacelike. Backward timelike. Here-now. Future. Past. None of it made a bit of sense to Ginny. She couldn't tell if it did to Draco, either; his face was as blank as ever. Too late, she snatched her half away. He did the same with his.

"You sneaked up here to listen to them," he said, his voice dangerously soft.

"I didn't--"

"Did you hear what you wanted to hear?"

Ginny felt the rough stone of the balustrade against her back.

"Did you understand what they were talking about? You did, didn't you?"

Draco had pushed her all the way along the stone railing, and she flinched at the look in his eyes. "No. I don't know anything, I don't understand anything, I don't-- let go of me, Malfoy!" Ginny gave a wild, uncoordinated leap away from him, and fell, swinging in space.

Her legs scrabbled at nothing. Her feet kept striking the lower part of the balcony, trying to find something to stand on, but there was no solid surface. Draco was still holding her by the wrists, and for a wild instant Ginny was absolutely sure he was going to let go.

But then he was pulling her up, she was clutching at the stone, his arms were hauling her over the edge, and she was landing on blessed solid ground. Ginny wobbled against him, too weak to walk or even stand. She could feel that she was leaning against Malfoy completely,, but she was too dazed to care. Her heart was thumping so hard that she was sure it would burst out of her chest any moment. "You are clumsy, aren't you, Weasley?" she heard him saying, but she didn't care about that either.

When she came to herself again, she was sitting on the stone bench of the balcony, and her head was in a lap of warm, soft robes. A hand was holding a cup of punch to her lips. She grimaced at the taste. It was pretty much pure Old Ogden's Firewhisky by this point. "Where'd that come from?" she asked in a croak.

"Someone left it here, I suppose," replied a voice. She shook her head, opening her eyes fully, and recognized Draco Malfoy.

"You-- ooh." She tried to sit up, but her head spun so violently that she dropped back down again.

"I've never driven a girl to attempted suicide before," he said thoughtfully. "I don't know whether to feel flattered or insulted."

"I hate you," she said weakly.

"Gratitude is what most people would express after having their lives saved, but, apparently owing to a lack of ready cash in the Weasley household for etiquette lessons--"

"I wouldn't have slipped if you hadn't been forcing me off the balcony in the first place!"

"That was a bit more than a slip."

He was right. Ginny closed her eyes. Deep within, she wondered if a small part of her had wanted to jump, after all. "Thanks," she said stonily. "I suppose this means that I owe you one."

"Perhaps."

"What do you want me to do? Let's get it over with."

Draco's eyes swept her form-fitting robes, lingering a bit longer than strictly necessary on the strategically located tear the rough stone rail had made in the bodice. "Let me think about it. We'll discuss-- payment-- later."

"Oh! You really are disgusting, Malfoy." She struggled to a half-sitting position and could go no further. Her head fell back against his chest and little as she liked the position, Ginny was forced to hold it for the moment.

The air didn't feel nearly so cold now, with someone next to her.Of course, that was just because it was another carbon-based warm-blooded form of life. She still despised Draco Malfoy as much as ever.

And she was afraid that some inexplicable thing had suffered a sea-change between them. Changed in the space of a breath, of a few heartbeats. All because he had saved her life.

Ginny took a deep breath. She should leave immediately. She needed to get back down to the gardens. She had to return to where they were all looking for her. Where her brother would say reproachful things, Hermione would sniff, Neville would take her stiff hand in his clammy one, and Harry would avoid her hungry eyes.

Even sitting next to Malfoy suddenly seemed preferable to that.

He was silent as well. They both sat like stone statues. His arms were still around her waist. She could hear his heartbeat, strong and fast under the soft robes. It was a moment out of time, out of reality, out of all the enmity that had ever been between him and her.

Across the lake, the tower clock chimed the carillon.

"It's almost midnight," Draco said.

"Yes." Ginny remembered how she'd dreamed of this time, when the clock struck midnight at the Yule Ball. Back when she thought that surely Harry would ask her this year. She'd imagined them under a sprig of mistletoe in some secluded corner of the garden. And he'd kiss her. But it was not to be, never to be.

The clock whirred. Draco moved his hand up, under her chin, and tipped it up to his face.

The clock struck. And his lips came down on hers.

For a second, Ginny was frozen with shock. But it was nothing like she'd imagined a kiss from Draco Malfoy might be (not, of course, that she'd ever spent even a millisecond imagining such a thing, oh no.) That was her undoing. If it had been violent and demanding, she would have had no trouble breaking it and pushing him off her. But it wasn't. It was as gentle as the soft brush of a pheonix feather against her mouth. And she was the one who put her hands on either side of his head and felt his soft hair on her fingertips and kissed him back, kissed him with all the wild hunger and anger and pent-up frustration in her.

The clock struck six. She heard him groan under her. His hands moved her back against the bench so that they shifted positions and she was under him, bent so that her hair brushed the stone, his lips were everywhere on her bare skin and she heard herself moaning, now--

The clock struck eight. He pulled her up to him, easing a green satin strap off her shoulder, his mouth moving down further. She arched her back and cried out something, whether a word, a name, or simply a sound, she never knew. Her hands clutched at his back and she felt the spare strong muscles under her fingers--

The clock struck ten. She opened her mouth for him as far as it would go and he was devouring her; she gave herself up to him entirely, the blood in her veins had been replaced by boiling, thick honey; there was a mist before her eyes, something bright flashed across her retinas but she scarcely saw it; all her senses had been reduced to the feel on his hands and mouth on her--

The clock struck twelve. The last low, booming toll faded away. Sensation came back to her.

She was half-sitting, half-lying on a stone bench, a cold wind blowing over her half-naked chest. Her legs were sprawled awkwardly apart. Kneeling between them was Draco Malfoy, who was pulling down her robes.

"Get off me!" She made her hands into fists and pounded them on his back.

"What?" he muttered, looking up, his silvery eyes unfocussed.

"OFF!" Oh God, he was smirking at her, and his mouth was smeared with her coral lipstick.

"I do believe we've found a way for you to pay me back."

"Stop it!"

"Weasley, we've barely even begun," he said in a purr. "Of course, it is rather cold out here, isn't it? Fancy coming back to my room? It's quite private-- well, there's Blaise Zabini, but we can always put a Silencing charm on the bedcurtains-- or not, if you like, Blaise is quite the voyeur, you know--"

"I'm going to be sick. I mean it. I really am. Oh God, what's wrong with me?"

"Nothing that a good shag wouldn't cure," drawled Draco. "You've been a virgin too long, Ginny. That's your problem. Or are you?" He lifted an eyebrow at her.

"You'll never know!" She tried to snatch her hand away as he reached out for her wrist, but Draco was too fast for her. "Don't, I don't want you touching me!" Her voice rose almost to a screech.

"That's not the way it seemed thirty seconds ago."

Ginny struggled with him for a moment, her teeth set. Her hair tumbled down around her face and she could feel the tears threatening to spill over her eyelashes, but she was determined not to cry in front of Draco Malfoy. He held her arm easily, his face amused. "Just let go of me. I mean it," she said.

"Your lips may say no, but your eyes say yes." His voice mocked her. He was pulling her back down on the bench.

With one wild surge of strength, she yanked away from him. She drew her arm back and slapped his elegant patrician face with all her strength. The sound was like a crack of thunder. He put a hand to his cheek, which was marked by a perfect red imprint of her hand. "Ah," was all he said. She stared at him in horror, and then turned and ran blindly down the staircase.

Draco sat for a long time, long after the last echoes of Ginny's footsteps had died away. His eyes ached from staring and from too little sleep. Night after night after night, rolled over onto his back and staring up into the dark green velvet hangings of his bed. Letting time, thought, sensation slip away from him, bit by bit by bit. It never quite worked, though, not completely. His mind always began racing in the same old circles. Just as it was doing now. Remembering that past summer, the last few tortured weeks he'd spent at home after the blessed months in Bavaria. His mother had stayed behind in Linz, refused to return to England. She'd begged him to stay with her. But he had not. Damn Ginny Weasley... goddamn her... she'd stripped some obscure mental armor away from him and left him dazed and vulnerable to those memories. They rushed through his head like a dark sea.

The long bleak corridors of Malfoy Manor, the winding wooden staircases, the always-closed door to his father's study. The strange fascination of that closed door. Knowing that behind it, Lucius Malfoy was slumped in a vast leather chair, clutching a snifter of brandy and muttering to himself. Every so often he would steal out, unshaven and wild-eyed, and always, always in the deepest part of the night. But that was when Draco sometimes roamed those halls, too. It was always when he had finally given up on the sleep that evaded him. And then father and son would meet, each knowing that they were driven by their own private obsessions. Each haunted in a different way; Lucius by what had been, and Draco by what now would never be. By the power that had twisted both their lives and then vanished, leaving nothing to replace it. The shade of Lord Voldemort.

Draco looked out into the darkness and wondered in a detached sort of way if Ginny Weasley had had the right idea, going over the balustrade like that.

He clenched his hands together over the rough stone at the edge. "All I want is an answer," he said. "Just some sort of answer, or clue, or sign, to tell me what the hell I should be doing--" Draco realized that he was speaking aloud. "Uh-- God?"

No answer. No wonder. How inappropriate.

"Satan?"

Still nothing.

Muggle mythology. Fails you every time.

"Wotan? Donar? Loki?" The names of the Teutonic gods of his mother's people came to his lips, and fell through the cold air as flatly as the rest. They were all dead as dust, crumbling stone images in long-abandoned churches. There was no-one to help him, no-one to offer him a word of advice or comfort, and no-one to stay his hand from his own destruction.

The night seemed to stand still, holding its breath. Waiting for what he would decide.

As he stood, he heard the beating of wings. A great eagle owl settled itself on the stone rail. "Aquila," he said. "Gods, when was the last time I saw you?" Draco couldn't remember if his father had sent him a single letter throughout the entire fall term. Not since... well, he wouldn't think of that. Wouldn't remember that last thing that had happened in the deepest dungeon of Malfoy Manor before he went back to Hogwarts for fall term. Narcissa had sent a few scrolls by the great von Drachen raven, Vogelfrei. But she was an indifferent writer, and her command of the written English language had never been good. He stroked the owl's feathered back, and it nipped at his finger gently. He unrolled the parchment tied to its leg.

It was his father's writing, the long, bold, black strokes. It was in his father's style, the terse, cold sentences, each one clipped and separated from all the rest. The words swam before Draco's eyes. He forced himself to read them.

Draco,

You will be pleased to learn that our efforts have borne fruit at last. There is a new hope. He whom we seek is close at hand. Time is of the essence. I will write no more now, but go to the high belfry of the Hogwarts clock tower as soon as you have received this letter. Aquila will lead the way.

The paper disintegrated in Draco's hands as he read the signature. Lucius M-- hovered in the air, and then crumbled into dust.

He turned on his heel and went down the stairs, forcing himself to move slowly. It had come. It had come at last. The letter. The one he'd so often dreamed of, waking with a cry, whether of gladness or horror he was never quite sure. But he wanted it, of course. Wanted it more than anything else in the world. A vast dark excitement bloomed inside his head. Draco forced himself to keep it in check; he still didn't know, not really. But he did know. He had never truly believed that this moment would come, never, and oh, how he winced at that now, how he hoped that they wouldn't hold it against him. Not now, when against all odds the longed-for dream might at last be within his grasp. "Let him trust me... oh, please," he murmured, knowing that his words were a prayer to whatever gods might be. "Let me become what I was meant to be, born to be..."

A few minutes later, the bushes at the back of the balcony rustled. Colin Creevey stepped out. His knuckles had gone white from clutching his Hasselblad to his chest. The counter in the little window of his camera read thirty-six, a fully exposed roll of film. "That's odd," he muttered, shakily picking his way down the staircase. "I know I didn't take that many."

As Draco hurried across the lawns towards the clock tower, he caught a glimpse of red hair out of the corner of his eye. Ginny Weasley. The memory of his madness with her flashed across his mind. She was standing next to her brother and Granger at the edge of the gardens, arguing with them, seemingly, shaking a finger in their faces. The front of her bodice was still torn; he would have thought that she would have used a Sutura charm on it by now. But maybe she hadn't noticed it yet. Even in a quick glance he could see the red marks on her neck and chest. He smirked. How would she explain those to that damn overprotective brother of hers? Those marks that he'd made... and, touching his cheek, Draco remembered the mark that she'd left on him.

More than one girl turned to look at the slim, graceful figure of Draco Malfoy walking away from the castle with the eagle owl perched on his wrist. But those who saw the cruel smile on his handsome face flinched back, their eyes wide. Some of them woke screaming from the dreams that racked their sleep that night. For Draco smiled as he thought of the future, and of the past. And, of course, of what he'd do to his enemies, once they were entirely powerless and defeated. Particularly Ginny Weasley.

The sort of insult she'd dealt him could not be allowed to go unpunished.

Perhaps, at the end of all things, he'd ask that she be spared.

So that he could deal with her himself.

The door of the clock tower was locked. Draco had expected that, and he slipped his wand from its holster to point at the elaborately carved keyhole, saying "Alohamora" in a low voice. He rattled the knob. Still locked. He moved the wand in a figure eight, and faint sparks followed its motion in the air. "Apertus." Nothing. Patefacio, Patens... all nothing. The door remained locked.

Draco rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Then he traced the tip of his wand directly over the keyhole itself, murmuring the words of a Revealing charm, and the metal glowed an opaque blue. The door could only be opened by a key, not by a spell. Was something as simple as this really going to stop him? He peered through a crack in the door, not sure what he was looking for, hoping for some clue. Moonlight spilling through a high window lit the interior of the tower. It was empty and abandoned. Rusting machinery was piled on the dirt floor, and Draco could see what looked like the fallen ruin of a wooden staircase. But what he saw was impossible, because the tower clock did work, did strike the hour as it was supposed to do. How could this be?

Even as the thought crossed his mind, he felt a cold presence at his back, something draining energy from the very air. A tall, gaunt figure covered in silvery stains, lantern-jawed, silent. It was the Bloody Baron. Draco couldn't help jumping a little; even Peeves the Poltergeist was afraid of this ghost, who seemed to suck happiness from the very air as effectively as any dementor. Then the Baron did something that was, as far as Draco had ever heard, unprecedented.

He opened his mouth and spoke.

"Hast du das Juwel?"

"I didn't know you could talk," Draco said stupidly.

The Baron was silent.

"Don't you speak English? That's it, isn't it? That's why you never say anything." Then Draco realized that if the Baron didn't speak English, then he probably hadn't understood a word of what he himself had said.

"Hast du das Juwel?" the ghost repeated, a glum, hopeless look upon his face.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said. The ghost began to move away, and with it Draco saw his one, slim, faint hope of getting into the tower vanish. There was a ring of keys at the Baron's belt. "No! Wait! I think I understood what you said-- you asked if I had a jewel-- but I don't know what you mean, er... Ich möchte in den Aufsatz gehen, bitte, bitte! " Damn. For once, he devoutly wished that Hogwarts taught Muggle languages. He was fairly certain that he'd just begged to be let in the tower, but he might also have been asking to borrow the pen of his aunt.

The ghost nodded and gave a long sigh. He bent to the keyhole, his translucent shoes just brushing the grass. He took out a curiously carved key and rattled it in the lock, first to the left, then to the right, then back again in a kind of dance. The door swung open. Now, Draco could see a long, winding staircase leading up into shadowed half-darkness. Aquila hooted on his arm, and he moved forward, then stopped. A strange reluctance had overtaken him, and he did not know its source.

The Baron regarded him somberly, as if bearing the weight of the world on his spectral shoulders. "Gehst du, jung Draco. Gehst du zum Schicksal ernannt für du."

"Go to the place-- no, to the doom appointed for me?" Draco echoed, unconsciously translating the ghost's words. "But what's that? Can't you tell me?"

"Weil das Wild das du jägst, das ist der Tod," the Baron said.

"For the quarry that I seek is death-- What the hell does that mean?"

The Baron was silent.

"Why'd you tell me anything, if it was just going to be a load of rubbish that doesn't make any sense?" Draco demanded. He remembered that the Baron didn't understand what he said. His own meager command of spoken German seemed to have lapsed almost entirely. There was no room left for anything in his head except the desperate need to get to the top of the tower. "Thanks for unlocking the door. I mean, ah, vielen Dank," he said awkwardly, and Draco started running up the winding tower stair. Maybe it was in the nature of ghosts to say only cryptic things. Behind him, the Baron shook his head sadly and vanished into the grass.

Draco paused at the very top of the tower, in the belfry. The grounds of Hogwarts were spread out below him when he looked west, and the clock's mainspring whirred before him. To the east was the vast Forbidden Forest, blacker than the night. "Lumos," he whispered, and his wand cast eerie shadows on the moving clockwork wheels mounted on the interior face of the clock itself. "Now what?"

He had a sudden, hideous stab of fear that the letter had only been another piece of Lucius Malfoy's deepening madness. Might as well just say the word, Draco thought. That's what it is. God knows I saw enough of it. He waited, the sound of his own breathing oddly magnified in the tiny tower room. He was standing on a wooden plank floor. Some of the clockworks were in the middle of it on a platform, and long poles attached them to the rest of the wheels and springs on the clockface. The floor itself was actually a platform, he saw. All round it, there was only darkness, and he guessed that the drop went all the way down to ground level. The minutes ticked by. After a time that seemed interminable, the carillon chimed, and the works gave that faint rustling sound that meant the clock was about to strike the hour. Aquila leaped from his wrist. Draco jumped back, badly startled. But then he saw where the bird was going.

Without hesitation, the eagle owl flew directly into the inside face of the clock. The air where it had been wavered. The Roman numerals, seen from the wrong way, twisted and then righted themselves. Aquila was gone. Draco blinked.

Aquila will lead the way.

But surely that couldn't mean that he was supposed to do the same thing? He couldn't have actually just seen an owl fly through a clock. Aquila had probably pulled up at the last minute and flown up to roost in the rafters. If Draco tried that trick, he'd crash into the clockface and fall to his death. Maybe that's what the Bloody Baron meant.

Ah, but wasn't that what you were considering an hour ago anyway?

No... Draco shook his head vehemently... no. That sort of thing was for weak fools. And if he could truly trust what he'd read in that letter, he had so much to live for now. So very much.

But then you must trust what it says. And do what it told you to do. Would you disobey the very first order given to you? Refuse the very first action asked of you? He who would command, must first obey...

As he stood, irresolute, the great bell began to toll. The sound was unbearably loud. It must be one o'clock, so there would be only the one. It was now, or never.

Taking a deep breath, Draco half-walked, half-ran forward, launching himself at the glowing clockface in a leap. He only had time to see the wooden planks of the floor fall away beneath his feet into darkness. Then he knew no more.