The Quick and the Dead

"Where's Harry?" asked Ron curiously.

"He's coming in a bit," said Hermione. She leaned against the back of her chair and glanced around the smoky interior of the Hog's Head. "This is the sort of place where my mum would tell me not to touch anything, if we wandered in by mistake," she said absently. "I've always thought so."

"You're probably right about that," said Ron, trying to suppress a grin.

"Here y'are," said the barmaid, depositing a tray of rather dusty Butterbeer bottles on the table. "Don't want your usual tonight, Ron love?"

"No thanks, sweetheart," said Ron. Hermione hauled a large canvas bag from under the table and began to take out glasses.

"Moody says it's still a good idea to bring your own," she said defensively, when she caught Ron looking at her quizzically.

"Not 'aving the usual tonight, Ron, I see," cackled the bartender, shooting a glance at their table. He had replaced Aberforth Dumbledore during Ron's seventh year at Hogwarts, when the Headmaster had called his brother in to do duty as the new Defense Against the Dark Arts Teacher. Nobody knew what his name was, and there were, indeed, serious suspicions that he was most likely a badly Transfigured goat. Still, he mixed drinks better than Aberforth ever had.

"Yours does seem to be a familiar face around here," observed Hermione.

"Uh--" began Ron.

"No usual tonight, sir?" squeaked the voice of one of the bar-elves from beneath their feet as he scrubbed as a dubious spot on the floor. Ron sincerely hoped it was only blood.

"Before you say a single word, Hermione," Ron said hurriedly, "Stinky gets paid."

"Oh? How much?"

"He's allowed to finish the dregs of all the patron's glasses. And he's perfectly happy with that."

Hermione raised a single dark eyebrow at Ron. It was the same gesture that had always driven him to start all those scalding rows with her at Hogwarts. "Does that include the usual?"

There was no distracting Hermione from anything she wanted to know, Ron thought. Never had been. And she's probably more like a rabid Niffler than ever, after two years of Auror training. Yet as he scanned her small, intense face, its dark eyebrows knitted together over her sharp eyes, her generous mouth set in a frown, he realized that he was more grateful for her qualities than he'd ever been. Once Hermione gets her teeth into this thing again, there'll be no stopping her, he realized. He reached out and covered her hand with his own. She jumped slightly, but he held it firm.

"You should've seen me last month," he said quietly. "I was thrown out of every pub in wizarding London. Then I started on the troll dives, and finally I was down to goblin holes. Then even they were throwing me out in the alley by three in the morning. So it was back to the Hog's Head. This place was actually a step up."

She looked startled, and then her brown eyes filled with a painful pity. "Oh, Ron," she whispered. "I didn't know. Harry didn't know. We would've done anything to help--"

"There wasn't anything you could do," said Ron. "When a bloke gets down that far, he can only pull himself up. I--" He took a deep breath. "Hermione, I want to, I really do. I don't want to wallow around in self-pity anymore. Ginny needs me. She's alive. I can feel it."

Hermione traced what looked like a seam on the wooden table. It squeaked and slithered onto the floor. She shuddered. "I don't know exactly what the clock hand means," she said, "because I've never heard of anything of that sort before. But it does seem to show that she's got to be. Mortal peril isn't the same as... well... death."

The word lingered in the air between them. But it didn't frighten Ron anymore. She can't be dead, he thought. I've been thinking that for years. But if Hermione thinks it... then I was right all along.

The door swung open, bringing in a swirl of snow and a blast of freezing air. Mad-Eye Moody stumped in, his peg leg rapping against the floor. He glanced around the room, his rapidly whirling blue eye taking in everything even as his brown eye fixed Ron's table with an appraising stare. At last, he sat down. "Place hasn't changed," he said, by way of greeting.

"It never does," said Ron.

"Except that the bartender's a goat. Big improvement from my point of view. You've brought your own glasses, I see, Granger. Very wise." Moody opened a bottle of butterbeer, sniffed it, poured it into a glass, scrutinized it with his magical eye, and took a cautious sip.

"Where's Harry?" asked Ron.

"He'll be here. Said he had to finish something up first," said Moody. "In the meantime, you can fill me in." He looked at Ron. It was rather disconcerting, Ron thought, to have both the magical and non-magical eyes fixed on him. "You have reason to believe your sister's alive, and that we can find her," said Moody. "That's what Granger and Potter told me. Is that right?"

Ron nodded.

"Yet the trail's been cold for well over a year. For two and a half years, truth be told. It took us that long to find out we didn't know anything, that's all. What's changed now?"

"A few things, sir," said Ron. "And they might be important." Oddly enough, he found that he didn't mind Moody's bluntness. Even at his worst, when he was wallowing in miserable, depressed self-pity over Ginny's disappearance, he never really had minded it.

"And what are they?" asked Moody. Hermione leaned forward, listening intently.

"The first thing's not so much information that I have now," said Ron, "as it is a way to get it in the future. Maybe. I don't know yet. I talked with Millicent Bulstrode, and she agreed to help us. "

Moody drummed his fingers on the table. "She knew every Slytherin in your year at Hogwarts who went dark, that girl did."

"But then, sir," said Hermione, with the air of one who has been very patient in waiting for her turn to speak, "how can we possibly trust her?"

"You can't trust anyone, if you look at it one way," growled Moody. "Constant vigilance, remember? But--I know Bulstrode, and her family. Had dealings with them for donkey's years. And I'd trust her as much as I'd trust anybody."

"See?" said a happy voice. "I can be trusted! There's an expert opinion! What more do you want? Hi, Moody."

"Where'd she come from?" snapped Hermione.

"We were listening at the door," said Millicent. She plopped down into a chair at the table, followed by Luna Lovegood. As usual, Luna looked as if she had drifted into the room by accident. She settled herself in another chair and busied herself with examining graffiti scratched into the tabletop. Ron glanced at it for a moment, until he saw that it all seemed to deal with trolls proclaiming their love for various house-elves.

"Hello," Luna said dreamily.

Hermione gave her a stiff nod. "Hello, Luna, Bulstrode," she said.

"Hello again, Ron," said Millicent. "Hello... um... you know, since I started working with security trolls, I've got right out of the habit of calling anybody by their last name. Trolls are lucky to manage one name, you know. Can't I just say Hermione? It'll be so much easier."

"I'd rather you didn't," said Hermione.

"Hmm. Okay. Whatever," said Millicent, her eyes narrowing. "Where's Harry?"

"Not here yet, obviously," said Hermione, each word clear and precise.

"Don't know when he might get here," said Moody. "So let's begin." He looked around the table as if the force of his gaze might weld its disparate elements together. Good luck, thought Ron. Hermione and Millicent were glaring at each other so hard that if looks could kill, the meeting would have been two people short already. Meanwhile, Luna was busily twirling a piece of her hair around one of her earrings, which were shaped like bunches of kale.

"Maybe we should--uh--make a list," said Ron in desperation. "Of things we know, and things we don't know. And things we need to know."

"That's an awfully good idea," said Hermione, pulling a notebook and quill from her bag. Ron breathed a bit easier then. Few things made Hermione happier than compiling lists.

"Number one," she said. "You know, Ron, I think you'd better start out by telling us the things that you think have changed."

"All right." He cleared his throat. "The first thing's on my mum's clock. You know the one, Moody?"

The professor nodded. Millicent looked confused. Luna whispered something to her that was apparently meant to explain all about Molly Weasley's magical clock.

"Ginny's hand has changed," said Ron. "It always hovered just before 'Dead.' For two and a half years, actually. And then, only a few days ago, it jumped to..." He took a deep breath. "'Mortal Peril.'"

"Oh dear," said Millicent.

"But it doesn't stay there," Ron hurried on to say. "It jumps about all the time, almost like it's trying to escape. And I think that's important, I think it's got to be."

Moody nodded.

"You have a point, Weasley. That clock's very powerful magic, and a change in the hand means something. But it's strange. I've never seen anything quite like that before."

"Doesn't it mean..." Hermione began, and then fell silent.

"That Ginny's in mortal peril?" asked Ron, finally saying the words that had been haunting him ever since the change in the clock hand. "Don't be afraid to say it, Hermione." He fully expected to see Moody nod. But he did not.

"I doubt it," Moody said instead. "Since her clock hand's moving, you see."

"Couldn't that mean she was trying to escape?" Hermione asked.

"No," said Moody. "If the mentioned state applies to the person bound to the clock hand, it just stays still, no matter what. It wouldn't start acting like a Magical Jumping Bean. No, it's something besides that. Might take me some time to find out just what it does mean. What else, Weasley?"

"Well--a couple of things, but mostly it's just--" Ron squirmed slightly. "Well, it's a feeling, sir. I feel that she's alive. I mean, I think the clock proves that she has to be, but it's more than that. The feeling's stronger than it's ever been before." He didn't dare to look at Hermione when he said that.

"That sort of feeling's important too," said Moody gruffly. "Nothing to sneeze at. It's a magic that even Muggles have and use, although they understand it even less than we do. There's a bond between brother and sister. It's not the sort of thing that leads to precise details as regards whereabouts, more's the pity, but it exists. So you've got this information, Weasley. How do you want to use it?"

"I think we ought to start looking into the families that contain known Death Eaters," said Ron. "Like the Parkinsons, and the Crabbes, and the Goyles." He didn't look away from Millicent Bulstrode when he said that. I have to know, he thought. If it turns out that she really isn't willing to poke into the affairs of people who used to be her school chums, I reckon I have to know that right now.

"And that's where I can help!" chirped Millicent. Ron hid his smile. It didn't seem too diplomatic, somehow, when Hermione was glaring at the former Slytherin girl in the way she was.

"I don't think it would take too long. There aren't really too many of those families left intact, after the war," said Hermione, after a short pause. "We already know that Malfoy doesn't have her. But I think we ought to add Zabini to that list."

Millicent looked a bit uncomfortable. "Er, I really don't think so. He's pretty trustworthy, Blaise is."

Hermione snorted. "Why? Because he turned traitor right before the end to save his own skin, and fed us some information?"

"That is not why," said Millicent indignantly.

"Isn't it?"

"Oh dear. This could become a bit awkward," said Luna. Hermione turned on her.

"Why?" she snapped.

"Because he's standing out in the foyer," said Luna, serenely.

Ron thought later that the furious shock that had gone through him at Luna's statement was all worth it, actually, when he saw the look on Hermione's face. Her chair scraped back as she leaped to her feet.

"I knew you'd do something like this, Bulstrode," she said, her voice tight. "I think you'd better leave. Luna as well."

Millicent's chair scraped back too. "Don't you think it's about time you stopped being prejudiced against Slytherins just because they were Slytherins, Granger?" she growled. "We're all out of school now."

"But Zabini!" exclaimed Hermione. "He was the most--"

"The most what, exactly?" asked Millicent. "What did he ever actually do? All right, Blaise is vain, and he's always been a poser; he used to spend so much time on his hair every morning at school that I always thought he had to be gay, although believe me, he isn't-"

Hermione grimaced. "The last thing in the world we all need to hear about right now is the subject of Blaise Zabini's personal preferences, and especially how you know so much about them-"

"But," Millicent continued doggedly, "there was never any real harm in him. He never fought for the other side. He never became a Death Eater, and whatever you may think of his parents, they weren't either."

Hermione snorted. "Oh, yes. His mother and--what is she on now? Her eighth husband, or ninth?"

"Tenth," said Moody thoughtfully. "But Bulstrode's right, Granger. Zabini's no Death Eater, and was never associated with them, either. Avoided them as much as he could. He always hung about with Malfoy and that gang at Hogwarts, from what I've heard, but he held himself apart from what all of those families ended up doing." He looked at Ron, his gaze steady. "Decision's yours, Weasley. Could be that we'd get some valuable information from Zabini, if he was willing to share it. Could be that he'll betray us. Can't trust anyone really, can you?"

Ron realized that he had not said a word throughout the entire argument. He sat silently for another moment, trying to collect his thoughts, mulling everything over. Just on principle, he didn't know if he could possibly trust Blaise Zabini whatever anyone said. And yet... and yet it was true that Ron couldn't remember this particular Slytherin ever actually doing anything he could object to, either at school or after. They'd disliked each other on principle.

Ron glanced up at Hermione. Her lips were tightly set, as if containing vituperous words that longed to burst out. She caught his eye, and shook her head vehemently. He glanced over at Millicent. She looked back at him steadily, her face oddly serious, for once. And in his mind's eye, he saw Ginny's clock hand.

Mortal peril.

"Let him in, Luna," he said.

Hermione gasped. "How can you do this, Ron? What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking that he might know something that'll help us find Ginny," he said doggedly, not quite looking at her. She was silent for a moment.

"All right," she said, her voice subdued. "I'll go with Luna, though. And I'll keep an eye on him."

Ron didn't bother to ask what good she thought that would do. He simply nodded.

Blaise Zabini even managed to sit down in an arrogant way, Ron thought. He wasn't exactly sure how Zabini managed that one. Maybe it was the way he held his close-cropped head at a particular angle, or the way his slanting green eyes appraised them all, or the cut of his cheekbones, so sharp they almost looked like they were slicing air. Good-looking bastard, Zabini is, Ron thought sourly. All that Slytherin gang was, except for Crabbe and Goyle, of course, unless you liked gorillas.

"Zabini," said Moody, in a growl.

"Professor Moody. Weasley... Granger... Luna... hello, Millicent." The boy inclined his dark head, and his amazingly green eyes darted across all their faces. Hermione stared back at him fiercely. Zabini looks nervous, thought Ron. Yeah. He definitely does.

Nobody seemed terribly inclined to start a conversation after that.

"I hope you've been well, Blaise," Luna finally said in a dreamy voice.

"Oh! Yeah. Pretty well, I would say." Blaise shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Hermione watched him narrowly, as if sure he would whip out his wand and start hexing them all at any moment.

"We haven't seen much of you lately," said Millicent, sounding determinedly cheerful.

"Been busy," Blaise mumbled.

"Doing what?"

"Working."

"Where?" persisted Millicent.

"Er--" Blaise looked up, and squared his shoulders determinedly, as if he had come to a decision. "In a shop. Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, actually. I've been helping with deliveries."

"Oh," said Luna, sounding rather startled. "We always thought you'd do something a bit more--"

"Refined? Elevated? Well paid?" Blaise smiled bitterly.

"Well, considering your family position--" began Millicent.

"Family position. Yeah. Only that's the whole trouble, isn't it?"

"What do you mean?" asked Ron, speaking up at last. He had been badly thrown by the idea that Blaise Zabini, of all people, was actually working for his brothers. He didn't care if Fred and George had him cleaning out the loo; he just couldn't believe that they ever would have let Zabini within a kilometer of the shop. And yet... and yet... If they did, doesn't that mean something? He resolved to have a pointed chat with Fred and George rather soon. But in the meantime...

Blaise leaned across the table. "What I mean, Weasley, is that it doesn't seem to make much difference, what I did at the end of the war. I'm tarred with the same brush as all the Death Eaters and all their families, simply because I used to associate with them at school."

"Oh," Ron said awkwardly. He could feel Hermione shooting him significant glares, but he didn't turn his head to look.

Blaise, meanwhile, had not looked away. "You want something from me, Weasley, don't you?" he asked in a low, intense voice.

"Yeah," said Ron. "I do."

"You want information about your sister. Or that might lead you to your sister."

"Yeah." Ron was transfixed by those brilliant green eyes. He desperately tried to figure out if there was any sincerity behind them, but they locked him out as thoroughly as if he were staring into a pair of large emeralds.

"Maybe I can give it to you," said Blaise. "I don't know for sure. I won't pretend I do, I won't lie about that... but I think perhaps I can."

"I really don't think--" began Hermione.

"Let's at least hear what he has to say," said Ron.

"All right then," said Blaise. "I want something from you, in return. Sort of from you, anyway."

"What would I have that you would want, Zabini?" Ron asked uncomfortably.

"It isn't really you," said Blaise. "It's Professor Moody, mostly. But where else would I have been able to meet with him, if it wasn't with you, Weasley, or someone like you?"

"What do you want, Zabini?" asked Moody.

Blaise turned his gaze on the older man. "I want to do what we discussed my seventh year. What I said I couldn't do then."

"What on earth do you mean?" Hermione demanded.

"If you want a favor through me," said Ron sharply, "you'd better tell me what it is, Zabini."

"Blaise, do you mean that project you had at Hogwarts for getting all the seventh-year Slytherin girls into the Room of Requirement at once?" Luna asked with mild interest.

But Moody didn't glance at any of them; his eyes were still fixed on Blaise Zabini. "Maybe," he said. "Maybe. It would take a bit of doing, though, and I'm not the only one who would make the decision, either. What do you have to offer in return?"

"I'm meeting with Vincent Crabbe next week, on a business deal," Blaise said promptly. "I'll find out anything I can for you. I might be able to learn a lot about what he knows."

"And he's one of those who might know a lot, even though he was never convicted of anything," said Hermione a bit grudgingly. She still didn't look at Blaise.

"How are you going to do it without Crabbe getting suspicious?" Ron asked dubiously.

The corner of Blaise's elegant mouth curled up. "So you know he's not as thick as he looks, do you?"

"I kept my ears open at school," Ron replied. "Goyle's the thick one. Couldn't you meet with them both at the same time?"

"They don't hang about with each other anymore. Seem to have lost their taste for each other's company, now that Malfoy isn't between them all the time," said Blaise. "But I can do it." He preened slightly. Ron could tell that Hermione was rolling her eyes, even without really looking at her. "And I might need a good word from your dad, Weasley."

"Are you going to tell me what it is you want?" Ron frowned.

"Not yet," interrupted Moody. "Let me feel out a few people first, before we mention it in public."

"I thought it was safe to talk in here," said Hermione.

"Nowhere's really safe," Moody said simply.

Everyone went their separate ways shortly after that. Millicent and Luna waved goodbye. Ron watched Luna's long, dirty-blond hair flutter in an icy breeze that blew in from the door as she left. Zabini disappeared somewhere, and Moody stumped off after giving Ron a brief handshake. He lingered with Hermione near the front entrance for a few moments, trying to tamp down his hurt feelings at the fact that Harry had never appeared.

"I wonder if he really can find out anything," said Ron slowly.

"I wouldn't be surprised if Crabbe did know something. But how do we know we can even trust Zabini with this?" asked Hermione.

"We don't, I suppose," said Ron. "But if he's working for Fred and George... well... they must trust him a bit."

"I suppose so." Hermione put on her cloak. "I wonder what he wants from Moody... and why your father could help him... he always was very clever, Zabini. Did you know that?"

"No," said Ron.

"Well, he was... is... he took Potions, Dark Arts, and Transfiguration through to N.E.W. T. level, you know..." Hermione tried to jam a glove on backwards, an abstracted frown on her face.

"Let me help you with that, would you?" Ron gently straightened out the glove. He felt her bare fingers as he smoothed out the leather, and then, as his own fingers stroked the back of her hand, that was not all he felt. He promptly dropped the glove on the floor.

"Sorry," he muttered, stooping to pick it up, glad of the excuse to hide his flushed face for the moment. The sensation of Hermione's hand was all mixed up with the memory of Luna's fluttering long blond hair, and confusion and guilt and attraction throbbed through him in equal measure.

"Ron, I really do have to get back to the school," she said.

"Here... here's your glove. Don't you want to wait and see Harry when he comes?"

She shrugged. "If he isn't here by now, it probably means he won't be."

"Considerate of him," Ron said stiffly.

"He said he was working on a very important project."

"More important than this?"

"He really has been, Ron." Hermione put her hand on his arm. He felt her light touch even through his cloak and robes and wool jumper. "He hasn't been sleeping properly, and he looks dreadful. And he won't tell me anything about it."

Ron looked at the door Hermione had passed through for a long time after she left, remembering vaguely how often he had used to do that with Fleur, when she'd stayed at the Burrow over the summer before she and Bill got married in his seventh year. The door opened again, and a group came into the Hog's Head, well wrapped and muffled up. Still, he thought he recognized several hags. He was still looking at them and wondering how they managed to drink anything through such thick veils when owl wings fluttered against his face. He looked up and saw Hedwig. A table of trolls started giving her covetous glances, and, remembering how much all trolls loved boiled owl, he took her outside.

A light snow had begun to drift down from the dark, clouded sky, and Ron brushed the snowflakes off his cloak as he unrolled the parchment tied to her leg.

Ron--

Sorry I couldn't make it. I really wanted to. But I'm working on something, and I think it's important. I really believe that it might help us find out about what happened to Ginny. I won't say any more right now, but meet me at the Hog's Head in five days and I'll tell you everything I've found out. Don't tell Hermione until I know a bit more.

Harry

+++

Draco walked down a winding road beneath a twilight sky. The hedgerows made menacing shapes in the half-darkness, and he thought he saw them moving and writhing whenever he wasn't quite looking at them. It made him glance from side to side constantly, nervously. The sound of rushing water came nearer and nearer. He stopped short on the banks of the dark river, and stared down into its flowing stream.

The water was black, but he could see something eddying below it. For a long time, it made no sense to him. Water weeds, maybe? Are they on stems of some sort? I can't quite see... He looked, and looked, as if trying to force the waving tendrils into some of sense. Then, with a thrill of horror, he knew what they were.

Inferi!

Draco had studied the history of Dark Magic; he knew that dark lords through the ages had used the reanimated corpses of the dead for their own purposes. He knew that Voldemort himself had done this once, and had planned to do it again just before his final defeat. He had seen moving pictures of inferi in books, and had shuddered. That was nothing compared to the terror he felt now. But because Draco saw them in a dream, his fear, sharp as it was, could not make his feet move.

He stood as if rooted to the spot and looked down at the dozens and dozens of heads of hair, blond and black and brown and red, all waving in the current, a few feet below the water's surface. People were standing in the water packed shoulder to shoulder, their eyes closed. He saw their necks and arms and torsos disappear into the depths of the black water, and their faces were dead-white and motionless. And yet... and yet...

Not quite motionless.

Draco saw the ash-blond hair that swirled around a handsome head just below his gaze. The man's eyes opened, and looked up at him.

Very slowly, as if standing on a platform that was being raised beneath him, the man rose from the water. It streamed off his head and hair and hands, and he stared at Draco without blinking. His eyes were an unearthly silver-grey. He opened his mouth.

He's going to speak. He's going to speak. Oh gods, I can't stand this, I can't hear this, I have to run, to escape, to-- Draco gave a tiny whimper, but he did not move. He could only wait for the man's words.

"My son," said Lucius Malfoy. "Draco."

"No," said Draco faintly. "No, it can't be you, you can't be here, you're dead..." Even as he spoke, he faltered. Clearly, his father was dead, and yet he had arisen. Like Ginny... No! Not like Ginny at all! Then a thought occurred to him.

"You're not real," he said triumphantly. "You can't be. Inferi can't talk."

Lucius Malfoy laughed. The sound was rusty and grating with an odd gurgle in it, as if his mouth and throat were filled with mud from the bottom of the river of death. "But what is real, Draco?"

"I know what's real," said Draco. "This is only a dream. I'll wake up, and that will be real, but this isn't."

"I tell you that you can no longer say with such certainty what is real, and what is not," Lucius said calmly. "For you have opened a door, Draco; the door between the world of the living, and the world of the dead."

"I haven't," said Draco. "I've brought Ginny Weasley back, that's all, and she wasn't ever really dead in the first place."

"You have opened a door," repeated Lucius. "But... can you close it?" And then he continued to rise from the water until he reached the bank. First one foot came up, and then the other. He stepped out of the River Styx.

Draco turned and ran. "No!" he shrieked. "No, no, no--" But he heard the footsteps of his father behind him, slow and steady, yet always shadowing his own. For the dead travel fast...

He woke with the sounds of his own screams in his ears, his heart pounding so loudly that he was sure it was about to jump out of his chest. Something moved beside him in bed, swirling the sheets and blankets around like dark water. For an awful instant, he was sure he would see his father rising up next to him. But it was Ginny, her hair tousled and messy, her eyes blinking sleepily, her lips parted as if about to speak. She looked at him, frowning. Without another thought, as naturally as if he had done it every night of his life, Draco seized her in his arms.

Her body was warm and firm under his hands. He pressed her to him as closely as he could, feeling her skin, the taut curves of the muscles in her back, the soft curly texture of her hair, and her breath puffing against his ear.

"Ginny," he whispered, passing his hand over her face. She did not open her eyes, and he realized that she hadn't yet really awakened. She snuggled into him, and for the briefest moment he felt every line of her, every curve, every indentation and soft swelling of flesh.

"Harry..." she murmured.

Draco froze. Then he thrust her away from him.

"Draco?" she yawned, stretching like a cat. "Is it morning yet?"

I must be calm now, though Draco. Very calm, and very clever. "No, it's not. It's the middle of the night. You woke up, Ginny."

"Oh. I'll go back to sleep then." She settled on her pillow.

"No. Not yet. You called me by a name, Ginny, a name that isn't mine. You called me Harry. Why?"

"Did I? How silly. I must've been dreaming. You're not Harry," she giggled.

"Who was Harry?" He watched her narrowly.

"Don't know," she said sleepily. "Do you know?"

"Yes," said Draco. I know who he was, all right, he thought. I should. I watched you snogging him all over school for weeks on end. He always kissed like a beached carp, Harry Potter did.

"Who was he, then?"

"Never you mind," he said harshly.

She raised her head. Her face looked worried. And what do you have to be worried about, little Ginny? thought Draco. What are you hiding?

"You're not angry, Draco?" she asked anxiously.

He looked into her face, and he could not believe that she was deliberately hiding anything from him. Yet she still could be, a little voice reminded him, inside his head. She might not know it herself.

"You don't remember Harry at all?" Draco asked in return.

"I'm sorry, but no," she said sadly. "I wish I could, if you'd like to know about him, but I don't."

If I asked her if she ever did anything more with Potter than what I saw, realized Draco, she could not tell me. I think she would try to be honest, but she couldn't remember. But did she? Did she say Harry Potter's name because she slept in his bed, and woke up beside him, and took him in her arms in the darkest part of the night? How could I ever know, if she doesn't remember enough to tell me?

"It doesn't matter now," Draco finally said. "Just go back to sleep, Ginny." She rolled back towards him, but he put out a hand to keep her away. "Don't touch me," he said.

"Why not?"

"Because, that's why." His voice was very cold.

"All right then," she said, drawing the blankets around her in a huff. After a little while, her breathing became slow and even, and Draco knew she was asleep. But he could not sleep any more that night. Instead, he stared at the ceiling, and in an attempt to pass the time, he thought about his business meeting with Vincent Crabbe the next day. That'll be deadly dull, he realized with an inward sigh. He was very careful to be quiet, so that he did not wake Ginny.

He stared down at her sleeping face for a long time as dawn touched the sky outside. She looked so pure, and so innocent. When he watched her sleep, he was sure that she was. She is the one good pure thing that has ever entered my life, Draco thought. And I must make sure that nothing ever harms her.