Tangled Repentance

Part One

into that world inverted
where left is always right,
where the shadows are really the body,
where we stay awake all night,
where the heavens are shallow as the sea
is now deep, and you love me.

Elizabeth Bishop

***

Ginny is eleven, and she is in love.

He is so amazing and wonderful and sort of scary, but she ignores that part of him. He is sweet and talks to her like her brothers never have.

Tell me your dreams, your wishes. Oh, Ginny, don't be afraid of me...

It doesn't matter that she has never seen him. She knows what he looks like. In her mind's eye, she sees him. She can see that his hair is dark and shiny like her mother says hers will be if she brushes her hair nice. His eyes make her think of the lake near her house where her brothers come back all dirty in the day, but it's at night where the moon shines really bright on the dark blue water she can't play in yet. He talks how her mother makes her bed, swishing the linens in the air and then they fall quietly.

And when he is gone and she is wrapped up like a gift in the hospital wing with the scratchy white sheets all around her, she calls out for him, in her mind because that is where he talks to her. He is playing a joke and it isn't funny, but he can make her smile so what is it?

Tom, what are you doing? Talk to me, please, I don't want to sleep...

But the potion the witch with the nice eyes gives her is strong and she can't stay awake and when she does wake it is dark and only the torches are lit.

And he has not come for her.

She touches her face. It is wet and she realizes that she has been crying. She knows now that she doesn't have to be awake to cry.

She also knows now that love will leave her in the dark, alone.

Ginny is eleven, and she is not in love anymore.

***

She awoke as suddenly as if someone had hit her.

Her head jerked up from her arms, resting on her knees, and she looked around the dark room. Desks were arranged in neat rows and columns around the room; bookshelves held references along the walls.

And she was alone.

The edges of her mind twisted her memories until she squeezed her eyes shut to stop the flow of feelings that threatened to tear her apart. Breath ragged, she stretched out her legs in front of her. Pain shot through her muscles down to her bones from the change of position. She gingerly stood up, feeling dizzy, and sighed, leaning herself against the stone wall.

Options presented themselves to her: people she could go to, talk to; places she could go to hide, to be seen; actions she could to do to help, to fix the mess she had created. She closed her eyes, still against the wall, and they shot open with ideas.

Crossing the room, she wretched open the door with abandon and made her way down the path she had chosen.

***

Betrayal has a taste.

It stings the back of his throat and slides down like alcohol, burning in its wake. It starts a bitter-tasting fire on the inside that will, eventually, burn to the outside and char everything that caused it. It spreads, pounding like a heart, through the blood, right down to the marrow of his bones until he shakes with it.

Harry could not believe it. Yet eyes do not lie. Pale hands on red hair and slender legs around black trousers do not lie. Dark eyes half closed and vampire kisses burn against the back of his eyes and the absolute knowledge makes him want to strike out.

But even with all he knows, he wants more answers: How long had this been going on? Why did she lie? What made her go to him? What made him so different than what she already had?

Did she tell him she loved him?

And so do these questions boil over like poison in a cauldron until the edges of reason blur and all logic is lost to a rage that is more than just emotion, but an instinct that will shudder you.

***

Only angels were up at this hour.

She made her way through the castle, walking down stairs, moving through corridors, trying not to think. She met no one, so she could do as she wished. The freedom was intimidating.

"It'sssss a bit late, don't you think?"

Looking around, Ginny realized that she had already reached the portrait. It was of a large, twisting serpent. Green, with golden eyes, it stared at her, twitching the end of its body, winding around the borders of its painting lazily like a noxious gas.

"Anguis." She knew the password. She also knew what it meant. It meant snake in Latin, but it also was the name of the Constellation Draco, the Dragon, or the Serpent. Even his vanity astounded her sometimes. Draco had told her the password ages ago, excluding its meaning, so she was surprised when the snake laughed. Actually, it gave more of a hissing chuckle that slithered through its body, a long vibration that moved through its scales, creepy in the darkness of the Dungeons.

"Ahhhh....you're not one of ussssssss."

Ginny was irritated. "I gave you the password. Let me in."

"That'ssss not the passsssssword."

She narrowed her eyes and the snake's yellow slits stared right back, taunting. She had had one of the worst days of her entire life and was getting attitude from a partially inanimate object. So she let the lies come.

"I am a Prefect. I have the rights to all common rooms and you are under my authority at this school. The rules are clear: you have to let me in. I will not report you if you do so now. You have no idea the trouble you could be in if you do not let me in."

There was a pause of several moments. Ginny held her breath--would it believe her? She waited, not daring to move....

With an ominous creaking noise, it opened for her. Releasing her held breath, she climbed through, relief filling her. Right before the door closed behind her, she heard the snake.

"You're not," it informed her, sounding callously amused, "fooling anyone."

The portrait shut with a snap. Straightening her shoulders, Ginny made her way up the stairs to the boy's dormitories.

***

"Where do you think she is?"

"I don't know. It's been awhile since I left her--"

"That was so stupid. I can't believe you left her! She could be anywhere--"

"Well, what would you have me do, Ron? I had to find Harry--"

"Yes, because that worked out so well. Good plan, Hermione! What's next? Why don't we just waltz over to Filch and ask him for help. We can throw in Snape, too, and how about Peeves? That could really--"

"Ron! Stop. This isn't helping."

He signed and turned his head to her, abandoning his shouting whisper. "I know. Sorry, I just..." His voice trailed off.

They had been searching throughout the castle until curfew and now, hours after it, were sneaking along as quietly as they could. It was a stupid plan, but Hermione was Head Girl and Ron was Head Boy, so it wasn't as bad as it could be. And they had Harry's father's cloak, even if it now had a tendency to slip off accidentally or to show their ankles; they had grown considerably since first year. Regardless, they could always make up something about official business if Filch spotted their trainers. Snape on the other hand...

With some difficulty due to their positioning, Hermione looked up and down the corridor, feeling helpless. She also felt a bit like she was going to cry, but she couldn't. Ron would not react well and such an act is not productive when trying to find two miserable, traumatized people with a tendency towards the unexpected in a castle the size of a small country--or at least one that now felt as large.

And the stress was beginning to get to them. They had snuck into the library, checked a variety of classrooms, and had been roaming up and down random corridors under the invisibility cloak; Ron had nabbed it from Harry's trunk when Hermione had told him the news--after she had looked for what felt like hours for Harry. It had been an exhausting night so far, hampered even more by Ron's increasing frustration at the situation at hand. His only sister was missing after being caught cheating on his best mate who ran off as well. He had no idea where either of them was or if they were alright. He was out late at night, far past curfew, after stealing his best mate's cloak he had gotten from his dead father without permission (not that he could have asked, but still), and was with his other best friend on the verge of a nervous breakdown she was trying to hide. Hermione had told him he was being too temperamental. Given the current state of things, he would be mental if he didn't have a temper.

"And you really don't know who it was?"

Hermione stared determinedly down the corridor, avoiding Ron's inquiring look. "No, but I'm sure we'll know eventually. Don't worry about it, Ron. That's not our main priority right now."

"If my sister's been had by some bloke, I want to know about it! He could have--"

"Ron," Hermione said soothingly, "I don't think that was the case. Besides, they may have not have had that sort of....thing. I read a book once--"

"Big surprise--"

"--about something called... I believe it was... emotional affairs. Apparently there is never actually any sort of, well... physical immorality, just feelings."

Ron looked at her accusingly from under the cloak. "You said that Ginny said that Harry walked in on them. Doesn't sound very 'emotional' to me."

"Well...she did say that," Hermione admitted, "but still, we don't know the whole story."

Ron snorted. "At this rate, we'll never know." With an irritated sigh, he stopped and grabbed her wrist so that she would stay under the cloak. She shivered at his touch and looked down at where their skin met.

"Maybe we should split up," he suggested, looking very serious and dropping her wrist. "I could go and look for one of them and you could look for the other."

She felt her stomach clench. He doesn't want to be with me, she thought with a mixture of anger and a sort of melancholy resentment. He has me, alone at night, and he wants to go away. A moment later she felt incredibly stupid and guilty at her train of thought. She should be thinking of her friends, but still, he could try to at least pretend that--

"Hermione?"

"What?" she asked, feeling flustered. "Oh! I mean, yes. I agree."

She cleared her throat and looked up at him. In the torchlight, his eyes looked indigo. Desperately clinging to the ever-present focus in her mind--it tended to leak quickly like water through fingers when he looked at her like that--she said, "I think you should look for Ginny. I doubt she would talk to me again as I left her before, even if I did happen to find her, and, no offence, you won't be able to talk to Harry objectively. Not yet, anyway." Ron opened his mouth to retort, but she plowed on. "Take the cloak and look near the East tower and near the Transfiguration classrooms; we didn't get to that...And Ron?" She grabbed his arm, something she rarely did for obvious reasons, and her look became fiercer.

"Yeah?" He looked, and felt, a bit intimidated.

She hesitated for a brief moment and then said, "When you find her...don't...attack her."

"What? I wouldn't--"

"Ron," she whispered furiously, "I know you, and I know how you get protective. And this is not the time. Do not question her or push her for details about what happened. Do not ask her the name of the boy and do not go running off to duel him the minute she tells you--if she does. Talk to her and if she doesn't want to talk, sit there. I don't care if she doesn't want you to move. Just find her." She let out a breath, but did not remove her hand from his arm although she knew she should.

Ron stared down at her, red hair almost burgundy at this late hour, blue eyes dark and focused on her. His skin was warm under her touch and she looked at him, waiting for him to do something, anything to break the silence and the tension she was sure only she felt.

After what felt like a minute, he said, "Ok, I won't do any of that stuff. And don't worry. I'll find her."

And she smiled up at him. "Thank you." She took her hand away now and, after looking around for teachers, pulled off the cloak. She handed it to him wordlessly. They stared at each other for a moment.

"I'm going to go..." She gestured down the corridor.

"Yeah," Ron said, sounding unfinished, "I'm..." He held the cloak in one hand, feet shifting slightly. Then, with a suddenness that almost made her jump, he moved towards her and, lowering his head, gave her a brief kiss on the cheek.

"Be safe."

She tried to arrange her face. "I will. Good luck."

And, with that, they turned in opposite directions, both smiling as they walked down the corridors.

Both smiling when they were sure the other couldn't see.

***

When she opened the door, a strange sight met her eyes. The room was the same as she remembered: An expensive looking oriental rug in the middle of the stone floor near the large brass bed, all black silk sheets and memories. A large window overlooking the lake was curtained by heavy velvet the color of a darkened forest, green with black undertones. A large trunk sat at the foot of the bed, a dark wood with black and silver writing.

What gave her pause was that Draco was sitting on it, his long legs stretched out in front of him and a tall bottle of amber liquid held in his hand.

He turned to her when he heard the door open and his eyes widened a little in surprise and... irritation? "Doesn't anyone ever knock anymore?"

Yes, definitely irritation.

"I did knock," replied Ginny, a bit incredulous at the scene before her. "What are you doing?"

"Getting drunk," he replied, as if it were obvious.

She stared at him, at a loss for words. After a moment, she asked, "Any reason why, or do you just have something against sobriety?"

Draco shrugged and knocked back another swallow. "What have I got for it? Anyway, it's either this or wait for your stolid boyfriend to come and wallop me with his poncy broomstick. So naturally," he continued, "I chose the more fun of the options."

She blinked. "You do tend to do that if you hadn't noticed."

When he didn't respond, she walked over and sat beside him on the trunk. Fiddling with the frayed hem of her shirt, she couldn't help but feel wrong-footed. It wasn't a rare occurrence for students to smuggle in forbidden commodities, and alcohol was no exception. People hid it in empty shampoo bottles or just transfigured it. Still, it was odd to come across Draco alone, drinking in his room at such an hour. She cut her eyes to him; he didn't look drunk, despite the half empty bottle in his hand, but she still felt oddly wary, like she wasn't sure what was going to happen next. She never drank except in celebration for something like a Quidditch game victory or any other sort of party held in a common room. Drinking when something unfortunate happened seemed a bit off. She knew it was a bad idea, but then didn't she always? And, as Draco had said, it was more appealing than talking to Hermione or Ron or Harry or anyone else that might drag her farther into this nightmare until she never woke up again.

So she took the bottle from him and, noticing his gray eyes move sideways to her, took a long swallow.

And it burned.

It wasn't like anything she had ever tasted before, quite unlike butterbeer or even the firewhiskey she had first tried last year during a particularly rowdy end of the year party. Those had been sweet and tart, and that acidy taste of it was not nearly as strong as this was. She choked, doubling over, eyes watering, and felt a hand on her back on her arm, easing her back into a sitting position.

"Alright now?" Draco was looking at her in mild concern and obvious amusement; he kept his hand on her arm and now they were face to face.

"What was that?" she gasped.

A smirk quirked his mouth. "My personal stash. It takes some getting used to." He took the bottle from her and drank a bit more of it. "I don't think it's quite what you're looking for, though."

She already felt a bit loose, like her mind was slipping off of its usual level headedness. She looked at him, at the long, slanting eyes and high cheekbones, and felt it tip even more. "And what am I looking for?"

"No idea."

"Well, then," she said, reaching for the bottle again, a wicked grin on her now wet lips, "maybe this will help me find it." And she felt it go through her, alighting a burning energy that made her eyes fly wide and her heartbeat quicken.

It made her feel like he usually did. The only thing with this was that she could stop whenever she wanted to. With him, right now, she couldn't.

With him, she never had been able to.

***

He wasn't trying to die, but someone watching might think differently.

He twisted, turned, weaved, sped up shockingly, dived, rocketed upwards, braked suddenly, just to see what would happen. If he took a turn too sharp, could it break in half? Could he? If he stopped suddenly, how fast would he have to be going to knock him off? Where was the line? How easy was it to cross?

Was it even there?

Harry was flying, and testing all the laws he knew. His broom felt alive under him and he wanted to feel that burning energy instead of the hollow emptiness that was beginning to chip away inside him. He was taking foolish risks, not just about the way he was flying, but just flying in general. It was the middle of the night, and he was alone, out of bounds after curfew. If he was caught...

But it didn't matter; surely he was entitled to some freedom from the rules. God knows everyone else had--she had.

But he didn't want to think about her.

He pointed his broom upwards and shot towards the sky as far as he could go, straight up to the stars he went. Twisting slightly, he urged it to go even faster. It began to shiver, then shake alarmingly until he was forced to point it back down. He raced his own dark shadow from the moon, all lit up. The wind ran through his hair like a lover's touch and he closed his eyes, braced for the impact.

But he touched down like a shadow when he jerked his broom up right before the ground. Legs trembling, he dismounted, trying to ignore the tearing in his throat and chest. He wasn't sure if that meant his heart was breaking or that his body was.

Right now, he didn't really care at all.

Looking around, he squinted into the dark, trying to adjust his eyes again; the ride had thrown his body off.

And he saw a slender figure walking towards him from the castle, the moon glinting off her dark hair. Such a powerful feeling rose up inside him at the sight of her that he chucked his broomstick to the ground viciously, and strode to her. Without really seeing her, he grabbed her arm in a vice-like grip and shook her, hard.

"What the bloody hell are you doing here?"

She gasped, sounding shocked. "Harry, get off me!" And she jerked her arm out of his grip that had slackened at the sound of her voice.

"Hermione?" he asked, feeling wretched.

"Of course it's me!" she hissed. "My God, what were you doing?"

"Nothing." He felt torn, like there were marks on his body he couldn't see, but should be able to. "Nothing. I was flying."

"Yes," Hermione informed him dryly, "I realized that. Where you trying to get yourself killed?"

"Yes," he said scathingly. "That was my brilliant plan."

Hermione looked vaguely disgusted. "Don't be sarcastic; it doesn't suit you. You sound like Malfoy--"

The effect of this simple sentence was frightening. Harry's eyes, usually a bright green, seen even in the low light of the moon on the pitch, darkened to an almost-black. His shoulder's tensed and his fists clenched and unclenched at his sides.

There was a tense, terse silence.

Hermione's eyes were wide and dark. "I knew it....I knew it..." she said, her words at odds with the astonishment in her voice. And she put a hand to her mouth as Harry picked up his broomstick and walked to the broom shed without a word.

***

"You know, he's not my boyfriend anymore."

Draco repressed a snort with difficulty. "Right, sure."

"He's not. Not after what he saw."

"Why don't you just feed him some sob story or something," he suggested unhelpfully. "How I used a potion on you or...." He took another swallow. "Maybe that you just feel really bad?" He said the last words with mockery. "Then he'll fall all over himself to protect you from me."

Ginny actually snorted. "How stupid do you think he is?"

"To take almost two months to figure it out?" He handed her the now almost empty bottle. "Pretty stupid."

She knocked it back; it had stopped burning her throat for some reason. Shaking her head, she replied, "It's not like we weren't good at hiding it."

When he didn't respond, she remembered. She stared at him and he looked back at her with blank, gray eyes that told her nothing.

"Except when you forgot to lock the doors." She paused, waiting for him to answer. When he didn't, her eyes flew wide. "My God, did you want to get caught?"

Draco sighed and let his head roll back. Staring at the ceiling he said, obviously perturbed, "Bloody hell, everything doesn't always have to have a double meaning, Ginny."

She was silent for a while, frowning slightly. She should be feeling angry at him that he had treated their secret so carelessly, should be mad that he had gotten them caught, intentionally or not. But what did it matter?

The secret's out.

She sighed and looked down at the ground. The alcohol was singing in her veins, a music that made her head swim. Her limbs felt loose, like they were unraveling. And in the distant part of her mind, she knew that this was not real. Sitting here, drinking with him, in his room was not real. There was a whole other part of her breaking that she didn't want to acknowledge and that was what was real. And she didn't want to think about it. Because if she did, she would have to start putting herself back together and she did not want to have to examine every piece to make sure it was not beyond repair. She just wanted to close her mind, but it was really hard to just forget.

"Harry knows," she said, just to hear it out loud.

He took her hand in his and raised it to his lips, the briefest of touches, before giving it back to her--a promise. "I know," he said, a sigh in his voice. "Believe me, I know."

***

"It was Malfoy?"

"Yes."

"It was Malfoy?"

"You've asked that already."

"I know... It's just..." Hermione sat down on the small, hard bench in the broom shed and ran a hand through her mess of curls, looking astonished. "I can't believe it."

Harry put his broom against the wall and sat down next to her. He didn't keep his broom in the shed--people hardly ever did, but they needed a place to talk where no one would see them. Hermione had that sort of look on her face that told him he wouldn't be free of her for quite awhile. Sighing, he looked up at her; her eyes were huge in her face, dark circles that went on forever and her face was very pale in contrast.

He tried to keep the tone of accusation out of his voice. "You said you knew."

She tore her eyes away from her thoughts and focused back onto him. "I had a suspicion that something was going on," she told him slowly, weighing every word. "But I didn't actually think that she would, well... Anyway," she went on hastily, seeing the look on Harry's face, "at least you know now, right? And it's not as if everything's ruined. I mean--" She broke off, unsure what to say next.

He didn't speak at all for a moment; she though he might scream at her. Finally he asked her, deliberately, "What do you mean...you had a... suspicion?"

Hermione looked nervous and she twisted her hands in her lap. She looked at him, hard, as if trying to gauge something from him. After a moment she answered hesitantly, "I'm not sure exactly... I think it was her mannerisms more than anything. She was strange after her...rounds at night and," she continued, her voice faster, "she had this coyness to her, like she had a secret. And she was never really present sometimes, like her mind was someplace else and she would stare off into space with this smile and it didn't really hit me that something might be happening until I put it all together, but I shoved that thought back. She's Ron's sister and our friend and I didn't...I didn't want to think that of her."

Harry had remained quiet throughout her entire ramble, looking pensive and hollow. He was staring at a crack in the wall behind Hermione, and he could swear it was getting bigger, splintering the shed to pieces.

"Harry?"

He could not believe she had had these thoughts and never voiced them, could not believe she had noticed so much and never even mentioned anything to him. To be fair, he never would have agreed with her, but it was the principle of the matter. She should have told him. He looked up, meeting her anxious expression, trying to control the coiled tension in his body like a trap waiting to spring, to snap. "So, you didn't know it was him?"

"Malfoy? No, I--" She broke off.

"What?"

"I--" She looked at him and sighed. "It's just... It makes sense."

Not for the first time that night did Harry feel the hot fury of anger leaping inside him. He glared at her, feeling it crawl into his mind and mouth, spilling out, heavy and fervent. "Sense? How the bloody hell did that make sense? Tell me, since you're so goddamn clever! It makes no sense, none at all. It--" He broke off, looking wretched and clenched his fists in his lap.

She said nothing. And the silence was deafening with regret.

"Sorry," he said shortly, after several moments.

"It's fine."

"No, it's not. Hermione--"

She sighed. "It made sense," she explained, before he could drown under his own guilt, "because you've gotten everything he's ever wanted."

Harry blinked at her.

She looked exasperated. "Come on, Harry. Think! You're better a flying than he is. You have more friends and you had parents that love you, while he might still have his, but they are hardly worthy of the title. You beat him every single time at Quidditch and win more house points. You are brave and kind and do the right thing. He has and does none of that." She looked at him, her eyes fierce with approval. "You are everything he wants to be, even if he doesn't know it or accept it."

Silence filled the room again, creeping under the floorboards, crawling up the ceiling, and spilling down to spin their thoughts until they could shake it off and know.

"So..." Harry put the pieces together uncertainly after a pause. "He wanted Ginny... because I had her?"

Shaking her head, she looked apologetic. "He got Ginny because you couldn't have her. It was the one thing he could beat you at."

His eyes were very green when they caught onto her. "How do you know everything?"

Her mouth twisted into something that might have been a smile, or maybe not. "We all have our flaws."

***

Her skin is still warm when she met him; she can still feel the imprints of his hands on her body.

And he can tell.

"Have fun studying?" he inquires in a would-be casual voice.

"I wasn't studying," she answers, feeling bold.

"I can tell."

She blinks at the ice in his voice and narrows her eyes slightly. "Fine." And she turns to go.

He grabs her, more quickly than she would have thought possible and spins her so she is facing him, less than a breath away. His eyes are hard, but they hold hers as he pushes her against the wall. Her shoulder blades dig into the stone and she gasps. He shoves his leg in between hers and there is something different tonight. These kisses are bites; these touches are brands. And she clutches him closer, wrapping herself around him. His other hand is in her hair, pulling her where he wants. She does not mind, but is different from before, and with each moment she connects these dots of her confusion.

It is the first time she realizes that he is not ok with her when she is not his.

***

Ginny knew that she was starring.

She also knew that he knew she was staring, but she couldn't stop. She took in his cutting cheekbones and eyes that reminded her of melted silver diamonds. She noticed a tiny white scar near his eyebrow and the way his hair fell onto his forehead in silky ribbons. And she drank him in as she had done that mysterious liquid that made all her feelings that much more powerful and that much more terrifying.

"I know what you're doing."

"What am I doing?"

"Staring at me. Don't."

She grinned, her eyes over-bright. "You know," she said, laughing, "you have a scar right....there?" And she poked him above his left eye.

He looked irritable. "You're drunk."

"Am not."

"Yes, you are. You can barely focus your eyes."

"I can to," she replied indignantly. "Look." And she put her hands on his shoulders and put her face close to his. "See?" she asked.

But that wasn't what she wanted to ask.

What she really wanted to ask him was if he saw her. Did he see the way her pulse jumped in her throat, and the way her hands shook slightly when she reached for him? Did he see how, even after everything, he was what she wasn't willing to give up to her web of lies and fading promises? Did he see that, in regards to him, she had fallen?

The bottle was still in his hand, but he dropped it and it rolled away, cracks forming in the glass. They did not realize when they hit the floor, only of the breathlessness and jolts of feeling going through their bodies. They rolled until she was under him and she could feel the weight of him all along her body. She shook with the alcohol and his proximity. His hands were rough on her, quite steady despite what was in his blood. She felt them and it hurt and the stones under her back hurt and the scratch of the rug and his trousers against her bare leg hurt. And she relished in it. After all that had happened, she could still feel.

And that was something.

***

His gloves are suprisingly soft for being made of wool--or so she imagines. They are not on her skin, but over her clothes. Over layers and layers of clothes, thanks to the bitter cold.

They are behind the greenhouses, and they really should be getting to class. But they are not thinking about class. She isn't, anyway. She is thinking of how his dark hair must look against all this snow, like ink or night. She is thinking about how they look together, that dark hair and her scarlet. And she is thinking about how funny it is that they are kissing in winter, when they have far too many layers on nearly every exposed part of their bodies.

She giggles and he pulls away, looking down at her quizzically.

"What?" she laughs, and brings him back. She kisses him, hard, and he responds, cupping the back of her head with his hand. But gentle, always gentle with him: light touches and soft kisses. Feeling suddenly and unjustifiably irritated, she wraps a leg around him, and with one hand, tangles her fingers around his leather belt, pulling him against her. She brings her mouth to his jaw and his throat, warming his skin to a fever.

He breaks off abruptly, looking at her.

"What?" she asks again.

And he looks harder. Her eyes are very dark and snow has fallen on some of her eyelashes. Her lips are dark red from kissing and the cold. She looks like she has been eating a never-melting cheery cone from Honeydukes, a child with something sweet. She runs her tongue across her lips and grins up at him. He blinks, feeling as though he is looking at a stranger.

With one hand he untangles her fingers from his belt and laces them with his own, a replacement for what he can not grasp. He motions towards the path for her class and she rolls her eyes, but walks with him. He places a kiss on her hair as they make their way together, murmuring an answer she can't hear over the winter.

"It's nothing." A misgiving he might have not said at all.

***

It was an hour before he drew blood.

Ron had walked for what seemed ages, through corridors and classrooms until the frustration mounted in him, seeping through his limbs to the base of his spine up to his brain.

He could not shake the feeling of helplessness that followed him like a shadow through the empty castle. He was, had always been, who took care of her. He had slept beside her bed after her first year at Hogwarts when her nightmares made her scream out into the night, when her fingers would clutch the bed sheets until her knuckles matched their pallor. He had had to hold her while she cried herself back to sleep, murmuring a boy's name that made him want to strike out. He swore after that that she would never have anymore pain; he alone could prevent it.

But those were the dreams of a twelve year old boy.

And now, at seventeen, he was too late--again. He was her brother. It was his job to look after her and help her and protect her. Not only had he failed to do that, he could not even find her--and that was maddening. He could not believe that he did not know that something was wrong. Once again, Ron Weasly, brother to those better than him, to a sister he failed, was not up to par. He couldn't do anything right--that he knew.

Those thoughts were unbearable; the whole situation was. He could feel his rapid heartbeat that had not slowed for hours, and he stopped walking. Facing the stone wall nearest him, he tried to breathe calmly--it didn't work. He hit the stone wall until blood fell like tears to the ground and his breath hitched in his chest.

"That's productive."

He spun around. Not realizing it, his feet had somehow led him down into the dungeons; he was in front of the Slytherin portrait. This was the last thing he needed right now: a stupid bloody serpent that thought sarcasm was a birthright.

Through the pounding in his ears, he heard the snake again. "Oh, not another one."

Ron's head shot up. "Another what?" he spat. Perhaps the snake could come in handy. Anger had built up inside him and he needed something to vent it on.

The snake nodded its head towards his chest where his Head Boy badge was pinned, slightly crooked, to his robes. "Another Prefect, eh? Lovely. Just what I need at this hour."

"Head Boy," corrected Ron, feeling slighted.

The snake disregarded this. "Wandering around at late hours, making idiotic speeches to get in to my common room: ridiculous."

"I never made a speech."

"Nevertheless," replied the snake pompously, twitching its tail irritably, "shouldn't you be bothering your own portrait instead of demanding entrance to mine?"

"I never demanded--"

"Not that I didn't see right through her little babble--I'm not a complete idiot. Although," it added delicately, looking at Ron dispassionately, "look who I'm talking to."

"Wait," injected Ron, his heart starting to race, "who was trying to get in here? A girl, you said?"

The serpent eyed him closely. "I have better things to do than answer pointless questions from a puffed up adolescent. Good day to you." It made to close its eyes.

"Wait," said Ron, drawing his wand and pointing it at the snake. "You are going to tell me what I want to know and quickly, or I will hex you. I mean it."

"How threatening," it replied, sounding bored. "I'm terrified--shaking in my scales, really."

"Who was the girl?" he asked, before the snake could say anything more.

Eying him closely, the snake hesitated, and then said, after a pause, "She looked like you."

Ron's heart was pounding now. "What do you mean?"

"That unfortunate hair of yours: red. It gives you a plebian appearance; did you know that?"

The hand holding his wand was shaking. A girl, a prefect, had been trying to get into the Slytherin common room....a girl with red hair. Ginny had been here, was here, inside the common room. He had found her, finally. Now he just needed to get to her.

He cleared his throat, hoping for his voice to sound strong and threatening. "I need to get inside."

The snake seemed to laugh, a hiss that waved through its body like steam. "And because you've been so courteous thus far, I'm only too happy to oblige."

"I'm Head Boy--" Ron began.

"Yes, yes, and you have a matter of the utmost urgency to attend to that for some reason involves bursting into my common room and waking me up in the process." The snake seemed to hiss more and more as its irritation grew. "I think not."

Ron glowered. "So, you're not going to let me in?"

The serpent looked at him dispassionately again. "No," it hissed slowly, "no, I'm not going to let members from other houses into my common room, no matter if they are prefects--"

"Head Boy--"

"Regardless, my answer holds."

Ron glared at the portrait, thinking hard. "I'm guessing you didn't let her in either?"

"No."

Disappointment washed over him. "Do you have any idea where she went?"

"None at all."

He looked down at his hand: raw and torn, bloody tears of skin that had once been smooth. He swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. Curling his fingers to make a fist, he felt a zinging pain run up his arm and he breathed deeply. Turning from the snake, he walked dejectedly back up the corridor, failure weighing heavily on his shoulders, a burden threatening to bring him to his knees with every step.

When the boy had disappeared from sight, the darkness overwhelming even that shock of hair, the snake slithered lazily around its frame, its eyes glowing like golden coals.

"Fool," it hissed softly, and curled around itself in the night.

***

"Do you think they're looking for me?"

"Probably."

She sighed and moved more into his bare chest, running her hand meditatively up and down his pale torso, pushing her mind further away. She still felt a little drunk, but not to the point where she had no idea what she was doing. It was more that she didn't want to know. They were lying on his oriental rug, still tangled up in each other. His arm was around her narrow shoulders and her leg was in between his. Their hair mixed together, fire and ice, contrasting, unyielding. She planted a kiss on his shoulder and sat up, reaching for her blouse.

"What are you doing?"

She ran a hand through her hair to tame it, already thinking of places she could have been for so long that they would believe. "I have to get back." She avoided his gaze.

"I know this tune. Think I have the sheet music, actually."

She sighed and went to pull the shirt back over her head. "I know. And I know I've said this before--"

He grabbed her arm, letting the shirt fall to the floor with the other clothes, all scattered around them like disregarded mistakes. "You don't want to go back."

His tone was slow, hypnotizing. She looked at him helplessly. "I know. You're right, I don't, but--"

"Then stay."

Her eyes grew wide. "It's nearly three. They'll be wondering where--"

"Exactly." And his voice was suddenly sharp, a frozen-over razor blade. "And what are you going to tell them, Ginny?" he asked her angrily. "Where are you going to say you've been?"

"I..." She drew in a shuddering gasp. "I don't... I'm not sure yet." She dropped her eyes to the spiraling patterns of the rug, all swirling colors and shapes, feeling pathetic. She was on the floor with a boy that wasn't her boyfriend, their clothes scattered haphazardly around the darkened room at three in the morning. She had lost her real boyfriend who now probably hated her, and her brother and Hermione were either looking for her or, more likely, listening to Harry and what he had to say about her. And they would choose him, of that she was sure. She felt the beginnings of tears and she shoved those thoughts back.

"Hey," Draco said, reaching out for her. He pushed a copper curl from her face, tucking it behind her ear. "Don't."

"I know," she sniffed, "crying--it's stupid." She put her face in her hands as he ran his own over her shoulders, down her arms, to her hands, so she raised her face to look at him. "It's just... I've lost them," she told him, a weary sort of sadness in her hitching voice. "All of them: Harry, Ron, Hermione. They'll all hate me for this, for what I've done, and I know it's stupid. I mean, I chose this, but everyone will hate me, and I won't be able to stand it, I won't be able to stand it--"

He took her by the shoulders and kissed her, hard, anything to silence her. She fell into him as she had done countless times before. He kissed her forehead, both her eyes, her nose, her mouth, until she forgot her thoughts, letting them trail away like ribbons in the air. They were moving, a dance they had practiced to perfection, an oblivion they had grasped at, never letting go.

Breath ragged, he pulled away from her the slightest bit. But he was still close enough to count the freckles dotting her skin, notice the tears on the dark eyelashes, see himself reflected in her.

"Stay."

When she didn't protest, he pulled a hand to lift her up and she swayed a bit, dizzy from the alcohol making its way through her and the smell of his sweat and his cologne. He pulled her to the bed and she fell into it, sighing at the cool silk against her skin. He liked when she was like this, panther lazy and soft breaths against his burning skin. She moved towards him, tangling herself around him like fire, surrounded by all the black.

And she fell asleep, clutching at him, a child in the dark.

***

She was sleeping. Her breath stirred her scarlet curls and her eyes were closed, those dark eyelashes sending long shadows to paint her face. He couldn't help but stare. And it was fine; she would not know. The fire was warm and he could distantly hear it crackling in the grate.

They had been studying, but she had fallen asleep on the couch, her books knocked to the floor. Her slender legs were stretched out and her head was pillowed in her arms. He could see the necklace he had gotten her, that fragile, silver rose, against the pallor of her skin. This was a gift, he knew--to be able to see her, to watch her, with no one else around them. He wondered if he should get her a blanket or reconjure the fire, when she opened her eyes.

She blinked a couple of times and sat up, pulling her clothes into place, and looked up at him sheepishly. "Why didn't you wake me up?"

He grinned at her. "What? And have you nag me about copying my essays? I swear you're worse than Hermione sometimes."

She grinned and dragged herself off the couch so she could sit on the floor next to him. "It's for your own good, you know."

"I'm sure."

She hit him with a cushion from the couch and he laughed and grabbed it back from her, throwing it back onto the couch. He pulled her closer, planting a kiss on her forehead. She sighed and rested her head against his shoulder. They looked at the fire, at the flames lighting the room to a dull glow, and then he pulled away from her to see her properly. The firelight touched the edges of her hair with gold and he could see himself reflected in her eyes.

"I love you."

It came out, and he tried not to panic. True, he had known her since she was eleven and had dated her since the summer. It had been months, and he knew what he felt. He was pretty certain she felt the same way, but his stomach was tied up in knots and the atmosphere was no longer lazy and quiet. It seemed tense now. He waited, not daring to breathe, until...

"I love you, too."

He sighed and kissed her. She kissed back, wrapping one of her hands around his neck and he pulled back, burrowing his head into the crook of her shoulder. He breathed in the familiar smell and raised his head to look at her.

She smiled at him, unable to speak.

Returning the smile, he kissed her forehead, and they sat again in quiet silence as she, subtly as she could, uncrossed the fingers on her hand, trying to not feel like a child.

He would never have to know.

***