Jewel of the Harem: The Grindelwald Continuum Book One

Chapter Eight.

The Reunion.

It was still dark when the ship entered the Firth of Forth, and Janet Leslie, standing on the deck, smelled for the first time in almost forty years the damp land smells of earth, sea, and heather that to her meant Scotland.

--Bertrice Small, The Kadin.

A/N: Kilts as they're seen today cannot be reliably traced back to earlier than 1725 in Scotland, so that's why the shepherd isn't wearing one. Plaids were worn, and that's what he has on. Yes, Draco's little silver-handled knife is significant, and there's a reason why he carries it even though it seems a little redundant with a wand.. It will be explained in the chapter about Marie-France Tessier.

Many thanks to all the reviewers, especially Melissa (again, check her out on Schnoogle under Cinnamon if you haven't already!), GaloftheFullMoon (yup, all the evil overlords have the same soul,) MaraJade (if D/G is possible in canon, I don't know, but *I'll* do the best I can! ;), GintheGemini, KeeperoftheMoon, Zuirzip, Tatyana, Katya (who leaves the greatest reviews!), Sydney Lynne, divajen03, Fleur422 (oh, there'll be some H/G moments, never fear,) and KittyLioness. I think the reviews are getting better and better. :) (More *helpful* I mean! Don't be afraid to criticize!)

IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT:

There is now a fully completed short JOTH movie based on StarEyes' lovely artwork and lots of CGI fun. I've had a lot of requests for VHS copies, so unfortunately I can't send out any more right now (since I don't feel that I can possibly charge for them.) The good news is, it will be up on the web SOON and this is the place to find out where...

There will be more movies coming up this year, including fully rendered 3D animation (but you'd better have something interesting to do while you wait for that one.). Guaranteed! This is the ONLY place to find HP fanfilms right now, btw.

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Something was tinkling, tinkling in Ginny's ear like the magical alarm clock on her bedside table at Hogwarts, and it woke her up. But this was a real brass bell. She could see it swaying back and forth against a background of curly white wool. A face descended to her level, wide, mild, and foolish.. Not a human face, though. There was definitely a sheep standing several inches in front of her.

It peered down into her face, its eyes curious. "Mehhh," it said. Ginny opened her own eyes all the way.

"Ooh," she groaned softly. Every inch of her body felt like it had been beaten with sticks, and surely a number of small animals had crawled into her mouth and died there. The sun was much too bright; it must be midday, or just past. She rubbed her head with one hand. There had been a dream, a very important dream, but it was all slipping through her hands like sand at a beach... a tower, and a book, and something dark and frightening that withered the edges of her mind. But she'd got away, somehow.. and how strange, Malfoy had been in her dream, of all people... Ginny blushed at that thought, and the precise shape of the memory faded even further until nothing was left but a vague outline of some fantastically elaborate structure, crumbling into mist.

The sound of water rushing came from behind her. She turned her head to the left to see the river. Somehow she must have crossed it, even though her clothes were dry. Running water is a barrier to magical things, whether good or evil... One of the first lessons she'd ever learned. Against all hope and expectation, she had passed through the Dreamtime, and the high road curved far in the distance, across a field of heather and short grass.

Ron, oh Ron! And Harry and Hermione and the rest-- I can find them now! I can take the King's Road all the way to the port of Leith and find that ship they were talking about. If they haven't already taken it. How long it took to get through the Dreamtime I couldn't even guess; time itself seemed to have no meaning there. I'd know if they were gone though. I'd certainly know if Ron was... wouldn't I? Ginny held the silver locket tightly in her left hand, struggling to pick up even a thread of the link she'd felt with her brother in the forest. There was no connection as such, no matter how hard she tried, but she did feel a warmth and a comfort. Thinking of him, she knew that she was thinking of her. It would be easier if she had any food, or a map, or shoes, or, God knows, if her wand worked. But she could find Ron; she knew she could. The locket moved in her hand, and the warmth was gone. It pulled away from her fingers. With a sudden chill, she could almost remember the terror of her dream.

Slowly, Ginny began to sit, getting awkwardly to her knees. Something was keeping her from straightening up all the way. She blinked mazedly, staring at her right wrist. A hand encircled it. The muscles of the fingers were slack with sleep, but they still held her tightly. Her gaze traveled up the arm attached to the hand, the shoulder, the neck, the head, the face... the face...

It was Draco Malfoy.

Ginny gave a wild yelp and stumbled backwards, half-sitting, half-standing, pulling with her the hand that had her wrist in a death grip.

There was a tribe of dwarves working industriously away in his head with dozens of little pickaxes. He could almost see them grinning maniacally. Swing, pound! Swing, pound! "We'll strike gold yet, boys!" one of them cackled. The power of their strokes had turned the world upside down and started dragging him across its every jagged rock. And now they were all shrieking; or perhaps that was actually red-hot needles piercing his eardrums through and through. No, that was only one voice. One girl's voice... Draco struggled to sit upright, feeling as if his brains were sloshing about in his head and would start pouring out through his nose any moment.

She stopped screaming and stared at him like a wild animal in a trap. He stared back at her, stupidly. Everything-- the riverbank before him, the great tree behind him, the craggy landscape stretching ahead of them, and the girl-- especially the girl-- were like pieces of a puzzle that stubbornly refused to fit together. What had just happened? It might provide some clue.

Potter, Granger, that moronic Ron Weasley. The clock tower. A winter afternoon. The book. Grindelwald.

"Grindelwald!" Draco exclaimed aloud, grabbing Ginny's wrist more tightly.

Ginny stared at him as if he'd gone mad, and, in fact, she rather wondered if that was exactly what had happened. He shook her slightly, his eyes scanning her face, demanding answers to questions she did not want to hear. "W-what?" she faltered.

"Lord Grindelwald! He was here-- or he was there, in the chamber--" Ginny flinched at his last word, but he didn't notice. The vision of what had been was fading, as dreams do fade in daylight. Draco tried desperately to grasp at the receding edge of it; damn it, this was important, there were things he had to remember--

"You were there," Ginny said slowly. "But how is that possible? It was a dream, or a memory; I don't quite know which, but you were--"

"Never mind that! Where is the Dark Lord?"

"The--" A convulsive shudder went through Ginny. "He's gone."

"Gone! How in the hell can he be gone?"

Ginny felt the silver locket shift under her white blouse like a second heartbeat, struggling to move towards the book he held in his right hand. "I don't know," she lied.

Draco tried to flip the jeweled cover of the Kitap-an Düs open, but it was if welded shut. The edges of the pages wouldn't even move. He kept staring at it for several long moments as if the inlaid designs might re-form into some sort of answer. They didn't. "What the hell did you do?" he asked in a low, dangerous voice.

"Me!" she exclaimed. "I didn't do anything."

It was true, he thought; she hadn't. Ginny Weasley had lain on the floor of the Chamber of Secrets, unmoving, helpless against Lord Grindelwald's hands reaching for her, ready to complete the circle. To fulfill her destiny, and Draco's own. But he himself had--

Ginny was looking at him with some undefinable expression in her eyes. "What did you do, Malfoy?" she whispered.

What had he done, indeed.

A powerful self-loathing rushed over him in a tidal wave, mixed with a sort of terror, mixed with something he did not want to analyze, would not. "Oh gods!" he said raggedly, clutching at her wrist more tightly. She shook herself, and her eyes changed; he saw the fear and the despair enter them. She had come four hundred years into the past and fought through the forbidden Forest, been caught in the nightmare of the Chamber of Secrets, trapped by the memory of Tom Riddle that had lain somewhere in her like a slumbering monster, waiting for the opportunity to break free... only to be captured by Draco Malfoy.

"Let go of me!" she screeched, trying desperately to twist away from him.

He only held her wrists more tightly and pulled her half under him where he sat on the riverbank. "Stop it," he said.

She started crying, twisting her arms until she felt the bruises rising from her own motion, aware of the hopelessness of it. He wasn't doing anything but holding her there; it might be better not to struggle and get him even more upset, yet she could no more keep her muscles from their frantic movements than a bird can cease the beating of its wings against the bars of a cage.

His head was spinning, spinning until he felt sick and dizzy and stabbed through with pain all at once.. If he could only analyze what had happened, think of what to do next... But he was still in shock, as if staring slack-jawed at the aftermath of some natural disaster that had uprooted all his plans. A disaster named Ginny Weasley. Because, obviously, the entire thing was her fault. Her crying was like splinters shoved under his fingernails and he clapped one hand over her mouth, unable to bear it another moment. "Stop that bloody noise," he snarled, "or I'll--"

She bit his palm. He swore and dropped his hand. She wrenched herself away from him and made for the open field in frantic, uncoordinated leaps. But Draco was too fast for her, and she broke into furious sobs when she felt him tackle her to the frozen ground.

His face was inches above hers, and Ginny could see that it was livid with rage. There were spots of red in his normally pale cheeks, his eyes were icy and colourless, and, as she watched, his lips drew back into an actual snarl. The most incongruous memory came back to Ginny then, the night of the Yule ball, and the way he'd looked when he'd kissed her in the furious heat of passion, like this and yet so unlike. It couldn't be that he wanted-- No! "Don't touch me!" Her voice rose to a terrified squeak.

"I'll touch you all I please. Don't you dare try to get away from me."

She went pale at his words, he saw, and her eyes were enormous. "Not like this," she whispered. "Please, please, no."

"You mean you thought I was going to--" Draco began in disbelief, then burst out with, "Are you out of your mind?"

The rigid, scared set of her shoulders was answer enough.

Weasley," he said between clenched teeth, "have you ever seen a house elf caught out all night in the rain?"

Ginny sniffled up at him, her hair falling in frozen sodden strands around her red face.

"That's what you look like. I don't want to touch you. Not that way." He gave her a little shake to emphasize his words.

"Oh," Ginny said in a very small voice. She was suddenly, acutely aware of her dirty, torn blouse and pants, her frozen, shoeless feet, covered with mud from the river's edge, and her wildly disheveled hair. She lay beneath him, very still, very silent. What strange little things she was noticing now, trivial things she'd never had the opportunity to notice before. She'd thought he was a little shorter than she but he wasn't, maybe even a shade taller; she'd been wearing high heels on the night of the Yule Ball. His skin was so pale, with an almost bluish undertone, and where his jaw pressed against hers was just the faintest scratch of stubble. His lashes were much darker than his hair, a deep ash blond, and very long, she could feel them brushing her cheek when he blinked. He was very thin but had surprisingly large hands and feet, his hands especially, they were so large and lanky that they made hers look small and delicate. And he was so strong; she never would have guessed how strong he was from looking at him. She knew she was strong for a girl, herself, but he was holding her down without the slightest effort and she felt the corded muscle beneath his robes. Thank God he didn't want to-- do-- anything to her. Ginny didn't think she'd be able to stop him if he tried.

"What are you going to do with me?" she asked.

Draco didn't answer her. How bedraggled she looked. Her nose was red and dripping slightly, her eyes were red-rimmed from crying, and every orange hair on her head was sticking out in a different direction. This was what he had wanted so much. This was the reason he had done an unutterable and inexcusable thing. Well, he had her now. He stared at her, deliberately allowing his disgust and contempt to show on his face. She flinched. Good.

Ginny bowed her head and tucked her hands beneath her arms as if trying to fit herself into a smaller space; Draco barely noticed as his mind ran quickly over the pluses and minuses of the situation, methodically trying to find some way to escape the trap he'd jumped into. Grindelwald was gone. Draco had broken the bond between them when he'd grabbed Ginny Weasley and pulled her into the real world before the spell was complete. He'd thought to return to his father from a position of power; well, he'd ruined that, through his fault, all through his own fault. The thought became savage and he pushed the emotion down. This was no time to feel anything; hadn't there been enough of that? So what to do, what to do now; that was the only meaningful question.

He could take her up to the high road and wait for Lucius Malfoy and the rest. Throw himself on their mercy. Draco rejected that idea almost before it had had time to cross his mind.

He could get up, walk off, and simply leave her standing there by the side of the riverbank. A sudden and horrible temptation seized him to do just that. But no... no. The situation might be even worse then; what if his father did find him and he couldn't even produce Ginny Weasley? He glanced at her again, appraisingly. She was pulling limp strands of that awful hair through her hands now, trying to set herself to rights. Gods, but she really did look like an oversized wet house elf. And he'd actually wanted her.

His own self-disgust warmed him a little, and helped him to think. He had to try to salvage something out of this, the wreck of his rebellion against Lucius Malfoy. Maybe... maybe there still was something he could get out of her. Draco's eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

Ginny sniffled and wiped her nose. "Please, just let me go," she said in a whispery little voice. The sound of it made her wince, but all her newfound courage of the last few days seemed to have deserted her.

"You're a fool if you're planning to go back through the forest," he said slowly, still looking at her. "And I know you're not that.... You can't get back to Hogwarts, and you can't return to our own time. So where would you go?"

"To meet--" Ginny closed her mouth, realizing what she'd said, but it was already too late.

"Who?" He turned on her, wrenching her wrist in his sudden excitement. Running over everything in her mind later, Ginny realized that Draco probably hadn't even known he was hurting her. But at that moment, she was sure it was a prelude to tearing her limb from limb. She stammered something, tripped hopelessly over her words, and fell silent.

"What was that?"

"Let me go. Just let me go. Please just--"

"You're not going anywhere," Draco said, not even trying to hide the growing triumph in his voice. A workable plan was shaping in his mind. Granted, it wasn't perfect and had far more holes than he would have liked, but he was going to have to make use of what came to hand. "Or maybe you are," he continued.

"Please," she whispered.

"You'd like to go to Leith, wouldn't you?"

Ginny looked up at him, her eyes hopeful and enormous. "I promise you, if you let me go, you won't be sorry."

"Oh, I know I won't," he purred. Then his voice hardened. "Come on. Follow me and you'd better keep up."

"What?" she exclaimed. "But you said--"

"Maybe you really are stupid, Weasley. You can't possibly have thought that I was going to let you out of my sight. I'm disappointed in you." One eyebrow went up, and his voice was almost amused. Ginny had obviously agreed to meet her brother at some prearranged place and time in Leith. She was unlikely to volunteer that information to the sworn enemy of her family and friends, true, but there must be ways to... persuade her. Some idea would doubtless present itself, in time.

"Oh!" Ginny stamped her foot, impotently. "You lied to me, you let me think--"

"Never trust a Malfoy. Didn't you learn that at your mother's ample knee?" Then, with scarcely a backward glance, he started along the riverbank, keeping well under the black boughs of the trees that concealed them. When she hung back a little, he turned and fixed her with a look so awful that Ginny only gulped, and followed him.

The mud wasn't quite frozen, so near the riverbank. Perhaps it was protected by the same magic she'd noticed on the other side of the forest. So she slipped and slid, her feet growing more and more chilled, not even bothering to hide the steady stream of tears down her face. Her brain felt every bit as tangled as the enormous snarl of trees and vines on the other side of the river, the side that led back to the Dreamtime. It gave her a sick cold feeling in the pit of her stomach even to look at it. She absolutely had to try to sort things out, she knew. What had happened in the forest only became more and more vague the harder she tried to pin it down, so she abandoned her thoughts about that.

First things first. However it may have happened, Draco Malfoy had caught her. And he obviously had no intention of letting her go. Ginny glared at him striding in front of her; through these dumb tears that just wouldn't seem to stop, a blur of moving black robe and brilliant blond hair was all she could really see, but she sincerely wished at that moment that looks actually could kill. That very subject was covered in the seventh year Traditions of Vodun and Santería specialization, she was sure.

But why? What was Draco going to do to her, and how did she fit into his plans? She stole a look at his profile ahead of her, searching for clues, knowing she wouldn't find them. Trying to figure out what it was about his face that was so, well, wrong and yet so compelling. He looked back at her with no apparent emotion, appraising her position to make sure she wasn't readying herself to make a dash for it. The cold slate-grey eyes never seemed to blink; was that it? He caught her looking at him, and his face became more unreadable still.

"We'd better get one thing out of the way. If you're coming up with clever little plans for escape, you might just as well get them out of your mind right now," he said. "You will not get away from me. Do you understand that?"

Ginny forced herself to nod.

He stopped and turned to face her. "No. Do you understand me?"

The trembly feeling in her stomach grew worse; she wanted nothing so much as to collapse on the cold ground and cry, whimper; curl up into a ball like a child, hoping against hope that her tears would move him. But as she looked into those frightening eyes of his, she suddenly knew that she couldn't, and not only because they wouldn't. It was worse than that. Showing weakness to Draco Malfoy might well be fatal. She had to be strong, or he would destroy her and then make use of the quivering shell that was left. He might do that anyway-- well, let him try. Just let him try. Her spine stiffened.

"Yes," she said, her voice much stronger than she felt.

"Good." He kept walking, and so did she. Her thoughts picked up where they'd left off.

Well, the kidnapping obviously hadn't been for the reason she'd first thought. Ginny blushed to even remember that the idea had crossed her mind; what had possessed her to think he would want her, gawky Ginny Weasley, too prickly and too poor, too silent and too loud, too opinionated and too scared to open her mouth to people? Not delicate, not dark and elegant, not tiny and coy and clinging, the way all of his girlfriends had been that year. Of course, Millicent Bulstrode was about as helpless as a banshee and Sadina von Tussel was about as clingy as a thorn bush, but they knew how to behave around boys, and really, that was all that counted. But he wanted you the night of the Yule Ball, her mind persisted. Remember how he kissed you, how his hands moved on the top of that green velvet dress and pulled it down until the chill wind blew across the tops of your breasts, but his lips were warm and--

She shook herself. If there ever would be an appropriate time to remember those twelve strokes of the clock at the top of the north tower, this was not it.

Grindelwald. Draco had mentioned a Lord Grindelwald, and that name did sound familiar. It was associated with the Hogwarts Express, for some odd reason. Warm orange autumn sun slanting in through the window of their compartment. Ron beating Hermione at chess and grinning at the scowl that knitted her dark eyebrows together; she did so hate to lose that Ginny always had a mean little feeling of satisfaction, watching her. "I've got another Witch of Endor," Harry was saying, holding up a card to the sunlight to examine it more closely. "What did you get?" Ron tossing her the wizard card from a Chocolate Frog, pinching the little amphibian between thumb and forefinger as it struggled to get away. "Here, Gin," he'd said. "I've already got thirty-seven Dumbledores. You take it." Dumbledore and Grindelwald, Dumbledore and Grindelwald. The two names were paired together in some way, and the significance of the second had been in terms of the first. But why? His name had a dark, unpleasant undertone, but it held no more than a hint of meaning to her. Where and when had she heard it, and what had she learned about it?

Lost in thought, Ginny didn't notice that the mud had become softer and more slippery. She didn't realize that she had lost her balance until it was too late. Flailing her arms, she fell back towards the stream. The ground was tearing itself away from her feet and she was going to feel the hideously cold water any second now; she remembered that awful time she'd gotten up too quickly from the punt her father liked to take out on the little lake in Ottery-St. Catchpole and fallen in, the icy water had closed over her head and she'd opened her mouth and more water had gone up her nose and filled her eyes, cold and black as death.

Then strong arms caught her at the last possible moment and she clutched at them, breathing in deep gasps, her eyes squeezed shut. When she opened them again, though, she decided that falling into the river probably would have been preferable.

"Get back here, " Draco snarled. He pulled her up the riverbank and set her on her feet, none too gently.

"I slipped," she said in a muffled voice, letting the wet strands of her hair fall in front of her face.

"Likely."

"It's true. I don't have any shoes." She pointed down at her bare, filthy, scratched feet. Draco felt a pang of something very like guilt, but managed to suppress it.

"What did I just tell you?" he said. "Do I have to put a Binding spell on you?"

Speaking with him for more than five seconds always had made her feel wildly irritated and also unloosened her tongue to its sharpest edge, and now was no exception. Worse than ever before, in fact. But at least she didn't feel afraid anymore. "I'd like to see you try."

"Don't tempt me."

Ginny laughed in his face. She wondered why it had taken her so long to work up the courage to do it. "I'm not as dumb as you think, Malfoy. I know that our wands don't work here."

"There are other ways," he ground out between clenched teeth, "than wand magic. And I'll use them if I have to."

His face was unreadable as always-- well, unless you counted the extreme fury at her, and Ginny supposed that she really should-- but she was sure he was bluffing

"I paid attention in History of Magic class, unlike some people. I know that there are no Dark Binding spells," she said. But the little hope that she'd discomfited him was quickly squashed.

"No," Draco replied. "There aren't." A satisfied little smirk had crept over his face, a definite I-know-something-you-don't-know look.

.He had to be bluffing.

"I'm ravenous," Ginny said, deciding that changing the subject was the better part of valor in this case. "Don't you feed your captives?"

"It all depends. Would starving you into submission make you shut your mouth?"

"No, so don't bother to try." Her stomach clenched in painful emptiness as she tried to keep her voice from trembling. "I'm going to need something to eat sometime, Malfoy."

Draco felt through the pockets of his robe and finally looked up at her. "Then need must be your master. There isn't anything."

"Nothing?" she exclaimed. "You mean to tell me you set out through the Forbidden Forest in the middle of nowhere in sixteenth century Scotland without even bringing any food?"

"Well, you don't see any house elves carrying heated towel racks either, do you, Weasley?" he retorted. "Somehow we'll both have to make do."

"Make do! We can't eat air--and we can't transfigure grass without our wands-- and we can't--"

Draco put a finger over her lips and tightened his grip on her wrist with his other hand, jerking his head in a way that made her break off suddenly. She followed the movement and saw what he saw. Someone was coming down to the stream.

He pulled her swiftly back so that they were both hidden by a tree trunk. Should she scream for help? No. Considering where and when she was and the number of outlaws that were running around in sixteenth century Scotland, she could end up in even worse trouble than she was right now. So she simply watched. There were dozens of sheep bleating, being driven down to the water to drink in a vast disorganized mass. Baa! Baa! They wore bells round their necks, and their faces were foolish and docile. A man was behind them with a long shepherd's crook-- yes, an honest-to-God shepherd's crook. The whole thing looked almost exactly like an illustration from the Mother Goose book she'd loved so when she was five years old. Little Bo-Peep has lost her sheep, and doesn't know where to find them--

The man drew closer, right down to the edge of the water, and Ginny got her first real look at a human being from the sixteenth century.

He wore a sort of long billowy shirt of undyed wool. Ginny thought it looked like her grandfather Weasley's nightshirt. Over that was wrapped a draped plaid piece of cloth, probably wool too. His legs were bare from mid-thigh down as far as she could see, and, like her, he wore no shoes. His feet, unlike hers, were incredibly gnarled and callused. On his head he wore a shapeless hat. And he was so dirty! Ginny wrinkled her nose. She thought his hair was dark, but then again, it might have been too filled with dirt, actual dirt, to tell.

But his appearance wasn't the thing that set him apart from anyone else she had ever seen, although she could not have said exactly what it was that did. He drove the sheep down to the water, crooning to them something that sounded like "Nah, nah." His face was abstracted. Utterly absorbed in what he was doing. Perhaps it was the face that was so different. Ginny remembered the times she'd gone into Ottery St.-Catchpole proper, or visited Harry and seen his dreadful relatives, or simply walked about Muggle London with her father.

Non-magical people of the late twentieth century had an incredibly harried and hurried look to them. They were always rushing desperately to some goal that dangled just out of reach, grasping for it with their their cell phones, their computers, their internet connections, their pagers, and the million other bizarre technologies that were so forbidden to witches and wizards. Yet Ginny's own kind had some of that relentless drive in their faces too. Hurry! Hurry! they always seemed to be muttering. A thousand thousand things are slipping past me even as I speak to you.

In the shepherd's face, there was only one thing, or rather a succession of things. There was only the brightest hour of the day, the river, the almost-spring that lay so eerily over this borderland in midwinter, and his sheep. He had walked and worked and eaten and slept with his sheep for long and long, and his face was filled with their calm unthinking acceptance of the world. In his blank eyes were the sweep of the skies, the cry of the curlews flying overhead, and the feel of the warm wind that played over the stream. There was a timeless stillness in him. Ginny thought, watching the shepherd surveying his sheep, that he likely didn't know what year it was, or care. In all his life, he'd probably received less information than was printed in one edition of the Daily Prophet. But he was a part of this world, as she was not.

Now he was sitting on a rock and pulling something out of a leather bag. It looked a piece of bread. Bread! Ginny could feel her mouth watering. She cleared her throat.

"Excuse me?" she asked. "Sir?"

Draco clapped a hand to his forehead and wrenched her further back behind the tree. "You idiot, we're trying not to be seen."

"He has food!" she hissed. "Let me ask him for some. Maybe he'll give it to me. If you don't want anybody to see you, then you can stay behind the tree."

He looked at her, considering. "All right. But I'll be watching you every second, do you understand me?"

"Of course I understand you. I told you I wasn't stupid!"

"Oh, I know you're not stupid, Ginny Weasley," Draco said in her ear. "This would be easier if you were."

His words chilled her in a way she couldn't quite define. She poked her head around and spoke a little louder. "Sir?"

"Eh?" He turned his head to her very slowly, puzzlement in his eyes.

She came out from behind the tree, feeling as if she had just landed on an alien planet and was now trying to communicate with an unidentified life form. "Can I-- could I-- have some of that?" Ginny pointed at the bread, or whatever it was, and pantomimed herself eating.

Understanding filled his eyes. "Oh, aye."

Thank God he at least spoke English. Ginny had been half expecting to hear Gaelic, but she guessed that she wasn't far enough into the Highlands for that.

He was already holding the breadstuff out to her. She sat down on the rock and broke it in half, holding the other half up so that Draco could see it from where he was lurking. He glowered at her as if he expected her to start screeching any second that she'd been kidnapped. Ginny stuck her tongue out at him quickly and began to eat.. It was oatcake, and she was too ravenous to care how it tasted. He offered her a flask to drink from, and she gulped at the rough small beer thirstily. Everything looked brighter with her stomach filled a bit.

"I don't have any money, but--" Malfoy certainly had some, she was sure of that, but it didn't look as if he planned to step out from behind that tree.

He held up a hand. "I g'ie this to ye wi'out need of payment. Besides--" His eyes twinkled in their setting of deep wrinkles. "'Twas easy to see ye had nae so much as a merk to yer name."

A-- what? A merk? Oh, yes, that's what they use now for money, in Scotland. Ginny was afraid that she was going to run through her meager knowledge of sixteenth century life very soon. After all, it was mostly gleaned from one Muggles: Medieval to Modern class, and since it was taught by Professor Binns, she had slept through most of it. She chewed and swallowed the last of the oatcake, trying to think of what to say next.

"Be ye one of they?" he asked.

"Um-- one of who?" Ginny asked cautiously.

"They," he said placidly, chewing on his oatcake. "I reckon a great lot to they. Their songs be so sweet, an' their faces fairer than any living thing on this earth. I heard yer sweet voice on t'other side of the river, lassie, and thought as ye might be of they."

"But who are they?"

"The ones as live in the hollow hill, and pass through the castle of glass." The shepherd turned to point back into the forest. "The fairy folk."

I knew it! I knew that's who Rhiannon was. Or I should have known. Oh, why didn't I pay more attention in Identification of Magical Creatures class! Well, she knew why; she'd been writing awful poems to Harry under her desk all term. "Do you-- I mean, have you met them?" she asked.

"Aye. I wandered into their land, that land they call the Dreamtime, one spring morning so long ago. They sang for me, and played their harps, and I drank o' their mead at the high table of their queen."

"A tall, dark lady?" Ginny asked. "With a black velvet band around her hair?"

"Oh, aye, that be she, that be the Lady Rhiannon. But mortal man was ne'er meant to drink of the mead of the fairy folk, nor step into their dancing circle, lest he be pixy-mazed," the shepherd said sadly. "So now my puir wits are all scattered, and can be gathered together nae more, nae more."

Ginny's flesh crawled, and she thought of the people she'd known at St. Mungo's. The man was barking mad, he must be.

His hand reached out to her neck and she tensed, ready to spring away from him. But he only fingered the locket around her neck and then dropped it again. "The lady's gift," he said in a dreamy voice.

"Is there anywhere to stay around here?" Ginny asked quickly.

The shepherd was silent for so long that she almost thought he hadn't understood her words, or maybe just wasn't going to answer her at all. But then he said, "Be the Rose and Crown, right along the King's Road, a furlong or so. Go up that bank--" he pointed "-- and ye'll find yerself on the high road, right enow. But they wouldnae g'ie a room to ye, nae wi'out silver."

Ginny sighed. She still had her earrings, but they were aluminium and silver paint, she knew it for a fact. Malfoy might spring for a room, she supposed; but she remembered how he'd told her to stay out of sight. Did he have some reason for not wanting to go up onto the high road? "Can I-- do people-- is it safe to sleep in the woods?"

"This be at the very edge of enclosed land, held by Melrose Abbey. Nae common land. But 'tis nae the problem."

"It-- isn't safe?"

He turned his head, fixing his weatherbeaten face on hers. "Nae man may enter the Dreamtime, save those who hae been touched by the Lady. Nae robber and nae highwayman will find ye here. But no, 'tis not safe." He fixed her with a stare. "'Tis one o' the soft places."

"The what?" asked Ginny, feeling more and more at sea.

"The places that lie on the borderlands betwixt the Dreamtime and the world of men. Here the veil be thin, and ne'er more so than close to Christmas Day."

"But what else could I do? There's nowhere else to sleep, is there?"

The shepherd chewed on a straw, ruminating. "There be an abandoned hut yon, perhaps three hour's journey up the river. Ye'll reach it before dark."

"Thank you," said Ginny, feeling a bit awkward. :I'm sure that'll be, um, fine." She could sense Draco glaring at her from behind the tree although she couldn't see him. Suddenly feeling acutely aware of her dirty face, she stooped down by the riverbank to scoop up some water.

""Do not drink of the river," the shepherd said, pulling her back.

"Why not?" asked Ginny. "The sheep did."

"These be the Lady's waters of forgetfulness, and nae human may know them without losing all memory."

"Oh." Well, that did make sense. Most people who did happen to wander into the forest were sure to at least touch that water, and they would then forget everything they'd seen and heard. But she shivered again at the thought; they could never go back now, could not return to the sixteenth century Hogwarts. They must go forward.

The man unwound a piece of his plaid and cut it off with a knife tucked into his belt, draping it over her shoulders. "Oh-- thank you. Thank you," stammered Ginny, feeling its thickness, its warmth. It was probably better not to speculate on the last time it had been washed.

Be ye old kirk, or new?" the shepherd asked abruptly.

"Er--"

"Count the beads on yer rosary if ye hae it, and all witchcraft must needs vanish away. Then rise early enow, and ye'll reach Melrose by tomorrow even, or the day after, walking. They'll g'ie ye a travellers' bed wi' the nuns, and ye'll be safe wi'in their walls from what ye were ne'er meant to know, lass. For the lady's gifts lie heavier than what mortal man can bear, or mortal woman, either."

Ginny bit back hysterical laughter. Imagine if he knew he'd been talking to a witch! She rose a little awkwardly, extending her hand. "Thank you, uh, sir."

The shepherd stared at her hand wonderingly, as if unsure what to make of it. Before the strangeness of the moment overwhelmed her as it was threatening to do, she grabbed his hand, shook it, and hurried off in the other direction. When she looked back, he was still staring at her. Then he said, "Come, Jess!" to his shaggy dog, and the faint tinkling of the bells about the sheeps' necks drifted back to her where she stood. He'd left the canvas bag on the rock and she went back for it, picking it up, smiling when she felt the oatcakes in it.

"I didn't say anything to him that was important," she quickly told Draco when he stepped out from behind the tree. "And I didn't try to escape, either."

"I know you didn't. I was listening to every word."

"You heard us? I thought we were too far away." That did make her nervous. What if he'd understood about the locket? She ran over their words, trying to decide if they'd been ambiguous enough for her to be safe. And surely Malfoy couldn't have seen everything from where he was.

"Your honesty's touching, then. I have very acute hearing, Weasley. Something you may want to keep in mind..." He took the canvas bag from her hand and pulled out the oatcakes. There was a hunk of cheese, too. She was about to exclaim that he couldn't have all of them, that they had to save some for later, but decided, on further reflection, that she'd said quite enough for the moment. Anyway, he handed them to her and she tucked them in a pocket of the plaid.

Draco pulled something from his belt, beneath the black cloak, and began cutting the canvas into long, wide strips. Ginny saw that it was a little silver-handled knife. It was making her rather apprehensive.

"Sit," he said.

"What are you doing?" she demanded when she felt his hands on her right calf, speaking rapidly to hide her fear. She was not going to show fear in front of Draco Malfoy again. "If you tie my ankles together I'll never be able to keep up with you."

"I ought to tie this over your mouth so I don't have to hear you," he muttered. "Up, lift up." He tied the strips of rough canvas over and around her toes and instep, tucking them under at the ankle, and then did the same to the other foot. "There. Now you won't freeze your feet off."

It was almost a civil thing to do. She looked at him suspiciously.

"I didn't do that out of the goodness of my heart, if that's what you're thinking," he said impatiently. "We'll never make any time at all if you're hobbling along after me with frostbitten toes."

"I would never think that," said Ginny, rising and moving her ankles experimentally. The makeshift shoes certainly looked odd, but she had to admit that they worked. "You don't have anything resembling a heart, Malfoy.:"

"No," he said, rising to his feet and pulling her up with a hand. It felt icy cold in her warm one. "You're right about that, Weasley."

The faint tracing of the full moon hung high in the gunmetal gray sky all day long, and she trudged after him. He never seemed to tire and she was determined to keep up with him; she'd fall down dead in her tracks rather than admit how worn out she really was. The hours blurred together and took on a dreamlike quality. As afternoon lengthened towards evening, it began to snow. Ginny was dimly glad of her shoes, makeshift though they were. But she still had no cloak, of course, only the plaid that the shepherd had given her, and no matter how she wrapped it around her the wind kept driving snowflakes to her skin. It had seemed so out of character for Draco to make the shoes for her; she would have expected him to let her limp through the snow and maybe freeze to death. But then, if he'd wanted to do that, he never would have bothered to chase her through the Forbidden Forest in the first place, never would have... rescued her? Rescued. Ginny turned the word over in her mind, experimentally, and her nose wrinkled. Captured was more like it. Much more like it.

The snowflakes drifted lazily down at first, but they soon began to thicken, and the sky had grown much darker. Draco stopped, holding up a hand.

"I don't think we can go on much longer," he said. "You look about done up."

"There's that inn the shepherd mentioned. The Rose and Crown," said Ginny. "Maybe we could--"

"We couldn't," he snapped back at her.

"Why not? They'll have rooms and I'm sure they'll take any sort of silver as payment. Coinage wasn't standardized until--"

"Save it," Draco said impatiently, waving his hand. "You sound like Granger."

"I helped Hermione with some research projects," Ginny said through a sudden tightness in her throat, remembering the way her friend's dark brows knitted together over some problem in a book, or how her narrow intense face lit up when they figured out an idea together in the library. "Anyway, why not?"

"Do you honestly believe that trudging through the snow is my idea of fun?" he countered.

Ginny remained silent. She always seemed to emerge the loser from these word games he played with her. If he wanted to tell her, he would.

"I have my reasons," he finally said. "Too close to the road, it would have been too easy to find--" Draco broke off, as if suddenly aware that he was speaking aloud.

A definite wave of unease went through Ginny. Too easy to find! So he didn't want them to be found. What was he planning? More specifically, what was he planning to do to her?

They walked on for several more minutes. Then Draco pulled at her arm and pointed to a small, low building set further into the field. The snow was falling so thickly now that Ginny could barely see it. "It looks abandoned, doesn't it?" he said. "That must be the hut the shepherd was talking about." She nodded and followed him, pulling her cloak further over her face.

The walls were cracked and the floor hard-packed earth, but the wattle-and-daub roof seemed intact. They both had to bend and almost crawl to get through the low door. Looking around, Ginny suppressed a giggle.

"Do you find something amusing, Weasley?" snarled Draco, perfectly aware that he sounded exactly like Snape on a bad day-- well, a day that contained a Potions class with Gryffindors in it was a bad day, so make that every day. He suddenly wished that he could ask Snape's advice on what the hell to do now. But since he was doing everything he could to avoid his father and the rest of the Death Eaters, the opportunity seemed bloody unlikely to present itself.

"I know what this is," she said, fighting unsuccessfully to keep her mouth in a perfectly straight line. Draco's scowl deepened when he saw her mirthful face, which only made it harder than ever not to laugh. "It's a cow byre," she choked.

"What?"

Oh, the expression on his face was priceless. "This was probably part of a farm, and the farmers kept cows here," she explained.

He stared at her. "You mean that you're seriously telling me we're about to sleep where farm animals slept."

"Well, they obviously haven't slept here for a long time."

Draco turned to look out the tiny window, which had the remnants of a ragged square of oiled animal skin nailed over it. "I don't believe this," he muttered.

"Maybe we should keep going, try to find an inn that's further from the road," Ginny said tentatively. There would be other people there, at least. Not that anybody from the sixteenth century might care if he murdered her and threw her body out the second story window, but it could give her a fighting chance. This outbuilding was so isolated, and the snow was thickening steadily. Nobody would hear her scream if he-- She instantly quashed that thought. God knows I've got more than enough to worry about right now without dragging in more. He said he wasn't interested, didn't want me that way. I should be glad. I am glad.

"No." Draco trailed a finger along the rough plaster of the wall, and Ginny knew he wasn't really talking to her. "Not yet... not yet..." He shivered. "It's bloody cold in here."

"If we freeze to death, I suppose all our problems are over," said Ginny lightly, her mind full of what he had just said, trying to make some sort of sense of it.

"Ah, the patented Weasley optimism rears its ugly head."

"There's a fireplace." Ginny pointed to the hearth set into one wall. "Some wood, too, and it still looks pretty dry."

Draco yanked his wand from its holster beneath his robes and waved it around with exaggerated motions. "Incen-dio," he said in a sing-song voice. "Whoops, it's not working! Now why could that be? Hmmm... could it be because wand magic is inoperative here?"

In answer, Ginny turned away, arranging dry tinder and sticks in a pile in the fire pit. . She'd also seen flint and goldstone left by the hearth, and she picked them up. With one quick, deft movement, she struck sparks onto the tinder. It flared up and then burst into flame. She patiently fed the little fire with more sticks until it was crackling merrily. Then she turned back to Draco. She didn't bother to even try to hide the smirk on her face.

If she had expected his appearance to reflect the surprise he felt, though, she was disappointed. His eyes widened very slightly in a reaction she certainly would have missed if she hadn't been watching for it. Then he stepped forward and rubbed his hand together, holding them out to the dancing flames. "Do you still have those oatcakes and cheese?" was all he said.

"You might have said thank you," she said later, sitting by the wall as close to the fire as she could manage, her plaid drawn around her hunched knees.

"Do you want some more cheese?" He held it out to her on the tip of his little knife. Ginny took it, watching Draco out of the corner of her eye. He was being almost civil. That put her on her guard as nothing else could have done.

Ginny lay down on the cold ground, experimentally, wincing at the hardness of it. She wrapped the ragged length of plaid around her as tightly as she could, but her teeth still chattered from the cold. The ground was horribly hard and uncomfortable, and the icy cold stole into every crevice of her clothing. Ginny turned over, tried to find a spot that didn't feel like pure rock, twisted and turned again, and sat up to look right into Draco's eyes. He was standing over her, his face expressionless, illuminated by the nearly full moon. She grabbed the plaid to her.

"What do you want?" she asked.

"Well, I'd like to be somewhere with central heating. But failing that...come here. You're going to help me keep as warm as possible." He reached for her hand to pull her up. Ginny scrambled back to fast that she nearly hit her head on the mud wall.

"You said you didn't-- you said you wouldn't--" She could hear how breathless her voice sounded. "I mean, you said you didn't want--"

"Is that what you thought?" Draco laughed softly. "Honestly, Weasley, don't flatter yourself."

Ginny hung her head. Her humiliation was now complete.

"We've got to lie down together closer to the fire and share the cloaks. If we don't, we'll freeze to death."

She barely heard his words as she followed him to the far wall under the embers of the hearth. Her face burned. She coughed pointlessly as she arranged her half of his soft wool cloak on the ground, hoping to somehow hide her sheer embarrassment. But she somehow didn't think that much could be hidden from Draco Malfoy. She could hear his exasperated sigh as she lay down as stiffly as a wood plank, scrunched over to the very edge of the cloak.

"That isn't going to do me any good at all. Come over here. And don't cough like that, are you getting sick? You'd better not be. That's all we'd need."

"I'm fine."

"Get as close to me as you can. Do you want to freeze?"

"It might be better than lying next to you!" Ginny snapped.

There was a little, a very little pause, and then Draco drawled, " If it was only you, I'd let you freeze solid without batting an eye. But if we don't do what we need to do, I'll freeze, too. And after all the trouble of traveling to the sixteenth century I don't particularly care to have that happen."

But she kept flinching from the touch of his hands, and finally he said, "Really, Weasley, do you think I'm enjoying this?"

"No," said Ginny. "No more than I am."

"Good. We've agreed on something." His voice no longer sounded amused. "You don't need to cooperate; just lie still, and for God's sake stop fighting me. You might remember that this is for your good as well." Ginny felt Draco's hard, impatient arm grab her by the waist and pull her towards him. His fingers fanned out across her ribs, holding her securely, pressing her back into his chest and legs. With his other hand, he tucked her plaid around them both. His head was on her shoulder and his big hands imprisoned her body securely between them.

He made her feel... trapped. As if she'd never get away from him again. Ginny wondered what he'd do if she struggled, if she attempted to escape. She decided that she didn't want to find out. And--- damn him-- he was right. She was getting warm; the warmth of his body seeped into hers, and as she slowly relaxed and drifted towards sleep she had to admit that it felt, well, not unpleasant. Her last thought before sleep claimed her utterly was that it was so ironic, so bitterly amusing, in a way. She was in Draco Malfoy's arms, pressed up against him, in bed with him really, if you could count two cloaks and a frozen dirt floor as a bed. It was a place where a lot of Hogwarts girls would have given anything to be.

Her thoughts kept running on the subject, and they slowly spilled over into her unconscious mind, turning into dream.

She'd overheard her roommates in Gryffindor Tower giggling and whispering at night after all the lights were out for years now. Did you go with such-and-so at the last Hogsmeade trip? Well, what did you do? What did he try to do? What did you let him do? Any snogging? Did you let him get his hands under your robes at all? Ooh, I'll bet you did! Well, would you ever-- you know-- honestly, no I haven't! I'm not a slut! And then the whispers would turn nasty sometimes, vicious, gossiping about other girls, evaluating their behavior, sitting in judgment on them. I heard that she'll do anything. I heard that she'll shag anyone. I head that she's like the town bicycle-- everyone's had a ride on her. Oh, you don't know that. But I heard-- Well, with who then? Seamus. Dean. Justin. Ernie. Fred or George-- well, maybe it was Fred and George, I'm not quite sure-- (Ginny had found it necessary to clear her throat quite loudly at that point in the conversation, and a quick, embarrassed silence had followed.)

But sometimes, too, on one of the many nights when she couldn't sleep and had wandered through the tower like an unquiet ghost, her feet scarcely making a sound on the stone flags of the floor, she overheard more secretive conversations. Girls tucked into the big red velvet armchairs before the low-flickering fire in the common room, or huddled together on the tufted sofa. The whispers were quieter then, nearly mouth to ear, only the slight movement of lips visible in the low light. But Ginny had learned to move as silently as Hermione's cat Crookshanks, when she wished. In these whispered conversations in the depths of the night, forbidden things were discussed. Secret things. Things that would never see the light of day.

He took Sadina von Tussel into the dungeons, and then they-- mumble, mumble, mumble.

I heard that Xanthia Morgan said those little hooks stuck into the wall-- whisper, whisper.

They put a Silencing charm around the tablecloth, the one that hangs all the way to the floor, and then during Sunday brunch they slipped underneath and--

But then the voices would always drop too low to catch, or taper into silence. Ginny constantly swore that she was going to stop following the girls who stole away to talk in the common room in the latest part of the night, who huddled so tensely together and exchanged gossip like children trying to terrify each other with ghost stories. They never revealed whatever the final secrets were, if they even knew themselves. Something always pulled her back, though, and kept her hungry for more. Perhaps it was the name that came up most often in these long, low conversations, over and over and over again.

I heard it was--

She said it was--

I'm sure it was--

Draco Malfoy.

Yes, it was Malfoy.

It was Malfoy.

Malfoy.

Malfoy.

Whatever dreams may have come from the confusing half-scraps of everything she heard during those long nights of whispers, Ginny kept them to herself. But it may well be that she had them. One night, all the fifth-year girls had gathered in her room-- for one of her popular roommates, of course, not for Ginny-- and played a dubious game which involved much giggling, and the naming of potential partners for one's first sexual experience. Ginny had rolled her eyes and attempted to escape into her Charms homework, silently blessing Hermione for teaching her that particular trick. But they'd dragged her out to sit in the middle of the floor, laughing shriekily, and wouldn't let her go back to bed until in utter exasperation she named Harry Potter. She knew it was what they all wanted to hear, anyway. She'd lain back in her bed, staring up at the drawn curtains, thinking about casting a Silencing charm on them but feeling too dull to get up and do it. Wondering, suddenly, if she'd told the truth or not. In her conscious mind, she had a sort of vision of sliding into a white-sheeted bed with Harry in it while wearing a draped white nightgown. Nothing much seemed to be happening after that. What she felt for Harry seemed too pure, too shining, to be sullied by such things.

He was good.

She was not.

She had awful, ugly thoughts, frantic desires, needs, wants, emotions grabbing out at the world with hungry hands.

He did not.

She had betrayed her friends. Sent Hermione to the hospital in the very first year she was ever at Hogwarts. Terrorized the school. And then it had been necessary to risk lives even further in order to save her when she lay bound, betrayed, and dying on the floor of the Chamber of Secrets. To risk Harry's life. It stood as a black monstrous sin in her mind, and any good thing she did forever after would be weighed and found wanting because of it.

But then there was Harry, and seeing him was like glimpsing a white tower from the deck of a faraway ship; a vision of some cold and shining beauty infinitely beyond the mess she had already made of her life. Deep, deep within her was a determination to save herself for him, perhaps to save herself by saving him; to save him as he'd tried to save her, if ever she could. But she doubted it. She herself felt ruined beyond repair at fifteen. She had done since she was twelve. Sometimes she wondered if the feeling could have been any worse if the worst had happened in the Chamber of Secrets, after all.

Molly Weasley would sit at the kitchen table, her arms crossed and her head thrust forward toward one of the endless procession of friends that came for tea and sympathy. The horse-faced witches with their red faces and watery gleaming eyes, filled with pity. And, beneath that, gratitude that it hadn't happened to their daughters. And with speculation. Sooner or later, the conversation had a way of always turning to the same topic, the same question. "Was she.. you know... all right?" they'd hiss in the tone of voice used to discuss a terminal patient's condition as he lay drugged in the next bed.

"Yes, oh goodness gracious yes," her mother would always say, hurriedly. "She never could have recovered if anything had... well... happened."

"Thank Merlin for that," the other woman would murmur, and both of them would nod, sipping unnecessarily at their tea, the topic suddenly changing if Arthur Weasley came home just then, or one of her brothers bounded down the stairs. That particular part of the conversation was never enacted when men and boys were present.

Ginny dropped her head onto her knees where she sat scrunched on the stairs whenever she heard that, and she always did hear it. She haunted her own house like an eavesdropping ghost in those days, slipping from room to room more silently than any spirit. She could not seem to overcome this fascination with what was being said about her behind her back, but learning it always made her feel faint and a little sick, vaguely dirty, as if all the water in the world could never cleanse her again. Look at me, Mother, she'd silently cry. I haven't recovered now. We pretend everything is all right but it isn't. I'm screaming inside, I'm dying inside. I'm barely dragging myself through each and every day. But she'd been hiding and listening behind doors. She had no right to say these things to her mother, her mother who had such a quiet strength and innate goodness. Ginny knew that both of these things, she had possessed once. But in her, they were now shattered beyond repair.

Shattered...

Shattered...

The memories broke into a thousand pieces and bounced off the walls of her mind, disintegrating into confused dreams of snakes, red eyes, monkeylike statues, low, unpleasant whispers, Tom Riddle's face, his trailing spiderlike white hands, Grindelwald, guilt, sin, rescue, renunciation, and the touch of Draco Malfoy. "Damn you for making me do this to her," Harry Potter whispered in her ear. "Why me? Why it is always me?" And she woke, his agonized question echoing through her, shaking, her teeth clenched, struggling to remember, praying to forget.