The Quick and the Dead

+++

An army of tiny dwarves swung their hammers into the spongy surface of Ron's brain. "We'll strike gold yet!" one of them yelled, wagging his long beard. "Stay on it, lads!"

"Stop it, for Merlin's sake," mumbled Ron. The dwarves paused, cackled, and then took out pickaxes. Ron cradled his head, caught somewhere between sleep and waking. I need to stop this, he thought in a moment of sudden clarity. I need to stop going to sleep like this, and I need to stop waking up like this. Ever since those brains wrapped themselves around me in the Department of Mysteries in my fifth year... But as he struggled to finish the sentence, he opened his eyes.

Blinding winter sunlight poured in through a crack in the blinds that shaded the window. Ron squinted at it and decided that his next move would be to take up permanent residence in a cave. A very deep, dark cave, far away from everyone he had ever known.

He tried to sit up, rubbing his face, the blankets falling around him. His entire head felt as if it had been taken apart by the evil hammer-wielding dwarves and hastily reassembled. Also, his tongue seemed to have been replaced by one of the infamous freshener cakes from the urinal in the men's room at the Hog's Head. Millicent's head popped out from the doorway leading to the little kitchenette.

"And how are you this lovely morning?" she asked cheerfully.

"Ergh," said Ron. Under the circumstances, he felt that it was a very coherent comment to make.

She held out a steaming cup and waved it temptingly, so that its odor wafted to his nose. "There's coffee."

Ron perked up with alarming speed, sitting bolt upright. "Can you bring it here?" he asked eagerly.

"Nope. Get your lazy arse out of bed."

"All right, all right, I'm coming," he grumbled, swinging his legs over the side of the sofa bed. It didn't help one bit that his thighs seemed to have been turned to rubber during the night. "You're a witch, Bulstrode."

"No shit, Sherlock," cackled Millicent, sounding remarkably like the head dwarf in his hangover dream.

"Who?" Ron yawned, padding toward the kitchenette.

"Didn't do too well at Muggle Studies, did you?" Millicent handed him the cup.

"Mmph," Ron eloquently replied, and drank its contents in one long gulp. It was pitch-black, bitter, incredibly strong, and the consistency of sludge. "D'jou make this, Bulstrode?" he asked. His voice was muffled, since as much of his face as possible was fitted into the coffee cup in a vain attempt to lick the inside of it.

"Yep," said Millicent, sounding satisfied. "You like it, Weasley?"

Ron looked up. He decided that he had always misjudged Millicent Bulstrode, and that she was, in fact, the one worthwhile thing Slytherin House had ever produced. "You can call me Ron, I reckon. If you want to."

Millicent grinned from ear to ear. "And Luna always said that I couldn't boil water. Ha! That shows her."

Most of Ron's brain still seemed to be in a liquefied state, although it was rapidly knitting itself together under the influence of the coffee. But still, something sounded a bit odd about that sentence. "How long have you two been friends?" he asked curiously.

"Oh... a while," said Millicent evasively.

"But, at Hogwarts I never saw the two of you even say one word to each oth--"

"More coffee?" asked Luna serenely, appearing at his right with a large carafe.

"Yes. Oh gods yes. Oh Luna, I could kiss you," said Ron fervently.

She gave him a small, enigmatic smile, and poured him another cup of coffee. He studied her face in profile as she bent her head. There was a clear-cut perfection to the lines of her nose and mouth and chin and brow that she didn't have in full-face. Her hair hung over her pale skin like a cascade of golden ribbons. She straightened up and offered him the cup between her palms, gravely.

"Thanks, Luna," said Ron. It wasn't what he really wanted to say, but he wasn't exactly sure what that would have been, either.

They sat around the table, all sipping coffee and eating slices of buttered toast. Morning sunlight filtered through the drapes at the windows, but it wasn't bothering Ron anymore. He felt oddly serene, as if some of Luna's calm--and Millicent's solid optimism, perhaps--had been passed on to him.

"Does your mother know where you are?" Millicent finally asked.

"Nope," Ron said. "I should go home, I suppose."

"We're not trying to kick you out," said Luna.

"I should, though. I will in a bit," said Ron.

"Mmm," said Luna.

Several more minutes went by without any of them saying a word. Ron thought that he saw Luna and Millicent exchange a look, though.

"Ron," asked Luna, finishing her last bite of toast, "do you think your mother worries about you?"

"More specifically," added Millicent, "Ron, do you think your mum worries about you drinking yourself into a stupor in pubs every night?"

"How'd you know?" asked Ron, startled.

"Word gets around. And that's not a very diplomatic thing to say, Milla," said Luna serenely.

Millicent shrugged. "Sorry. I never was very diplomatic. Not like Slytherins are supposed to be, anyway. The Sorting Hat wanted to put me in Hufflepuff, you know."

"I know," said Luna. "You've told me about eighty-five thousand times, Milla."

"But Ron doesn't know. Maybe he'll trust me a little more if he doesn't think of me as an evil, cunning, lying, slimy Slytherin--"

"Hush," said Luna. She turned to Ron. "I know why you do it," she said, with the simplicity of a child.

"Oh?" asked Ron. "And why is that?"

Luna looked down at her linked hands. "Because of what happened to Ginny," she said quietly. Her words dropped into the still air like pebbles into a pool.

"Never talk to me again about how I'm not diplomatic," chortled Millicent.

"I hope you're not angry with me, Ron," said Luna.

Ron felt himself shaking his head no before he even had a chance to think about it. Then he sipped at his fifth cup of coffee and tried to gather his thoughts before replying in words. I ought to be angry with her. Both of them, I suppose... but especially Luna. Yet I'm not. I'm not. He felt none of the scalding rage he'd thought that he would have felt if anyone had said that sort of thing since his sister's disappearance. And no-one ever has, he realized. No-one ever dared. But Luna... she doesn't even think about what she should dare to do.

He looked up into Luna's calm face. She sat waiting for his reply.

"I'm not angry," he said.

"But you don't know exactly what happened to Ginny, do you?" asked Luna.

"Luna!" hissed Millicent, trying to kick the other girl under the table. Luna moved her legs aside and easily avoided Millicent's foot.

Ron looked up at Luna. "I don't," he said. "I don't."

"What do you know?" asked Luna.

Millicent groaned. "And the security trolls told me that I wasn't tactful," she muttered under her breath.

Ron looked into Luna's calm blue eyes. "I'll tell you," he said.

Millicent got up. "I think I need to be somewhere else now, don't you?"

He held up a hand to stop her. "No. I want you here as well. I--" Ron took a deep breath. "I trust you. Both of you, I mean. I'm not even sure why. But I do." And he did. And since Ron always trusted, or distrusted, or hated, or loved, with everything that was in him, he told them everything. Everything he knew, or guessed, or hoped, or feared about the disappearance of Ginny Weasley.

+++

Ron Apparated into the back yard of the Burrow, thanking his lucky stars that he'd always managed to keep his license current. Not that he'd Apparated very much in the past two years, since trying that particular trick when pissed out of one's mind was a very good way to get splinched. But maybe I always knew that I'd need it again, he thought. And those days are over anyway. Over for good. Because now, things will be different... everything will be different...

He tiptoed past the chicken coops, swiveling his head from side and side and praying that no other Weasleys were out at this hour on a Saturday. He could feel the sense of excitement running through him, hot and strong, and he wanted to savor it by himself before he had to deal with any family members. And he wanted to plan. For the first time in well over a year, he had a reason to plan and to hope. He'd contacted Hermione by using the fireplace in Millicent and Luna's room, and they'd agreed to all meet in three days. Hermione had looked at him narrowly when he'd explained that Millicent Bulstrode was going to help them, and she'd rolled her eyes at the mention of Luna Lovegood's name, but Ron had explained that they were both willing to help.

"Wasn't Bulstrode Draco Malfoy's friend at Hogwarts?" Hermione had asked suspiciously.

"They were hardly such great friends as all that," Ron had said dismissively. "She said she almost never sees him now. But she does keep up a sort of contact with him, and she promised that she'd use it to help us. I think we can trust her, Hermione, I really do."

"Well..." Hermione had gnawed on her lip for a long time. "The Bulstrodes came over to our side at the end of the war, no doubt about that. And she's the only person we know who also knows any of the old Slytherin gang. Not just Malfoy, but Crabbe and Goyle, Theodore Nott, and Pansy Parkinson. She could help us a lot, if she's willing to."

"She is," Ron had said firmly.

"All right then. I suppose we can hear what Bulstrode has to say, at least. But Luna..." Hermione grimaced.

"She's a lot more sensible than you've ever given her credit for," Ron had said rather coldly. "It's not as if you ever spent enough time talking to her to really know her."

"And I suppose you can read her like a book after one breakfast? What were you doing in their rooms overnight anyway?"

"Never mind that! The point is that Luna can help us, too."

"Fine," Hermione had almost snapped. "But if she says one word about crystals or chakras or mystical auras, I won't be responsible for my reaction."

"Fine!"

The conversation had perhaps ended on a bit of a sour note, but Hermione agreed that she would tell both Harry and Mad-Eye Moody, and would get them to come as soon as they could. That was the only reason that Ron had been willing to wait so long before the meeting occurred.

Moody will know what to do, thought Ron. He'll help us. He'll realize how important that change in Ginny's clock hand is, and he'll know what it means. And then--and then--

"Ronald Bilius Weasley!" screeched his mother's voice, directly in his left ear. A chicken squawked and flew up in his face. When the feathers cleared, however, Ron rather wished they hadn't. The wrath of Molly Weasley was a fearsome thing to see.

Of course, he had become rather good at tuning it out by now. Still, random phrases had a way of getting through Ron's defense mechanisms, and he heard them as he trudged towards the house, his mother bustling after him.

"Gone for three days! Not a word. Could have been lying dead in a ditch for all we know. Probably out getting drunk and then thrown into back alleys at three in the morning. Bill was never this much trouble. Charlie was making good money by your age--" Molly prudently avoided any mention of Percy, whose relationship with his family had never completely thawed. "Fred and George have had their problems but at least they straightened up eventually. Shop's doing very well now." And, of course, the kicker: "When are you going to do something with your life?"

They had actually reached the back door by now, and Ron turned, putting his arms around his mother's waist. "Soon. Very soon," he said, and kissed her cheek. She reached up to touch the spot, uncertainly.

"Well, you've cleaned yourself up before coming home this time, I see," she said, opening the door. "I suppose you might as well come in and have some breakfast. There's a bit left over."

Ron saw the ham and egg pie kept warm on the back of the stove, the full pot of tea, and the popovers in a covered basket, and correctly guessed that his mother had made Saturday breakfast for him in hopes that he was coming home for it. With a pang, he wondered if she had done that the previous two mornings as well.

"Sorry I didn't call," he said awkwardly, settling into a chair at the table.

"Hmph," said Molly Weasley, waving her wand towards the oven in a series of simple Warmup spells.

"I've been busy," he said.

Molly didn't reply, but the exact set of her lips left no doubt as to her opinion of what the nature of Ron's busyness had been. Sometimes, he thought, his mother just didn't even need to use words.

"I'm seeing Harry and Hermione in a few days," he said.

She did turn round at that, spatula in hand, her face hopeful, wary, troubled. "You haven't seen your friends in a good long while," was all she said.

"Nope," was all that Ron said. Best not to tell her more, he decided. I don't want to get Mum's hopes up. It wouldn't be fair, not until I know more. But surely I'll have more to tell her, soon. Only I don't want to worry her. I don't want to cause her any more pain...

He looked at his mother's profile as she moved around the stove and cupboard, taking out a plate for him. She looked so much older than she had done two and a half years ago. Her hair was all threaded with grey now, and her face sagged. He had never seen anything so weary as her eyes. They seemed to have seen all there was to see, and almost all of it sorrowful. His breath caught in his throat, looking at her.

"What is it, Ron?" she asked, getting out his favorite teacup.

"Nothing," he said through a sudden tightness in his throat. "I'm glad to be home, Mum. That's all."

"I'm glad as well," she said softly. Then she turned towards the table, and in the turn, caught sight of the clock. Ron looked at it too, as if drawn by an irresistible force.

Ginny's hand had lain just before the hour marked "Dead" for two and a half years. But a few days earlier, it had changed. It now hovered just above "Mortal Peril." It didn't rest there easily, though, and this was behavior that none of them had ever seen from a hand on that clock before. It wiggled and vibrated almost violently, sometimes yanking itself back and forth. Often, it bounced up and down. It was never still. Ron had no idea what it meant, and neither did anyone else, but one thought always occurred to him whenever he looked at it, as he could never seem to stop doing now.

Ginny's hand looks like it's trying to escape.

+++

Good house-elves asked no questions, and those at Malfoy Manor were the elite of their class. They showed no surprise when Draco told several of them that Ginny Weasley would be staying at Malfoy Manor from now on, and that they were to tend to all her needs, fill all her wishes, and obey her as they obeyed him.

"Unless she wants to go outside," he added. "Don't let her go outside. Don't show her any of the house, now that I think of it. I'll do that, if she wants to see any of it."

"Very good, sir," the house-elves squeaked, and that was that. No mention of the fact that they had all seen her preserved body lying dead in his spare closet and on his bed for two and a half years. But then, Draco hadn't expected to hear about that. Good house-elves knew that such things were none of their business.

Polly, the new house-elf that replaced the one who had died, seemed like a sharp little thing. He assigned her as Ginny's personal maid. Perhaps she was a shade too sharp, he sometimes thought, and her bright eyes a bit too keen. But such thoughts never stayed in his head for very long. She was only a house-elf, after all, and Ginny seemed to like her.

Ginny. Just thinking of her name brought a warm rush of happiness to Draco. When he awoke on the morning after he'd brought her back to life, she had still been sleeping, and at first he hadn't heard her breathing. He had lain his head on her chest, panicstricken, and the slow, steady thump of her heart reverberated through his ears. Her eyes fluttered open.

"Draco," she said softly. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing," he said, feeling faint with relief.

She giggled. "Your hair's tickling my nose."

He smelled the faint scent of the jasmine soap she had used the night before, rising from the warm, firm skin of her chest above her nightgown. He felt the touch of her skin against his cheek for an instant when he moved his head. Then he jerked himself back from her as fast as he could.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Nothing," he said. "Wouldn't you like some breakfast, Ginny?"

+++

"You're looking very well, Mr. Malfoy," Lambert Mustelidae remarked that afternoon when he and Draco met in a private room at Gringott's to go over accounts.

"Yes," said Draco, and he could not suppress a small smile. "I suppose I am. It's--er--a beautiful day, isn't it?"

Lambert looked at him oddly. Too late, Draco remembered that it was snowing, gray, and dreary outside.

"Let's take another look at these ledgers," Draco said rather brusquely. But he had a hard time keeping the smile off his face, even so.

He had to take care of business for the next two days, since he'd neglected it completely for Ginny. But he rushed through everything with only a small part of his mind, the rest dwelling on his memories of exactly how her lips parted in sleep when she softly breathed, or how happy she looked while eating bananas with her oatmeal at breakfast. And as soon as Draco dared, he went back home to Ginny.

He loved to watch everything that she did, from the way her nose crinkled up when she smiled to the brisk way she walked down the corridor to the way she leaned back and closed her eyes when he brushed her hair at night in long, sweeping strokes. But he left the room when the house-elves helped her to dress, or when they ran her bath. He didn't dare to look at her in those private moments, although he was pretty sure that she would have let him do it. And at night, when he was sure that she was asleep, he got out the Endings book and read as far ahead in it as he could.

The problem was that it was never far enough. Pages had a way of appearing and disappearing. Often he would nearly reach the end of a sentence that looked promising, and would turn the page, his heart pounding with excitement, hoping to find what he was looking for. But then the next two pages would be illustrations, with no text at all. He kept seeing scenes from the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice, and while the quality of the artwork was all very impressive, it didn't tell him anything he needed to know. Twice he tried taking the book into the other room and reading it there, wondering if his closeness to Ginny was somehow blocking information. But both times the pages then became stubbornly blank.

"Draco," she said suddenly on the morning of the second day, just as he was getting up from the breakfast table, ready to leave.

"Yes?" he said, buttoning a cufflink.

"I want something," she said. Her face was very resolute.

"What is it, Ginny?" Draco asked guardedly.

"Are you going to be gone all day again?"

"Probably. Yes. I'll come back as soon as I can, though."

"I want something to read, then."

"You, uh... you remember how to read?" he asked.

"Of course, silly," she said, laughing a little. A ray of sunshine from a window sparkled on a lock of her hair when she tossed her head, touching it with fire. At that moment, Draco wondered if he could deny her anything she asked.

"I didn't think of you being bored while I was gone," he said thoughtfully. "I'll find something for you when I get back. And we'll find other things to do. I won't have to go away for a while quite soon, and I'll show you things in the house then. But I don't like to think of you being bored... will you be all right today, Ginny?"

"Of course," she giggled. "What's one day, after all?"

What's one day after two and a half years? his mind added. He could not help but wonder if her mind had added that, as well. Does she know? Does she remember--well--anything? He might have thought about that point some more, but Ginny threw her head back when she giggled, and the sun turned her hair into a dancing gallery of coppery gold.

"I'll be back soon, Ginny," he said. Not soon enough!

Draco wrapped up all the business that he could during the morning. All it should take is about one more day of this, he thought over a hurried lunch, and then I ought to have several weeks completely free. I can let Mustelidae take care of most of it after this. I can't afford to lose the time. I need to spend it with Ginny...and I need to figure out how to get what I need from that book.

He went to Madame Malkin's that afternoon and ordered knickers and camisoles and silk lounging robes for Ginny in delicate shades of peach and lavender and green, guessing at her size. "Very good, sir," said the house-elf who took his order, showing no surprise at the odd fact that the woman who would wear these items hadn't come with Draco. The Malfoys had been customers of the House of Malkin for over a thousand years.

Draco left through the private back exit of the store. He was whistling, and imagining exactly how the chartreuse silk of one of the robes would cling to Ginny Weasley's body, when his eye was caught by a flash of red hair in the street. Before he even turned his head, he had a sense of foreboding. But still he couldn't keep from doing it. He stopped short, and his eyes met the narrowed brown ones of George Weasley.

After a long pause, the redhead nodded. "Malfoy," he said, in an utterly neutral voice.

"Weasley," said Malfoy, keeping his breath even and steady with great effort.

"Doing some shopping?" asked Weasley.

Draco didn't bother to ask how George Weasley knew about the private exit. He had always felt that this twin knew far more than he let on. And out of all that whole misbegotten clan, he's the most dangerous. He sees too much. And he's too quiet about what he's seen...

"Yes, a bit," Draco said, as easily as he could. He knew that adding anything onto that statement would be a very bad idea.

"Ah," said George Weasley. He nodded again, and without another word, he turned to walk in the other direction. As soon as he had disappeared into the distance, Draco let out a long, long breath that he hadn't even realized he had been holding.

"I want to show you something," said Draco on the second night as he led Ginny up to the third floor and down the corridor. She looked curiously around at the inlaid wooden walls lit by the flickering orange witchlights in sconces.

"What's up here?" she asked.

"You'll see. I'll show you."

"This is a big house," she said, padding beside him. He'd forgotten to get her shoes, and had been forced to Transfigure a pair of his boots. He'd gotten the size wrong, and they kept coming off as she walked until she'd finally held them in her hand and walked barefoot.

"I'll show you all of it if you like. Well," amended Draco, "almost all of it."

"Really? What will you show me?"

"Oh--all sorts of things. You'll like them. Galleries, and portrait halls, and armories, and sunrooms, and guest bedrooms, and--"

"What won't you show me?"

"Nothing important," said Draco, knowing that he lied. "This way, Ginny." He opened a little door.

She looked around at the dusty little room filled with stacked chests. She ran her hand along the rows of books in the little bookshelf and picked one up. "Here There Be Dragons," she read, tracing the golden words stamped on the cover with her finger. "Ooh, look!" The red dragon on the cover switched its tail at her curiously. She petted his head, and it purred like a kitten.

"I think you'll like that one," said Draco, coming up behind her. "I always did. I could never get the dragon on the cover to do that, though. He always roared at me."

"You just have to know how to stroke dragons," she said absently. "Then they'll do what you want. Oh! Why did you suddenly shiver like that, Draco?"

"Uh--never mind that just now." Draco cleared his throat. "And then there's this book. It's a very nice one. It's about three little bunny rabbits who went on an adventure. And here's one about a magical kingdom filled with talking flowers. I always liked that one, too."

"These were yours?" Ginny asked curiously.

"Yes, they were mine. When I was a child."

Ginny had wandered over to one of the chests, her arms filled with books. "What's in this?"

"I'm not sure," said Draco. "Let's see." He opened the carved lid to find a collection of stuffed bears. "Oh..." he said softly. "I'd forgotten all about these."

Ginny picked up the top bear and stroked it gently. It was missing an ear, and its fur had worn thin.

"Teddy," murmured Draco.

"That's what you called him?" asked Ginny.

"Yes."

Neither of them spoke for a moment as Ginny touched the bear, and Draco watched her. She handled it with as much care as if it had been a living thing. And I suppose I thought it was, when I was four or five, thought Draco. I used to hold it in just the same way she's doing now. And then one day, Teddy simply disappeared... I never knew what happened...

"I can tell you loved him," said Ginny. "You made him real, didn't you?"

Draco looked down at the top book on her stack and read its title, not trusting himself to speak just yet, trying to collect his thoughts. The Velveteen Rabbit. "I did," he finally said.

She nodded, hugging the bear to her. Her eyes were strangely veiled.

Draco looked down at her then, and as he did, a strange wave of something immense and warm rolled through him so strongly that it was almost painful. He could not have even guessed what it was. He took a step toward her before he realized what he was doing. He already knew what he was going to do; he could see it, could feel it in his skin. He was going to gather her to him and hold her as she held his old teddy bear, and the heat of her would seep into the coldness in him. He would warm himself with her.

She looked up at him, her brown eyes large, a small smile on her lips. He forced himself to step back.

"Let's go, Ginny," he said.

"Are there more books in the house when I'm done with these?" she asked as they walked down the corridor.

"Yes, lots."

"Is there a library?"

"Well--yes, but we won't go there just yet."

"Can we soon?"

Draco remembered Ziggy, the ghost librarian, and how he had avoided him for two and a half years. He thought of bringing Ginny into the Malfoy library, and letting her wander among the endless rows of shelves. He thought of Ziggy's penetrating eyes boring into his own as he stood beside what he had resurrected. "Not just yet," he said, and he rebuffed all her further attempts at conversation.

That night, he studied the Endings book in his sitting room until dawn. He learned nothing.

Draco returned from Gringott's on the afternoon of the third day to find Madame Malkins' pearl-covered boxes embossed with roses sitting in the entrance hall. He carried them into his suite himself and laid their contents across the bed. He avoided looking at the Endings book on the bedside table as he did so.

"Some new robes arrived for you," Draco told Ginny a few hours later. They had just eaten dinner. It was evening, and her skin glowed from a long bath she had taken by herself. For the past days, he had told her to bathe without him, and had instructed the house-elves to help her. He had not seen her naked since that first bath several days before and he had turned those memories over and over in his head ever since. Time to create some new ones. He sat on the end of a chaise lounge next to the bed, and ignored the voice in his head that told him this was not one of his better ideas. He hadn't planned to watch her put on the new robes; he had been sure that he would not. He was going to wait in the sitting room, and she would come in with each new outfit already on for him to approve or disapprove. Well, the plans have changed, he told himself, rebelliously.

"Put these on," he said, waving a hand at the shimmer of jewel-coloured silks on the bed. "But slowly. Undress for me slowly, and then dress yourself slowly. Will you do that, Ginny?"

She looked at him, her brow wrinkling. "You want to watch me while I do it?"

"Yes. Very much. Will you?"

"Should I..." She hesitated. "Should I do that? Is it right?"

"Yes, you should, you absolutely should. Anything you do with me, or for me, is right, remember?"

"I remember..." Ginny said slowly. "I will then, if you want me to."

"I do."

Her fingers moved to the belt of one of his dressing-gowns, which she was still wearing. Draco felt triumph rush through him. He leaned back and watched her through half-lidded eyes.

Ginny untied the knot on the belt, and let the silk robe slip to the floor. She wore no knickers or any other undergarments beneath it. She turned away from him, to the bed, but Draco shook his head.

"Not yet," he said hoarsely. "Turn back to me."

Very slowly, she did. The skin of her body glowed like a pearl, and her long hair hung partly over her breasts. A light flush seemed spread over her face and neck, Draco thought, although it might have been only the light. But I hope not. I hope she really is blushing. I like that. It means that she's modest, but she's willing to show herself to me. Only to me... at least I think so...

"Ginny," he said suddenly. "Do you want to get dressed again?"

"Do you want me to?" she asked. He couldn't tell if her voice held any emotion or not.

"No," Draco said. "I want you to pick up your hair with your hands and raise your arms over your head."

Her breasts rose as she did so. They were beautifully shaped, he thought, large but quite firm, with raspberry-coloured nipples. Or perhaps they were the color of the blush on the cheeks of fresh peaches... I want to look more closely. I want to see her very close. I want... and she would let me... No, not yet, I don't know if it's safe. I ought to be satisfied with only looking. I thought I would be... His gaze slid down her torso, the curve of her hips, and her long legs, and then, irresistibly, back up again to the curly strawberry blonde hair where her thighs met. Draco swallowed hard before he could speak again.

"Do you want me to dress now?" Ginny asked softly.

"No," he said, hearing how very faint and far away his voice sounded. His heartbeat pounded in his ears. He knew that he should not ask what he now wanted to ask her. He knew that he would do it anyway. "Lie on the edge of the bed," he said. "Let your feet touch the floor."

Silently, she obeyed. Her knees were facing him now, only a few inches from his hands. He clenched them into fists beneath the edge of the lounge, where she could not see.

"Now spread your legs," Draco said. "Spread them wide."

"Oh," said Ginny, her voice very small. "I don't know..."

Draco was almost unsettled by the sheer pleasure he felt at her modesty, or timidity, or whatever it was that filled her words with doubt. But he felt worried, too. What will I do if she won't do this? Well, I won't worry about that. She'll do what I want, of course. He made his words as gentle and persuasive as he could. "There's nothing wrong with what I ask," he said softly. "It's the right thing to do. It is, I swear it is."

"But, still..." An abstracted frown spread over her face.

"You said you'd do whatever I asked. Remember?"

"I do, but..."

I could order her to do this thing, and she would do it, Draco realized. Maybe I should. And yet... and yet...I don't think I want it that way. What other way is there, though?

And then he remembered what she had done when he had first resurrected her, and the words he'd said that had finally got her to eat the bread and drink the wine for the completion of the ceremony.

"Spread your legs for me, Ginny," he said, and his voice was like honey. "It'll make me happy if you do."

Ginny nodded. "All right, then. I will."

She parted her thighs at last. Her movements were very slow, or maybe only seemed that way. They were like the opening of a vast door on a tiny fulcrum, and it was, thought Draco, an opening that he seemed to have been waiting for longer than he could remember.

"Is this wide enough?" she asked.

"No. Wider," he said, his voice a harsh rasp.

"Yes."

Then her legs were spread as far as they would go, and she was utterly open to him.

"Now keep them that way," Draco said.

"It's not so easy to do," said Ginny. "Can't you hold them apart for me?"

"No. I can't."

"But, if you put one hand on each of my thighs, and sort of held your fingers spread, like this--"

"No. No, Ginny."

He got up and stood between her knees, careful not to touch her skin, and stared down at that part of her that only a lover would ever see. Even in all the times he'd watched her in the prefects' bathroom, he had never seen her like this. He wondered if anyone else ever had. She'll tell me the truth if I ask... But Draco found that he did not want to ask, not yet. Her memory of the past was so faulty that he knew he couldn't trust the accuracy of anything she said on that sort of subject, anyway. He kept staring.

He had secretly watched her refuse other boys for over a year before the fatal day. She was saving herself, Draco thought. And I suppose really that I believed she saved herself for me. I was a bit silly, wasn't I? Because then... then she refused me, as well, with her horror and her screams. But she isn't screaming now. I ordered the untouchable good girl of Hogwarts to spread herself for me, and she did it without hesitation. She asked if she was spread wide enough, and when I said no, she opened even further, so that I could see everything I wanted to see... and now... now I'm looking down at that one bit of her I've never seen before. He thought of all the words he had ever heard for that bit of Ginny Weasley he now saw, the forbidden and vulgar words, and he repeated them to himself with a thrill of satisfaction. Yes. I can finally see it for the first time, the one that she kept locked away from everyone else's gaze... at least, I think she did... And now, it's mine. Mine.

She had exposed herself to him, but something essential about her still seemed locked away. Even though she had opened the most private part of herself at his command, he still felt that he saw nothing of her. Ginny stared up at the ceiling, and he could not tell if there was any expression on her face. He wanted to put one there. One that was unmistakable.

There are spells I could use, spells I know. Iucunditas, maybe, girls always like that one... I could use my wand. I could do without touching her. I remember how it makes a girl look, and it's a lovely sight. But Ginny would be the loveliest I've ever seen... The spell would hit her in a wave, and her back would arch. She would thrust her hips forward, and she would cry out as she felt pleasure sear through her body. But she wouldn't cry out my name. She wouldn't have any reason to do that. Of course, I could give her one. That's your reward, Ginny, for doing as I wish, I could say to her. I can't touch you, but I can make you feel this. And now I want you to give me my reward. I want you to moan my name. I want to hear you say, Draco, Draco, as the next orgasm ripples through you. Do it, Ginny, do it now! And she would if I told her to, but... but I don't want her to do that because I tell her to do it. I wonder if she remembers how that sort of pleasure even feels? She must know how it feels, she must have touched herself, at least. I could watch her. I've imagined so many times how she would look then, and I could see it at last--Ginny Weasley, writhing on my bed. But that's not what I want... not quite what I need. Not that way...

Unconsciously, Draco licked his lips.

"Draco?" asked Ginny. "Why do you stare at me so hard?"

"Because I want to," he said, in a voice so hoarse that it was almost unrecognizable. "Just lie there. Keep lying there, and keep your legs spread, Ginny."

"All right." She had stopped staring up at the ceiling however, and had begun to look at him with a strange, curious expression on her face. He was too wrapped up in his own thoughts to notice.

Because if I touched her, then... then surely she would really open for me. What is a spell, to that? I know how, oh gods, I know how; I don't need magic for that. Would I know if she was a virgin then, I wonder? Could I be sure? It's not as if I've ever touched one before. And if I did that...if I reached out and laid hands on what's mine...

His fingers were a hair's breadth from the secret bit of her she had opened to him. He stared down at his hand with something like horror. Then he jerked it back as if he had been burned.

"Are you all right?" Ginny asked plaintively.

Draco stumbled towards the loo, unable to answer.

He slammed the door shut and jammed his back against it, pulling down his trousers so quickly that several buttons popped off and rolled around on the floor. His hand closed around himself, and in two or three violent motions, the explosion lurking just beneath the surface broke free. He sank to his heels afterwards on the cold tiled floor, panting. I ought to tell the house-elves to cast a Calorum charm on this floor.

"Ginny!" he called when he could speak again. "Dress yourself before I come back out there."

When he returned, she sat on the edge of the bed, a worried frown on her face. She wore the chartreuse robe from Madam Malkin's, he saw.

"Did I do something wrong?" she asks.

"No," said Draco. "No, you didn't, Ginny, don't think that."

"Oh." She looked down at the floor. "But you didn't want to touch me."

"You mean--" He stopped, and then started again. "Ginny, tell me something. When you were lying on the edge of the bed... would you have liked me to do that? To put my hand between your legs and touch you there?"

"That would've felt good, wouldn't it?" she asked.

"How do you know?" he asked guardedly.

She seemed to ponder the question for several moments. "I'm not quite sure," she finally said. "But... yes. Yes, I think I would've liked that very much." Her voice faltered when she saw the expression on his face. "Is that wrong? That I wanted you to touch me?"

Draco stared at her, feeling very much as if a giant hand were squeezing his heart. "No," he managed to say. "It's not wrong. I swear it's not, Ginny."

"You didn't want to," she said sadly.

"You're wrong," he muttered. "I did want to. I did."

"Then why didn't you?"

Draco had to fight a sudden urge to take both of her hands in his when he spoke to her. "Ginny, I can't just now."

"But why--"

"I can't tell you why, either."

"Oh." The sadness on her face gave him a strange feeling in his chest. He didn't know what it was.

"Don't be sad, Ginny," he said urgently. "I want you to be happy. I--I order you to be happy!"

She looked up at him through her cinnamon-coloured lashes and her mouth curved into a smile. "I'll do anything you tell me, Draco," she said. "But I don't think I can be something by order. Happy, or unhappy. I just am. Whichever it is."

She was so lovely, sitting on the edge of his bed in yellow-green silk, he thought. His breath caught at her prettiness, and at the dancing lights in her red-gold hair, and the faint freckles on her milky skin. "I hope you're happy, then," he said. "How's that?"

Ginny tilted her head in thought. "It's enough to be going on with," she said. "Do I make you happy?"

Her question seemed to hold no more than simple curiousity. In return, his answer was simple as well.

"Yes," said Draco, before he had a chance to think out what he ought to say. And at last he received his reward; her shoulders shook and her nose crinkled up in the giggle that sounded so incongruous in this dark and dreary house.

Yes, he thought. It's true. Perhaps I'll have to pay for this, but I won't lie, not to myself, not to you... You make me happy, Ginny Weasley.