The Quick and the Dead

January 25^th, 2000

6:00 a.m.

Ottery-St. Catchpole

Something tapped at Ron's window. With a groan, he rolled over in bed and sat up, blinking into the darkness of the room. The tapping grew more insistent. His eyes adjusted to the dim light, and he saw an owl hovering just outside his window. When he rolled out of bed and pressed his nose against the glass, he recognized Hedwig. A bolt of excitement shot through him like lightning.

She hooted softly when he opened the window. "Wait," Ron murmured, stroking her head with one finger. I haven't even touched an owl in so long. Since I sent Pig to Fred and George, because I couldn't bear to look at him anymore... and to think of how Ginny named him...

He tore at the parchment with clumsy fingers, ripping the edge in his haste to break the red seal and get it open. Swiftly, he scanned the words.

Ron--

Polly's coming back, but she can't stay long or she'll be missed. Get out here as quick as you can. Use the Portkey.

Hermione

"Ron, dear!" called Molly Weasley as her son ran down the stairs. "Wait a moment--don't you want any breakfast?"

"No!" He darted through the kitchen so hastily that one of the chairs in his path went flying, splintering as it skidded along the floor. She sidestepped out of the way.

"Whatever's wrong, dear?"

"Nothing at all. Have to meet Harry and Hermione. Sorry about the chair. Wasn't that the one you never liked, anyway?"

"Oh, it's not important, really, but--" She stood in the middle of the floor, uncertainly. "Harry and Hermione? I'm glad you're speaking with them again, Ron. But why--"

"No time to talk." Ron grabbed his mother and kissed her soundly on both cheeks. "Bye!" He flung the door open and propelled himself out of it. She looked after him, frowning worriedly.

The Portkey came out into a stall in the very back of one of the men's loos in King's Cross Station. Ron waited a few moments to make sure nobody was loitering around who might notice that he'd never actually gone in. Then he strolled out, whistling casually. He melted into the crowds hurrying towards the platform, and then slipped into the small janitor's closet at the end of a corridor. "Ronald Weasley. Here to, ah... to visit Harry Potter and Hermione Granger," he said, directly into the business end of a very dirty mop that hung on the wall. Then he grasped the handle, and the floor dropped away beneath him.

The Auror College used some sort of specialized Portkey that only recognized certain visitors; Ron knew that, even though he'd never actually taken this journey before. Molly and Arthur Weasley had gone many times during the days when they'd all thought that Ginny would be found soon, and had eagerly hunted down every clue, and followed up on every lead. Each time, they had returned with shoulders that drooped just a little more, and faces that were a bit sadder and more sunken and weary. He himself had gone to Hogwarts during the search, and to Twelve Grimmauld Place, but never to the Auror College. He had never quite been able to bring himself to go.

He felt himself dropping onto a hard surface now, and bitterly cold wind slapped a faceful of snow against him. He gasped at the sheer pain of the freezing air in his lungs; the day hadn't been particularly cold at home, and not knowing where he might end up, he hadn't worn too warm a jacket. "Fuck! Where are they this time?" he muttered, slitting his eyes against the driving snow. He could barely see a large stone building looming up just before him. Wherever it was, it seemed to be the middle of the night.

A small figure wrapped up in layers of scarves waved a mittened hand at him from the front steps. Even without being able to see an inch of skin or hair, Ron knew it was Hermione. He trudged towards it, head down against the wind. She pulled fruitlessly at the large double doors. The wind had shifted direction and was now pushing them shut. He added his strength to hers, and together they forced them open. Ron gave a sigh of relief once he found they were standing in a large, dim, warm foyer.

"Where's that house-elf?" he asked, without preamble.

Hermione started to walk down the dim corridor, unwrapping her scarves, hats, and cloaks as she went. Despite his much longer legs, Ron actually had to hurry to keep up with her.

"This way," she said rather unnecessarily, in a voice still muffled by a huge woolen balaclava.

"Where on earth are we, by the way?" Ron asked. It was a legitimate question, since the Auror College changed locations every few months at the most, and they might literally have been anywhere on the planet. Siberia would be my guess, he thought.

"An abandoned school in Minnesota. It's going to be torn down in a month, but in the meantime, we have it." They turned right and started walking down a corridor lined with lockers.

"Where's that? The South Pole?" asked Ron.

Hermione rolled her eyes, which he could now see since she'd got most of her layers of winter clothing off. "Hardly. It's in the northern part of the United States. You never did pay much attention to geography, did you, Ron?" But her voice was almost affectionate.

"Why should I, when I always had you?" Ron grinned.

"It's at the end of this hall, I think... you should have seen us six months ago. We really were at the South Pole, the old McMurdo station. We stayed until it was finally demolished, and Moody kept saying that it was the best hiding place we'd ever found--it was awful. If I'd been able to talk to any of the scientists staying at the regular base it would've all been worthwhile, but of course I couldn't."

Ron nodded. The Auror college always held classes in a Muggle building somewhere in the world that was complete and reasonably undamaged, but unused. Then the teachers cast simple Concealing spells to hide all of the students from any stray curious Muggles that might be about. Before the college was founded, all of the Aurors had agreed that this was the safest plan. It was far too risky to keep it at one location for very long. Even Hogwarts wasn't thought to be entirely safe for that purpose. Although there had been some discussion over moving it permanently to Twelve Grimmauld Place now that Voldemort had been defeated, nothing had yet been done.

"I've taken charge of drawing fresh maps each time we move," said Hermione. "Sometimes we can even explore the terrain a bit... not so much, here, though, as we're too close to a city... This way." She opened a door at the end of the corridor. Ron followed her in, his heart beating with excitement, anticipation, and... fear? No. I mustn't be afraid; I can't think that way. We'll find out that Ginny's all right, and then we'll go in and get her. How, though? I wouldn't be surprised if Malfoy Manor were a lot better guarded than Hogwarts, even. Doesn't matter. I'll find a way. I'll tear down the stones with my bare hands, if I have to.

They stood in the centre of a large, dim room. As Ron's eyes adjusted, he could see that it had likely been a children's classroom. A few small chairs were scattered near the back, and a blackboard was at the front. He almost thought he still saw streaks of chalk on it. Something fluttered at him from the wall, and his eyes were drawn to it. A faded butterfly cut out of blue construction paper waved back and forth in a current of air.

"I suppose it was too hard to reach," Hermione said softly. "It must have belonged to one of the children. I like to look at it sometimes, when we have classes in here..."

"Getting sentimental, are we?" Ron watched the smiley-face crookedly drawn on the butterfly wink at him with the movements of the paper.

"Polly ought to be here any moment now," said Hermione with a perceptible chill in her voice.

Well, fuck. I've offended her again, just like I used to do. I didn't mean to. I can't worry about it now. "What's she doing, Apparating?" Ron asked.

"Yes... normally one can't Apparate or Disapparate here; the wards are set up like Hogwarts. But house-elves can do loads of things that wizards can't."

"That's dead interesting," said Ron. It was a relief to talk about matter-of-fact things. "I wonder that they haven't ever used those powers for Dark purposes, though."

"It's happened," said Hermione absently, her eyes on the door. "Not very often. But in 1573, a house-elf at the court of Elizabeth I used his Apparition powers to blackmail courtiers, I do remember that. He found out a great deal of information for his master that way. Some dark wizard or other, I think..."

The door swung open, and Harry came in, his cheeks bright red from cold. "Sorry," he said breathlessly. "I was helping Moody fix the wards outside one of the back doors. I didn't miss anything, did I?"

"No," said Hermione, "Polly's not due for another five minutes. Only I wonder if we ought to cast some sort of Locator spell."

Harry shrugged. "It wouldn't hurt."

They both drew their wands, and Ron watched them, feeling oddly out of place. He still carried his own wand with him, as always, but he scarcely used it for anything anymore. The little daily magics most wizards used had drained from his life in dribs and drabs.

Harry glanced at him. "Want to help, mate?"

"Oh, Harry," said Hermione. "I wanted to use an Aliquo spell, and you know it's rather a complicated one--"

"And you don't think I'm quite up to it, is that it, Hermione?" Ron demanded.

Harry held up a hand. "Why don't you perform a Strengthening spell, Ron? That way, you can add it to ours. It'll be a help, and we could certainly use it. Even a house-elf won't have an easy time Apparating here."

"Well?" Ron pointedly asked Hermione.

"Yes, please do, Ron," she said, in a rather chastened voice.

Harry and Hermione raised their wands first, with the coordinated grace of two dancers who have practised their movements to the point where they had long become second nature. They murmured a few words in unison, and streams of white light flowed from the tips of each wand. It was a beautiful sight in the darkened room, quite apart from what it represented. This dance of magic light would bring him the truth about his sister, thought Ron. And I have my part to play as well. The magical instinct came back to him as if it had never left, and he added his own spell at precisely the right moment. This is the way it should always be, thought Ron, looking at the faces of his two friends, solemn and intent, lit by the three glowing, interwoven streams of magic. The way it ought to have been these last two years. I should have gone for Auror training with them. We should have been together all this time...

In the very heart of the magic, a form flickered against the streams of light.

"Polly!" whispered Ron.

"Shh," hissed Hermione.

The house-elf wavered, rippled, and finally solidified. She blinked at them from the centre of the overlapping spells. As one, Harry, Ron, and Hermione lowered their wands, and the beams of light went out.

"How are you, Polly?" Hermione asked in a kindly voice, tucking her wand back into its belt holster.

Polly walked towards the long bank of windows against one wall and dropped into a child's chair, her legs barely brushing the ground. "Very well, miss, and even better now that I'm out of that house for a bit."

Ron crouched down next to Polly's chair, looking intently at the house-elf, Harry and Hermione standing over them both. Now that he saw her, he was so full of questions that he felt almost ready to burst. He couldn't decide which to ask first. So he listened intently, so excited that he didn't yet trust himself to speak.

"So you've got into Malfoy Manor all right, Polly?" Harry asked.

"Yes, sir. I have. I'm working there now."

"Do any of the other house-elves suspect anything, do you think?" Hermione asked anxiously.

"Not they," said Polly, almost scornfully. "They're a frightened lot. They don't ask questions of any kind."

"Have you seen Draco Malfoy?" Harry asked.

"Oh, yes."

"Tell us about him, then. What does he do? Who does he see? Where does he go?"

She twisted her fingers together in an odd way, and began to speak very rapidly. "Master Malfoy's away part of every day, but he always returns to the manor by nightfall. He's been spending long hours taking care of his father's business, doing accounts, going to Gringott's."

"Who does he see?" Hermione asked. "Who comes to the house?"

"Pansy Parkinson used to come... and Vincent Crabbe... Millicent Bulstrode once, from what the other house-elves say..." Polly was beginning to speak in an odd way, and the ends of her sentences sounded rather choked.

"So you do know who's there? Everyone who's there?" asked Harry.

Polly did not answer.

The only question that mattered burned in Ron's mind. Now that it came to the point, he was almost afraid to ask it. But I've wallowed long enough in fear. It's the worst feeling in the world. He licked his suddenly dry lips. "Is Ginevra Weasley there?" he asked. "Does Malfoy have my sister?"

He was so sure that the answer would be yes that for a moment he almost thought that he had heard it. But he hadn't heard anything. Polly stared into space, her face impassive.

"Polly?" asked Harry. "Can't you tell us? It's important."

There was no response.

Ron reached out and grasped her tiny hands. They did not move in his. "Please, please, tell me," he said, fighting to keep his voice level. "Or nod for yes, shake your head for no--something!"

But the house-elf did not move. It was as if she had been suddenly turned into a stone statue.

"Polly," Hermione said in a small, frightened voice. "Can't you tell us?"

Very slowly, the house-elf shook her head no.

Polly sat stiffly in her chair, angry tears rolling down her face. She twisted her hands together so hard that the action looked painful. Moody stood over her, tapping his wand against one rough hand, an abstracted frown on his gnarled face. His tattered cloak hung askew, his one battered leather boot seemed on the point of falling apart, and his hair rivaled Snape's for both greasiness and disorder, but his very presence was curiously soothing. The entire situation seemed manageable, somehow, now that he was here, and Ron was very glad that Hermione had found him.

"Hmmm," Moody said in his gruff rasp of a voice. "You say that the house-elf answered all of your questions up to a point, did she?"

"Yes," said Hermione. "And then she stopped. I couldn't think of what else to do but to come and get you, Professor. I'm sorry I pulled you out of class, but--"

Moody waved a hand. Ron noticed that the tip of the little finger was missing. I hope Harry and Hermione don't wind up losing any body parts, he thought. "Don't worry about that," the Auror said. "It's nothing but dueling practice and Snape can handle it well enough. She'll have to get back to Malfoy Manor soon, so we haven't much time. Did she tell you anything about Draco Malfoy?"

It took Ron a moment to realize that the question had been addressed to him. "Er--yes," he said, surprised. "A bit. Nothing important, though."

Moody nodded, as if a point had been confirmed. "And when did she stop answering questions?"

"She got a bit odd when she was talking about people who came to the manor," Ron said slowly. "But she didn't go all funny and stiff until..."

"Until I asked if she knew everyone who was there," Harry finished for him.

Ron nodded.

"Ah." Moody passed his wand over Polly's head, and the wooden tip jumped slightly. "Just as I thought. An Arcanum charm, and a bloody strong one, too."

"Sir?" asked Hermione, her face confused.

Moody straightened up. "You'll learn about those, Granger. We haven't had much occasion to run into them so far."

"But what do they do?" asked Harry.

"You already know, Potter, that house-elves keep secrets for their masters," said Moody.

"They can reveal some things, though. Then they usually have to punish themselves afterwards," said Harry, wincing as he clearly remembered Dobby.

"Right. But that's not enough for some wizarding families. The ones most likely to be Dark, anyway."

"Like the Malfoys," said Hermione.

"Exactly like the Malfoys," said Moody. "There's a charm that keeps house-elves who work for scum like them from revealing anything of any importance, the Arcanum. And that's what on Polly here."

"You mean she can't tell us anything about Ginny?" burst out Ron.

"Afraid not."

"But--but--" His throat tightened up until he could hardly breathe.

"There's another way," said Moody, "but we'll have to be quick, and it can only be done once. We can learn something, though it may not be enough. And I need you for it, Weasley. Are you willing?"

Ron nodded, unable to speak.

"You can help me, Granger," Moody growled, and he stumped to a closet on the other side of the room faster than Ron would have thought he could move, Hermione trailing behind him. She took a small cauldron when he handed it to her and kindled a portable fire under it in the middle of the floor, next to the still immobile Polly. Moody uncorked a tall, slender bottle of purplish liquid and let it stream into the cauldron, where it began to simmer, sending up a thick, sweetish, unpleasant smell.

"Needs a few minutes to boil up to full strength," said Moody.

Ron stared down into the liquid, willing it to hurry. He could feel the presence of his friends behind him without even turning to look at them. They're here for me again, he thought. It's like old times. Yes, they're here, and I know without being told that they'll do anything for me. And that almost makes it all worthwhile... no, no, nothing could do that, if anything's gone wrong with Ginny. But it can't have done. I must hold to that thought, to that knowledge.

"Don't you want to know what you'll need to do, Weasley?" asked Moody, at his side.

"Doesn't matter what it is, I'll do it," said Ron, still staring.

"A Gryffindor through and through," said Moody softly.

"Well, I want to know," said Hermione sharply. "It's nothing dangerous, is it?"

"No," said Moody. "I do need a good bit of his blood, though."

"Take as much as you like," said Ron steadily, unbuttoning his shirt cuff and starting to roll up his sleeve.

"Another moment or two yet," said Moody.

"How does this spell work?" Hermione asked. Ron almost smiled. Trust Hermione to need to know, even at a time like this...

"It's not a spell. Not the way you'd think of it, anyway. It's released by this potion, but the potion doesn't contain the power," said Moody. The purple liquid had begun to give off its own light, and it shone eerily up into his battered face. "House-elves have more power than any wizard knows, and more knowledge too. They're severely limited in how they can use it, or share it. But there are exceptions to that very limitation, and they follow curious rules of their own. One such exception is bound with the ancient rules of blood-right. If two are blood relations, one can learn about the other one if a house-elf knows of him--or her. But they can't learn much. There are only two questions that can be asked, and answered, and they may not vary. They must be answered truthfully."

"But what if Polly doesn't know what the answers are?" asked Harry.

"That doesn't matter. The house-elf herself doesn't have to know. She's a conduit for the knowledge."

"And the questions are--" began Hermione.

"You'll find out soon enough," interrupted Moody. "It's ready. Hand me the athame," he said, and Hermione gave her professor the long silver knife with the curious twisted carvings on its handle.

Moody took Ron's arm then and held it over the cauldron, murmuring a few harsh words in some unfamiliar language. The steam rising in the air was hot on the back of Ron's hand. But all the hairs on his arm raised themselves at once, as if in response to cold. The odd sound of the words he did not understand curled through the air in Moody's low rasp of a voice, and he waited. Then Moody brought the blade of the knife down very slowly, and pulled its very tip through his skin with surgical precision.

It was so sharp that Ron almost didn't feel any pain. He stood staring stupidly at the thin trickle of his own blood that dripped into the cauldron, and that sent up such a great cloud of smoke. He seemed to have stared at it for a very long time when he finally heard Moody's voice again, as if from a great distance.

"Polly, house-elf of Malfoy Manor, I charge you to answer me," he said.

"I will, sir, if I may," said Polly faintly. It was the first time she had spoken for a very long time.

"You may, and you shall. For I call you by the ancient right of blood kin, through the blood of Ronald Bilius Weasley."

What a hideous middle name I have, Ron thought dreamily. Everything seemed to be growing rather vague through the clouds of smoke and steam. I don't know what Mum was thinking, to saddle a child with a name like that...

"I may, and I must," echoed Polly.

"Therefore do I ask you the questions that I may ask." Moody paused. "Is the living body of Ginevra Molly Weasley at Malfoy Manor?"

Polly paused as well, for such a long time that Ron was sure she wouldn't reply after all. Then... "No."

Not living. Not living. Ron repeated the words in his head over and over, blankly. He didn't think that he had made a sound, but he must have done. In one ear, Hermione said "Hush," and in the other, Harry whispered "Wait, I think there's more."

"And does she lie within those walls, or on those grounds, in death? Now, or at any time in the past?"

"No," repeated Polly.

Hermione gave a long sigh, and Harry relaxed against Ron's left side. The figure of Polly began to shimmer in the centre of the room.

"Go, lass," said Moody, his voice oddly gentle, and she winked out. "Look to your friend!" he said sharply, and Ron felt himself swaying towards the floor, or maybe it was rushing up to meet him. Then everything went black.

He woke up lying on a cot in a long, narrow room, Harry sitting at his bedside.

"It's not exactly the Hogwarts hospital wing, is it, mate?" he asked.

Ron sat up. "What happened?"

"You lost a lot of blood," said Harry.

"We were worried," said Hermione, coming into his field of vision.

"About me?" Against his will, the corner of Ron's mouth curled up.

"Well, you did keel over like you'd been caught by a bad Stunning spell," said Harry. "It wasn't pretty to watch. You all right now?"

Ron swung his legs over the side of the cot. "I'm fine." He was consumed by a sudden restlessness. "How long have I been here, anyway?"

"Ages. It's four o'clock now--by your watch, I mean. It's still morning here," said Harry.

"Are you missing any classes to come and see me?" asked Ron.

"No, they're all later in the day." Hermione sat on the edge of the bed, very close to him.

"Can you get out of here for a while?" He turned to Harry. "And you?"

"I suppose so," said Harry. "What do you want to do?"

A determined look came over Ron's face. "I want us to have a long talk, just like we used to do. And there's only one place to do it, I reckon--besides the Gryffindor common room, and we're not Hogwarts students anymore."

"Well..." said Hermione uncertainly. "Don't you think you ought to rest some more, Ron?"

"I've rested enough," he said shortly, pushing back the bedcovers and rising to his feet. "Come on."

January 25, 2000

4:15 p.m.

Diagon Alley

They sat at a back table in the taproom of the Leaky Cauldron. Most of the other tables were empty; it was an odd late-afternoon hour, too late for tea and too early for supper. They might have gone to the Three Broomsticks, Ron supposed. He had thought of that as well. Diagon Alley was closer to the Portkey point, but that wasn't the real reason why all three of them had gone there instead, as if by consensus. The other pub had been the site of so many Hogsmeade weekends when all three of them were at school. They had drunk bottles of butterbeer there, and whispered over childish plans, and gloried over teen-aged triumphs, all as if they hadn't had a care in the world. And really, we didn't, thought Ron. Or at least it seems that way now. I didn't have any idea how bad things could really get, then.

A cold blue ray of early winter sunset spilled across their table at the Leaky Cauldron now. At the front of the room near the bar, though, someone was lighting the warm orange witchlights, and their soft glow was comforting. Ron gave a deep, unconscious sigh. As if that had been a signal, Hermione sat up very straight.

"Ron... we do have to get back fairly soon. So, er, I was wondering, do you want to talk about..." She seemed to fumble for words. "What happened?" she finally said, her voice almost fearful. "With Polly, I mean."

Ron thought that Hermione was likely remembering the last conversation the two of them had had about Ginny. It had ended with him bellowing that she'd never understand anything about his feelings for his sister, and with her throwing a teapot at his head. The teapot was badly traumatized and had taken to hiding in the cupboard behind the plates, and he and Hermione had not spoken at all from that day to this.

"Yeah, I do. But I don't quite know where to start." Ron ran a hand over his face.

"Let's start with what she said," suggested Harry.

"All right. She said that Ginny wasn't there living, and wasn't there dead. So she's not at Malfoy Manor at all." He sighed, and his shoulders slumped. "I really thought she was."

"Well, it's a good thing she's not, isn't it?"

Ron avoided the question. "Could she somehow be there anyway?"

"Ron," Hermione said patiently, "we know that she's not there as... well, as a body, and never has been. That's unequivocal."

"But-"

"And she's not there as a living person. It's not just that Polly said it, either. It doesn't make sense. If she was there after all this time, why would Malfoy still be keeping her?"

"For ransom?" asked Ron.

Hermione made an impatient noise. "Please! The Malfoys had more money than they could ever spend, and now he has all of it."

"But he could have been holding her as a trump card," said Ron, thinking furiously. "Something to play in case everything went wrong. Then he could haul Ginny out and claim he'd been protecting her from his father all this time. He could play the hero, and Imperius her into going along with it or something."

"But then he would've done it by now," said Harry suddenly. "Sorry, Ron. But he would've. Because everything did go wrong, for him anyway. And when he was brought up in front of the Wizengamot, Ginny would've been very useful. What could've made Malfoy look better than coming up with her then?"

"You're right," admitted Ron. "And I am glad she's not there; it can only be good that she's not. I know what Malfoy is, and he hasn't changed his spots. And yet--" He struggled to explain. "If I'd known she was there, at least I'd have something definite to go by, you know?"

"Yeah," said Harry. "I know."

All three were silent for a moment.

"Well, we'll just have to look at the other possibilities," said Hermione in a determinedly cheerful voice. "Remember those other names Polly brought up? What about the Parkinsons, and the Crabbes, and the Bulstrodes?"

"All of those families were able to wriggle their way out of all charges," said Harry thoughtfully. "Even though we know all three of them were in as deep with the Death Eaters as anybody else."

"There you go. I don't think we ought to try the Parkinsons just yet. But I'd like to know what Aethelhard Crabbe was really up to during the..."

Ron nodded his head and said "Oh," or "Yes, I see," at the correct intervals, but his thoughts began to drift far, far away. He would never say it to Hermione or Harry. But in a very small way, in some unexamined corner of his soul, he was not at all glad that Ginny was not trapped at Malfoy Manor. Because he had wanted to go there and rescue her, yes, but there was something else he had wanted as well.

He listened to his friends' ideas with most of his mind, and even contributed some of his own. But another bit of him was busy planning how someday, some way, he would get his hands on Draco Malfoy. And then he would make the Slytherin sorry that he had ever been born. Very sorry, Ron decided. Very slowly. And with exquisite attention to detail.

Draco Malfoy stood on the sidewalk in front of the glass shop window, staring at a large, brightly painted sign on the door. He read it again. Slowly, as if he could not quite believe what he saw, he reached out and touched it with one hand. A fruity female voice rang out in the nearly empty street.

"We're sorry!" it said cheerily. "To better serve your literary needs, Flourish and Blotts is closed for renovations until February the second. Please attend our grand re- opening, which will feature free refreshments, an elf choir singing selections from My Fair Witch, and dancing balloons provided by Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. Fifteen percent off all Transfiguration texts--"

"You've got to be joking," said Draco in disbelief, shaking the sign back and forth as if to wring a more pleasing answer from it.

"We're sorry! To better serve--"

Draco tore the sign from the door, cracked it in two between his hands, and stomped it underfoot. Then he looked round rather shamefacedly. I sincerely hope that no-one saw me. But no-one had. There were very few people in Diagon Alley just now, especially at this odd, almost-twilight hour.

Of course, he supposed that was why Flourish and Blotts had chosen this time for their renovation. It was after the crowds of Christmas and before the rush of spring. But still... He saw the twisted sign under his feet and felt irrational rage threaten to swallow him all over again. He kicked it into an alley and started walking through the greyish snow, trying to collect himself. How dare they, how dare they be closed now, when I need them to be open so badly? How will I ever find that book now? He passed Quality Quidditch Supplies.

Perhaps I ought to turn round and go the other way, towards Gringotts. They'd be starting to close at this hour, but they'd stay open for me. Sneppit Gogsblatter certainly obtained a number of questionable items for Father, I know that. Perhaps he'd find it for me...

But Gogsblatter was under investigation, he remembered. The goblins were treading very carefully now. And besides, he thought, that might draw too much attention towards himself. But how else could I find it?

He had stood outside the entrance to the library at Malfoy Manor for nearly half an hour that morning, trying to will himself to go in. The book might be there, although he didn't think it likely. But he hadn't been able to make himself do so. He could not stop thinking of the Malfoy ghost librarian.

Once, he had loved to bring his problems and his questions to Ziggy, as Draco had always called the ghost. Once, it had seemed as if no-one in the world besides Ziggy could understand half so well, or give advice that was half so helpful. But Draco had not spoken to Ziggy even once since he had brought Ginny back to Malfoy Manor, two and a half years before. He had missed the ghost's funny ways. He had been a wizard, of course, but had spent his life and his work among Muggles, and had a thousand little nineteenth-century European mannerisms that secretly amused Draco, from his frock coats to his Viennese accent to the insubstantial cigars he was forever conjuring up. Draco remembered all the good advice Ziggy had ever given him, and he thought of it wistfully, even though he had ignored nearly all of it. But Draco remembered those penetrating eyes that had always seemed to see right through him, as well. And he knew that he was not going to go to the library and ask the ghost of Sigmund Freud about the Endings book he so desperately wanted to find.

He looked up to see a swaying black sign shaped like a witch stirring a cauldron, just over his head. He had walked all the way to the Leaky Cauldron without realizing it. He stared at the sign for several minutes, utterly at loose ends, the rusty sound as it creaked back and forth seeming to clear all thoughts out of his head. Well, except for one.

I need a drink!

***

The hump-backed bartender slouched over to Draco and raised an eyebrow towards him. Draco pushed back his empty glass. "Another," he said. "Maker's Mark this time." The bartender nodded. Tim, Draco vaguely thought his name was, and quite possibly Tom the innkeeper's identical twin brother, as only the fact that their humps were on opposite sides of their backs made it possible to tell them apart. Not that it mattered.

Draco took the cut-crystal glass that Tim set down before him and raised it to his lips, grimacing briefly at the savage kick of the kobold-brewed Kentucky whisky. He'd regret this in the morning, he knew. But there were times when Ogden's Old Firewhiskey just didn't do the trick. And this is a prime example if there ever was one, he thought. He stared into the depths of the glass, not seeing them. When he first came in, he'd had the vague impression that there were a few other people in the very back of the taproom, and he heard a very soft sound of talking now, too faint for any individual words or even tones of voice to be heard. He let the sound wash over him, and turned his thoughts over and over in his head.

There's got to be another way to find it. Mustelidae could go to Hogwarts... or perhaps a house-elf... no, no. That would be the surest way to bring the Aurors down on the Manor no matter who did it for me. Aethelhard Crabbe would love nothing more than to talk to me again, and he might know something... no, I can't get mixed up with that crowd. Perhaps somewhere in my father's study...

Draco gave a reflexive shudder when he remembered that dark and silent room panelled in ebony and floored with teak, smelling of myrrh and heavy with secrets that seemed to hang in the very air. He had not yet been able to bring himself to go into Lucius Malfoy's inner sanctum since his father's death, although it belonged to him now, just as the rest of the house did. He secretly doubted that he ever would. No.

But surely there's some way. And yet...

Draco toyed with his drink. He felt something instinctively that he did not really want to spell out, even in his own head. Perhaps especially in his own head. He had not yet quite admitted to himself what he planned to do once he found the book, nor the purpose for which he wanted it. If he came up with an elaborate plan to get it, one that might take time to carry out, it certainly did increase his own risk. He knew that he was still being watched by the Ministry. But the main problem was that he would have to drag his desires fully into his consciousness. And part of him did not want to be conscious of them at all.

Perhaps I should leave things as they are, he thought evasively. I could do that... simply do nothing... couldn't I?

He imagined living side by side with a motionless Ginny Weasley, year after year, and a quick, violent shudder seized him. No. It was as if the weight of her silence had been growing for two and a half years, and had now reached a crucial point. If it continued, it would merge into the silence of the great manor, and together they would press on his mind, driving him out of his wits, driving him mad... He traced his finger through a spot of wetness on the surface of the bar, trying to collect his thoughts.

Maybe Father was right. I could... well... take care of the problem permanently. And maybe I should.

But he knew even as he considered the idea that he would not do it.

Her death in the Prefect's bathroom had been a tragic accident, or at most, a ghastly mistake. He himself was innocent. He was sure of it. But if he stood over Ginny Weasley and cast a quiet, painless Killing Curse-- and there were many such, in the Dark Arts, that permitted a sleeping body to pass from life to death without pain--then he would no longer be innocent. Draco had carefully constructed the shining image of his guiltlessness in his own mind. He knew, at some level he would never articulate, that he could not permit it to be shattered in that way.

So that idea's out. But now what?

He sighed softly, staring into the great mirror that hung over the wall above the bar.

Something moved all the way across the room, behind him. It was a flash of red hair. Not quite like Ginny's, though; it was darker, more copper than gold. Still, it caught his eye. The head turned abruptly, with a certain impatient tilt. Draco drew in his breath, sitting up straighter and staring. Draco couldn't have counted the times he had seen Ginny turn her head in exactly that way during that last year at Hogwarts, when he spied on her at every opportunity.

And now the way the head turns back, with a stubborn little toss... as if she would change the mind of the person she doesn't agree with, through her sheer force of will. But it's not the same. The movements are rougher, without her grace. Like, and yet unlike... and that's not a girl's head.

The red head stopped in the middle of a turn, as if its owner had felt Draco's stare. And slowly, it swiveled towards the bar.

Draco looked directly into the reflected face of Ron Weasley.