The Quick and the Dead

He's changed since Hogwarts, thought Draco as he settled into a padded leather chair pulled up to the table, his gaze sliding briefly across Vincent Crabbe. The thought was rather vague, and seemed to flit across his mind, leaving no trace behind. Only a bit of himself was actually present in the elegant little room tucked into the corner of the Malfoy section of Gringotts, Draco thought. The rest was already back at the manor with Ginny, walking with her through the main gallery with its long windows that looked out on the rose garden. How pretty that will be, in spring. Because she would be there in the spring, of course; and by then, things would have... changed, in exactly the way he wanted them to. Of course. Draco's entire body tightened in a millisecond of anticipation, like a tuning fork vibrating to a tone struck on its mate, far away.

"Don't you want to t-take a look at these bills?" asked Crabbe.

"What? Oh. Yes. Of course." Draco blinked, and was back in the room, keenly aware that he needed to keep it together. He'd forgotten all about this idiotic meeting, but rescheduling it might, he thought, look just a bit suspicious. It was important to change nothing in his regular routine, to leave no thread of difference hanging loose. There was no way to know who might pull at it and begin to unravel secrets. And Crabbe was cleverer than Draco had always thought at school; he'd learned that when the other Slytherin had argued his way out of a Wizengamot conviction for conspiracy, scarcely even a trace of a stammer in his deep, melodic voice. Draco sighed inwardly and focused back on the present moment.

The room was dimly lit except for a pool of light spilling across the receiving documents and bills of lading that Crabbe had brought for Draco to look over, as he always did during one of their business meetings. Draco saw the other man vaguely, out of the corner of his eye, as a shadowy, bulky figure. His massive arms taking up half the space on the tabletop, and his legs sprawled across the other chair like a pair of tree trunks. Yet Crabbe had grown into his height and width at last, his broad shoulders balanced by his barrel-like chest, and his bull-like neck countered by his ruggedly handsome face. Not a bad-looking bloke these days, really, Draco thought. I never thought he'd turn out so well at school. Never thought he'd make this far, actually, after what happened to Goyle. But Goyle didn't turn out to be clever at all, did he? He was certainly stupid enough to get himself sent to Azkaban...

Crabbe was pushing a sheaf of papers at him, clutched in one of his tremendously strong hands. He didn't speak; he almost never did, but his eyebrows raised questioningly. Draco looked down at his own slender hand as he took the papers. He remembered touching Ginny Weasley with this hand, with these long, elegant fingers, the exquisitely sensitive pads of his fingertips skating along her smooth white skin the night before until she'd spoken Harry Potter's name and he'd come to himself and pulled back from her, almost too late--

"Malfoy," said Crabbe's deep, rather slow voice. "Don't you want to sign this one?"

"Yes. Yes, of course." Draco scratched a quill across a roll of parchment at the white space waiting for his name. He had not the least idea what he was signing; he could be donating everything he owned to the Home for Wayward House-Elves, for all he knew. It doesn't matter. But Crabbe's got a bit of an odd look on his face... I ought to read this, at least. He scanned the document without taking in a word of it. The blackletter script on the shining parchment reminded him of another piece of writing, though. The book. That book. It won't reveal itself to me, and I've tried everything I can think of, everything... and it has the key, I know it does. If I can only learn its secrets, then I'll have Ginny exactly where I want her.

Crabbe really was looking at him a little strangely, Draco thought. He forced his attention back to the document in his hands. It dealt with the amount of time the magical cyclotron owned by one of his business concerns took to produce enough charmed quarks to provide the fuel for wand cores. The by-products were used in joke wands, which Crabbe had apparently been delivering all week to various joke shops. Draco frowned. "I thought we'd solved that time-lag problem. It really cuts into the profit margin in the end."

Crabbe shrugged. "Only so much they can do. The best quarks c-come at the full moon. No way to hurry the cycle. They ought to extract some good ones next month."

No way to hurry the cycle... And the next full moon's not for three weeks, because the last one was when I... when I... Draco stroked the smooth parchment with one finger, his eyes unfocussed and his brain clicking through possibilities. A new idea had suddenly come to him, and he desperately wanted to get home in order to work it out.

"You all right?" asked Crabbe. Draco blinked. Crabbe's eyes were bright, sharp and curious in his craggy face.

"Fine." Draco rose to his feet and pushed back his chair abruptly. "Listen, I've signed everything I needed to sign. We'll have to leave the rest of this for later."

"When? The vendors need to know how many supplies they can expect from--"

"Get Mustelidae to take care of it," Draco almost snapped. "You know where to find him."

Crabbe turned in his chair, surveying Draco as he snatched his cloak from the goblin who offered it at the door and began putting it on hastily. He said nothing, but Draco was suddenly afraid that his silence might be all too eloquent. It doesn't matter. I'm being silly anyway. He can't suspect anything. And I don't want to waste any more time here! I was a fool to do this in the first place. Mustelidae could have handled this. I need to find out... need to find out...

"Unfinished business," he muttered as he opened the door, as if Crabbe had demanded an explanation of his behavior, although he had not. "Yes. Unfinished. Goodbye, Crabbe. There's nothing you need me for. Mustelidae can take care of it all." He hurried down the long, low corridor with quick strides. Crabbe stared after the closed door for a long time.

Then he gave himself a shake, and walked down one of the long, low, dimly corridors. When one of Sneppit Gogsblatter's assistants bustled up to him, clearly ready to escort him to the front door, Crabbe recognized him. But he pretended not to notice or to see, letting his customary dim-witted expression spread over his face. The goblin shrugged and let him go his way without further questions. Vincent Crabbe thought, as he had many times before, that it could be astonishingly useful for everyone to think you were a bit thick. Nothing was expected of you, and so you could get away with a lot. He slipped out of the little-used back exit without anyone seeing him and made his way down a side alley to the Leaky Cauldron.

"Did Malfoy see you leave?" Blaise Zabini asked as Crabbe slipped into a chair at the little table.

Crabbe gave him a sharp, exasperated look. Blaise grinned sheepishly.

"Sorry," he said. "You do that thick act so well, you know."

"I should know," said Crabbe, picking up the mug in front of him and taking a long draft from it. "It's d-d-dead useful."

"That it is," agreed Blaise. "If everybody didn't already know how clever I was, I'd probably try it."

Crabbe rolled his eyes. "It takes talent, Zabini."

"I'm sure it does." Blaise leaned back, looking out of the window absently for a moment. They were in a private second-story room with a view of the black iron sculpture of a witch stirring a cauldron that hung over the back door. Its soft creaking mingled with the sound of Vincent Crabbe's low voice as he told Blaise about his meeting with Draco Malfoy. A few times, he tried to speak too quickly and got lost in stuttering, but Blaise merely waited patiently until the words had sorted themselves out.

"Huh," Blaise finally said, once Crabbe had clearly finished. "What do you think?"

"Don't know, really."

"It certainly seems like he was in a hurry to get home, from what you say. I wouldn't be in his place, that's for sure." Blaise grimaced. "Malfoy Manor, that mausoleum... living there is enough to drive anybody mad. I wonder he doesn't move, now that he's the only one of the family left there. They certainly had a deal of other properties."

"But it wasn't just that," said Crabbe thoughtfully. "Malfoy was a bit queer from the moment he sat d-d-down, you see. Do you suppose that meant anything?"

"I doubt it," said Blaise. "Or more precisely, it means he's a nutter and he's going round the twist at last, most likely. I always knew he wouldn't keep it together very long after Lucius died. I hope we can come up with better information than that for Weasley and the rest, or they're not going to give us what we want."

"What you want," said Crabbe. "I was never clever enough to try to get into Auror school."

Blaise shrugged. "All right--what I want, then. What do you want?"

Crabbe seemed to think over the question for a long time before replying. "To be trusted, I think. That's all. Malfoy used to t-trust me. Long ago, at Hogwarts, before everything changed. It's a good feeling, you know?"

"I know." Blaise drummed his fingers on the table "Listen, they're not throwing us in Azkaban, or anything like that," he said abruptly. "But that doesn't mean we're rehabilitated with them. With those that have power now. You know we're not."

"This is our chance to be, then," Crabbe said.

"You always know how to get to the heart of a matter, don't you, Vin?" Blaise asked, and Vincent Crabbe gave his long, slow smile in return.

"I'd better go and find Weasley," Blaise continued. "He wanted to know right away, what you found out, I mean. Problem is, it really isn't impressive enough. Yes, yes, I know it's not your fault, Vin. Maybe I can give him That Look...it always seems to work on George Weasley... " Blaise fluttered his eyelashes a few times, experimentally.

Vincent Crabbe snorted in a most unencouraging manner. "Not all the Weasley brothers are b-b-bent, you know."

"Oh, I know," sighed Blaise. "More's the pity."

"I thought you always said you didn't swing that way. Had to wonder, though, after--"

"I know, I know. After that one night you walked in on me with Nott in fifth year. It didn't mean a thing, how many times do I have to tell you that?"

Crabbe shuddered at the memory. He had long since decided that he could have happily lived his whole life through without knowing Theodore Nott's fetishes, some of which he had been forced to see on that never-to-be-forgotten night.

"We were drunk, you know that," said Blaise airily. "And anyway, it was just a bit of experimentation. I found out what I wanted to know, and that was that. I certainly didn't do it for my own pleasure--I like girls too much for that."

Crabbe looked at his friend keenly. "Why d-d-did you do it then? I've always wondered."

"And I've never told you." Blaise leaned forward, his eyes keen. "But now that we're partners in this project... I think I will. I like to know how to push people in the way I want them to go. I learned that about Nott, that night. And I'll learn it about Ronald Weasley as well. There's a way, and I'll find it. And then we'll both get what we want, you and I. You trust me, don't you, Vin?"

Vincent Crabbe nodded. One good thing about Blaise Zabini was that he always kept his promises, no matter how frivolous and flippant he might seem to be. He was probably the most trustworthy Slytherin that Crabbe had ever known. Not like Malfoy, Crabbe thought, with a familiar pang. I really thought he'd always bring me into everything. I never thought of Goyle going on with him after school, but me... I never thought Malfoy would want to be parted from me. I thought we were mates forever. I thought...

"You're thinking again, Vin," said Blaise. "I always know it when you are."

"Yeah," said Vincent Crabbe, sighing inwardly. "I d-d-do that a lot these days."

"Don't tell me you're going to end up being the brains of this operation."

"You never can tell," said Crabbe, with a grin.

***

There was a back way into the Malfoy library through a little-used door, and Draco took it, not wanting to run into Ziggy, the librarian. Someday, I'll speak with him again, he thought, wheeling the portable staircase towards a bookshelf himself. Someday soon, when Ginny is all that she should be, when I've brought her back to herself completely. Then I can show her to him, show him that I did the right thing... but not quite yet... He clambered up the little staircase, which silently telescoped itself open for him. The light was very dim at the very top of the shelves, and he whispered "Lumos," scanning the row of books with the tip of his lit wand. There were books here that had not been touched in generations, and were thick with magical dust. He moved past these and at last found the incunabula stored flat on special shelves that had lain undisturbed since before William the Conqueror had set foot on the British isles. Draco passed his wand across one of these, and the layer of magical dust blew from its surface. He began to turn the pages, noting the illustrations of the moon in all its cycles. The gold-illuminated text winked at him. He moved on to another book, and then another, taking careful notes with a quill and parchment in his pocket. And when he finally left, it was with a rising sense of triumph.

There's a way, he thought. I knew it. And this has to be it.

The carved oak door to the master bathroom in his suite was closed when he passed by it, and he heard the sounds of splashing water behind it. He heard the tiny, unobtrusive noises of a house-elf padding around the room, then a feminine giggle. Draco pushed at the door so that it was slightly ajar, and peered through it. Ginny was rubbing a handful of soft soap over her chest and talking to Polly, her personal maid. Her breasts glistened and her nipples stood up hard as she rubbed them clean, and she threw her head back and laughed at something Polly said to her.

A high-pitched buzzing seemed to fill Draco's head at the sight. Whatever the girl and the house-elf were saying to each other, he didn't hear it. He sucked in his breath sharply and backed against the wall so quickly that his head hit the doorjamb, painfully. He barely felt it. The sight of Ginny naked and soaping herself was burned indelibly into his mind. He wanted to go in that room. He wanted to send the house-elf away, and see Ginny's face light up when she saw him. He wanted to rub the soap all over every inch of her and feel her soft pulsing naked flesh under his hands, he wanted to feel her squirming and sighing under his touch, he wanted her to reach out her wet hands and touch him--

But the full moon was nearly three weeks away. And that would only make a difference if his new theory was right in the first place.

He took deep, calming breaths. They didn't help in the slightest, but the sensation of deep breathing allowed Draco to pretend that he was getting control of himself. Then he bolted to the little bathroom off his bedroom suite as fast as he could, slammed the door, tore several hand-carved buttons from the fly of his trousers in his haste to pull them down his thighs, and did what little he could to relieve himself of the thick dark painful demands of his body.

Draco locked himself in a little side study after that with the Endings book and his notes from the library. When Ginny knocked on the door, he did not move.

"Are you dressed?" he called back.

"Yes," she said.

"What are you wearing?"

"One of those robes you gave me. The violet silk."

Draco massaged the bridge of his nose, gritting his teeth. "Put on something longer and heavier, and then come back."

"All right." Her voice sounded puzzled, but he could hear her obeying him, moving to the closet and slipping something off a hanger. He opened the door a crack. She was securely wrapped in a long terrycloth robe, showing hardly an inch of skin, but he still did not trust himself.

"Are you coming to bed, Draco?" she asked curiously.

"I will in a bit. You go."

"What are you doing?" She tried to peer around him.

"Something very important. Something that'll help us, if I can just figure it out."

"Oh." She frowned. "How will it help us?"

"It'll mean..." He bit his lip, wondering how much to tell her, how much she would understand, how much it was even safe to say. "It'll mean that when I come to bed with you, I can hold you just as you like. Remember when you asked me to, and I said I couldn't? Well, after I solve this problem, I'll be able to do it. And more, Ginny--anything you like. Anything I like..." He did not trust himself to say any more.

"I'd like that," said Ginny happily. "Could you kiss me then, do you think? I like kissing."

Draco didn't realize he'd gotten to his feet until after he'd already done it, and after he was advancing on Ginny, his face menacing. "You do, do you?" he asked in a cold voice. "And you liked kissing quite a lot of people. Didn't you? How many boys have you kissed, Ginny--how many men? And whose kisses did you like the best?"

"I--I don't know," she said falteringly. "I've done it, that's all, that's all I remember, and I liked it--"

"I'm sure you did. I'm sure you liked a lot more than kissing as well, didn't you?" His words came very fast, and he spit them out of his mouth as if they hurt him. "Kissing's not all you used to do, now is it? Is it?"

"I don't know," she whispered, her face frightened now. "I don't remember--don't be angry with me, Draco, please don't! I haven't done anything!"

He stopped just before reaching out his hands to touch her, to seize her wrists, to shake the truth out of her. He took deep breaths, closing his eyes. "I'm sorry," Draco said, and as strange as those words were to him, he meant them. "I didn't mean to frighten you. There's nothing to be frightened of, I swear there isn't."

"I wish I could remember more," said Ginny sadly. "I'll try to remember. Maybe I can, in time. Would you like that, Draco?"

He didn't know how to answer her, because in truth, he didn't know what the answer was. Would he like it if she remembered more, as he sometimes thought she had already begun to do? No--that would be a disaster. And yet... and yet, another voice whispered in his head, sometimes. Perhaps she'll remember that she never really cared for Potter very much. Perhaps she'll remember that she'll never gave herself to him fully, nor to anyone else. Although Potter's the only one that truly matters, now isn't he?

"I don't know," he finally said. "Go to bed, Ginny. I'll be in when I can. Dream good dreams, and know that I'm here, just on the other side of the door, keeping you safe."

He heard the little sounds of her turning out the light, and settling into the big bed. He imagined her lying there snuggled in sheets and coverlets, her hair spread out on the pillows, and he smiled. The Endings book began to show him a few things he wanted to see when he pictured Ginny--not many, but enough to learn what he needed to know.

He slipped into bed beside her many hours later, breathing in her flowery scent, hearing the soft sound of her breathing. She made a little noise in her throat and stirred, moving towards him. Draco moved away, of course, and carefully tucked one of the coverlets around himself, but he was well pleased.

She likes me. She wants to touch me. Once she understands what I want... once it's safe... she'll be willing. And it will be safe, soon. The last full moon provided enough power for me to resurrect her. The next one will provide enough for... well, for whatever it is I need to do next, exactly. I'll know when the time comes, I think. I only need to hang on till then, to be patient. In that moment, curled up next to Ginny Weasley, it all seemed perfectly possible. He fell asleep with a smile on his face.

***

"That's it?" snorted Fred. "Malfoy acted like a nutter, and wanted to get home? That's the best you can do?"

"I've told you exactly what Crabbe saw and heard," said Blaise Zabini coldly. "Impressive results weren't part of the deal."

"Well, you're going to have to do better than that. I could've got Extendable Ears into the meeting if all Ron wanted was to hear something like that." Fred glanced at his brother, clearly wondering why he hadn't said a word so far.

"Not into Gringott's, you couldn't," said Blaise.

"I wouldn't be so sure. George is working on some new ones, and we've had very good results. Anyway, we already know that Malfoy can't have Ginny, because that house-elf told us that she can't be at the manor, so what good did it do to have Crabbe talk to him?"

"Because Malfoy was going to meet with Vin anyway," said Blaise in an exasperated voice. "It's called trying not to look suspicious. What did you want us to do, Weasley--march up to Pansy Parkinson and say, 'Oh, hello, Pansy, and by the way, do you have Ginny Weasley chained in the ancestral dungeon at your house?' I'd hoped that Malfoy might mention something he'd seen or heard from someone else."

"Well, he didn't," snapped Fred. "So your usefulness has been pretty much fuck-all to date, Zabini. And I don't like your attitude anyway."

"I'd rather deal with George, any day," muttered Blaise under his breath. "He actually has a brain in his head instead of his--"

"Stop, stop," said Ron suddenly. He'd scarcely taken in a word they'd said; his mind had been churning over possibilities ever since Blaise Zabini had told them Crabbe's news. "Did Malfoy act that way through the whole conversation--eager to get back home, I mean? Or did that start at some specific point? Did Crabbe say anything about that?"

"I don't know," Blaise said slowly, "or, wait--yes, I do. It was right after Vin told him about the latest output from the cyclotron. The one Malfoy owns a share in."

Ron drummed his fingers on the table. "He doesn't own it outright?"

"Of course not. He owns magical shares in it, and Muggles use it the rest of the time. It's the one at the National Superconducting Cyclotron Laboratory, somewhere in the States, I think."

Ron glanced at his brother, who nodded confirmation. "It's where we get the charmed quarks for the joke wands," said Fred. "The strange and left ones go to Ollivander's, of course. George would know more about it. Wish he could've been here."

"But what could that have to do with anything?" Ron muttered.

"I'm sure I don't know," said Blaise. "But I'm sure I can find out more, if you just give me a bit of time."

"You'd better," said Fred, gimlet-eyed.

Ron was so lost in thought as they walked out of the Leaky Cauldron and into the darkening street that he barely heard his brother grumbling about Blaise Zabini. "Can't believe we're stooping so low as to get information from that slimy Slytherin. I wouldn't trust him as far as I could throw him with a dragon tied on. Bet he won't ever tell us anything useful, but we'll end up owing him all sorts of favours anyway. I'd rather shoot myself in the foot with a Boomerang hex than owe anything at all to that--"

"Fred," Ron said quietly. "If Zabini does find out anything about what happened to Ginny--anything at all- it'll be more than worth it."

"Yeah," Fred replied, just as quietly. "A thousand times over, I know. Why d'you think I agreed to go with you to meet him? Wish George could've been there, though. He always seems to think of so many good practical questions to ask. I reckon he would've found out more, and he wouldn't have come so close to losing his temper, either. Zabini irritates me, that all. If he gives me that whorish little rent boy look under those batting eyelashes of his just one more time-"

Ron almost choked. "Whorish little rent boy look?" he asked dubiously. "And you would know about this sort of look... how?"

Fred laughed. "Don't ask, don't tell, little bro."

"Oh, I won't," said Ron, shuddering.

The shop was dark when they returned, and long since closed. They climbed the winding staircase to the rooms on the second floor, and Fred fried up some bangers and chips. They ate companionably, not talking much. "I'm to bed," Fred finally said, yawning and getting up to stretch. "I'm absolutely done in. You going to wait up for George?"

"Yeah," said Ron, trailing his fork across his plate absently.

"Don't know when he'll be back. He has to use a Transatlantic Portkey, and you know how unreliable those can be. It might even be morning."

"I'll wait," said Ron.

George came back just as the Gringott's clock struck four, the deep, low tones reverberating through the silent air of the early winter morning. Ron sat in a chair pulled up to the window, and he saw his brother trudging through the street below. Each of the streetlights made a little cloud of light in the pre-dawn fog, and Ron could hear the crunch, crunch, crunch of each of George's footsteps.

"I hoped you'd be waiting," George said softly when he entered the room.

"You must have known I would be," replied Ron. His brother was a dark silhouette against the eerie light from the window. George came forward and sat on the floor next to Ron's chair, his legs crossed.

"Did you learn anything new?" asked Ron.

"No," said George.

Ron sighed deeply, but he wasn't surprised. George had gone to northern Finland in order to follow up on a tip Charlie had heard about a girl taming frost dragons. She'd fitted Ginny's description.

"It wasn't her, of course," said George dully. "And it's bloody cold up there." He shivered involuntarily, and Ron got up to make tea. They sipped the scalding liquid from thick white china mugs at the kitchen table. Ron was surprised at how much he needed its warmth, and how cold he felt inside. It wasn't that he'd really expected the Lapland girl to be Ginny, but it was one more faint hope dashed to bits.

"I saw Charlie, anyway," said George, after a long silence. "He sends his love."

"Is he coming home this winter at all?" asked Ron.

"I doubt it. He's married to his work now, you know. But it's his way..."

Ron nodded. Charlie had scarcely been home at all in well over a year.

"I'm so tired," mumbled George sipping at his tea.

"So'm I," admitted Ron. "I wanted to wait for you though, tell you what happened with--"

George sat bolt upright. "Zabini! Gods, I forgot all about that meeting. Did he find out anything useful at all?"

Ron passed on the information he'd heard without much enthusiasm. "Fred thought it was pretty useless," he sighed.

"But what do you think?" George looked at his brother keenly.

"I think..." Ron stirred his tea, which had grown cold. He watched snow begin to fall past the window, outside. He wondered whether to tell George what was going through his mind, but he already knew that he would. "I can't stop thinking that Malfoy had to have something to do with it."

"The Parkinsons own a share in that cyclotron as well, you know," said George.

"Really?" Ron asked abstracted, still looking out at the snow.

"And, uh--Fred said that house-elf said Ginny couldn't possibly be anywhere on any of the Malfoy properties."

"I know." Stir, stir, stir went the spoon in Ron's tea. "Let's talk about something else. D'you think we can trust Zabini?"

"If we offer him something that's in his own interest, yes."

"What is it that he wants? Moody wouldn't say."

"I don't know, but it must be something big. And to be honest, I never did mind him too much in the first place," said George. "Full of himself, but not nasty with it, not like some of the Slytherins were. He's done good work for the shop, and handled some important deliveries. He's never tried to cheat us, either."

"So you trust him?" asked Ron dubiously.

"About as far as I could throw him with a dragon tied on," said George. "Still, that's something, isn't it?"

Ron smiled, thinking that Fred had said exactly the same thing and yet come to such different conclusions.

"Listen," said George abruptly. "There's something that happened, and I think I want to tell you, although I'm afraid you'll make a lot more out of it than it warrants. I saw Malfoy a few days ago on the street, coming out of Madame Malkin's by the back way."

Ron sat bolt upright. "What! Why didn't you tell me before? You should've sent me an owl! This could be important."

"I knew you'd do this," sighed George. "And I don't see how it could be. He didn't act strange, or suspicious. I talked to him so that I could see if he would, and he didn't."

"What did you say? What did he say?"

"Well, as I recall, I said, 'Malfoy," and he said, 'Weasley.' It wasn't a very inspiring conversation. Then he went his way, and so did I. That's all there was to it."

"Was he carrying packages, or anything?" Ron asked.

"No. But then, he wouldn't be. They'd be delivered."

Ron drummed his fingers on the table. "But why come out the back way?"

"I don't know. That's the only odd part," George admitted. "It's as if he didn't want to be seen... but why on earth not?"

Ron thought furiously. "Parkinson," he said. "Maybe he was meeting her there as a cover, to talk about something secret. But they didn't want to be seen leaving together."

"It's possible," said George, a yawn threatening to split his face in half. "A bit far-fetched, though. Listen, Ronnie, I have to go to bed. I've been travelling since midnight. I'll be happy to concoct evil-Malfoy theories in the morning as much as you like."

"Good night, then," said Ron, without moving.

"Aren't you coming? There's a little cot I could Transfigure for you."

"No. Not yet. I want to think."

And Ron did think, sitting in his chair and staring out the window until dawn stained the sky a pale pink, like blood in water. By the time he heard his brothers stirring in the next room and the sun had risen full in the wintry sky, he had reached no conclusion. But at least I'm meeting with Harry tonight, he thought. Finally.