Even Heroes Fall

Chapter 1. The Beginning of the End

It was winter, but as most knew, there was no distinction of seasons in the tropics. The white sands were toasted with sun, palm trees content to sway in light, slightly humid breezes and the people calm and tranquil, succumbing to the harmonical epitome of paradise with passive lethargy. Here, there was no war, no death and despair - just miles of sparkling ocean, glistening beach, and peace, both in body and mind.

Ginny Weasley was not pacified.

Her margarita left untouched, she sat stonily under a worn straw umbrella, staring out into the vast depths with empty brown eyes. There was a time when she would've squealed at the prospect of relaxing in the Caribbean's finest Muggle resort. There was a time when she would've given up nearly everything to revel in nature's most expressive beauty.

There was a time when she would've had her favorite brother to share the beauty with.

Vacation had lost its appeal long ago, yet she'd allowed Cornelius Fudge to placate her weary soul with promise of serenity in an all-expenses paid trip to the islands. Maybe she had been too tired to argue, or maybe it really had seemed an excellent idea at the time, but here she was, tanned and sunny but restless as ever. And it wasn't that she'd craved adventure, no, because Ginny was sick of the damned war, of fighting for the cause that never seemed to end.

Two young children that reminded her painfully of Fred and George scampered past, yelling in heavilmerican voices and playfully tossing sand at one another. Ginny watched them listlessly, remembering Voldemort's attack on the clueless Muggles of sunny California and wondering, briefly, if they would live past the age of ten. She was not so bothered by massacre these days, and the hope that would've caused her to weep for such lost innocence empty, broken, and shattered. She didn't allow herself to contemplate life's sardonic twists anymore because, as she'd learnt all too well by now, there were way too many.

It hadn't been enough for Voldemort to deprive her of Dumbledore, and Ron, and Colin Creevy, who she'd faithfully dated her sixth and seventh years. She'd lost her family, the cheerful bunch who had once tilted her chin upwards in times of misery, who'd smiled with loving warmth in times of loneliness. Not in the same aspect as Ron and Colin, of course, but in the way that they were now strangers to her, embittered by war and soured by defeat. There was no optimism in the burrow, just decaying, lifeless souls.

And then, she had lost her two best friends - to each other. On the outside, Ginny was overjoyed for Harry and Bridgette's engagement, and a part of her truly was. They deserved happiness, really, they had worked and plodded through the same horrible messes she had, and nobody could bring a larger smile to Harry's face than Bridgette. But somewhere deep inside her, in that caustic id Voldemort had so congenially helped form, she knew their marriage would destroy the precious trio of aurors they had taken so long to build.

It was selfish, she knew. But with Ron's death and Hermione's depression, she had unwittingly emerged alongside Harry and Bridgette as few of England's finest, and that feeling of utter belonging had imminently pleased her. She had always been close with Bridgette - the lithe blonde had transferred from Beaubaxtons at the end of Ginny's fifth year. She was the very first person to truly accept Ginny for who she was, despite the countless rumors of her first-year fiasco circling around. Harry was a different story altogether, but she was honestly thankful for his friendship and hadn't minded when he began dating Bridgette.

She had known things would eventually change, but she couldn't help wishing they wouldn't. At their wedding, she forced an elated smile upon her face, deeply envious - though not of Harry but of their pure, blissful smiles, of the beauty which had emanated from Bridgette's simple white gown.

Of the hope, hope and faith and lighnone of which was for Ginny. Never again would they venture into uncharted territory as a team of three friends.

Ginny tilted her face to the sun apathetically, closing her eyes and heaving a sigh. Her life was devoted to bringing Voldemort down - more than a fourth of it, to be exact. She was good - the Ministry and Fudge knew this, or they wouldn't have granted her leave for a week. "A week away from the wizarding world, cut off from all contact and immersed in Muggles," Fudge himself had said. Yet the gratification that had once arisen from the capture of death eaters was slowly fading, as with each, Voldemort's power never vacillated significantly enough. Muggles still died, along with the most valiant of aurors, and in all Ginny didn't feel she deserved to be here, enjoying or attempting to enjoy Aruba.

But I captured Hayden Laures, Ginny reminded herself.

She reached for her abandoned drink now, ignoring the disgusted look an elegant woman near her tossed as she threw her head back and downed the entire glass. The alcohol burned her tht fiercely, but Ginny didn't notice. Somehow, it wasn't enough.

Nothing ever was.

And when the grand snowy owl swooped down like the first dawn of bitter winter, she did not heed the gasps elicited from those nearby, only focused her hazel eyes on the single talon that clutched a small scrap of parchment. Just one scrap. But one too many.

She smoothed it with trembling fingers, staring blankly for an infinite moment at the words, two simple words blurred before her. The woman beside her watched with bated breath and unbidden curiosity, frozen in time, useless, unsuspecting. And Ginny let out a sharp, acerbic laugh, chilling even to her own ears. She laughed until the waves retreated and the sand was baked cool, until the beach emptied of life, and then turned towards the now-empty chair.

"She's gone," Ginny gasped in a strangled voice. It was then she realized that her vision was horribly blurred. It was then she realized that for the first time since Ron's death, she was crying.

~*~

The day they mourned for Bridgette Potter, it poured.

Like Ginny's mood, it was dark and dismal, fat gray drops of sweet rain drowning the earth as if the Gods were crying for her themselves. It seemed but sour irony that she should be buried on a day so unlike her bubbly, vivacious personality. The small bundle of roses in her hands were wilting fast, and from across her she saw Harry stare woodenly through raindrop-cluttered glasses, green eyes blank and dark with sorrow. She wondered, fleetingly, if he could possibly see through those foggy lenses - and then it came to her.

He didn't want to see.

Oh, Bridgette, why?

"Harry," Ginny whispered softly, sympathetically. Gently she reached for his hand, palms wet and cold. Her heart went out to him, standing so forlorn and desolate by himself, and she gave his fingers a reassuring squeeze. He did not look at her, only blinked rapidly before gratefully returning the gesture.

And there they stood, two lost figures in the relentless and miserable rain.

The gathered crowd began to depart. Mumbling to one another, they disassembled with sorrow as black-clad men lowered her corpse into the grown. There was no longer time, nor money, for luxuries like coffins, and the dirt, muddied thick and liquid, stained the pristine white sheets in which her body was enshrouded in an insta/font>

Pristine, as her wedding gown had been.

The men began to pile silt in the small concave they had dug.

Harry let out a sob.

"Harry," Ginny said placatingly, stepping close. "Harry, it's--it's okay."

"I don't...understand," Harry said after a pause. "My parents...Ron...Bridgette... why did he chose me? Why me?"

She chose to remain silent.

"I don't want this, Gin," he whispered pathetically. "I don't want the fame of Harry Potter. I don't want this damned scar, this life, this fate. I don't want it."

"I know," Ginny replied in a low, quiet voice.

"And I just don't know what he wants," Harry went on, as if she had not spoken at all. "Why doesn't Voldemort kill me outright? Why this way? This slow, agonizing torture and Bridgette, oh Bridgette--"

"Shh," Ginny soothed, bringing her arms around him as he cried into the soft waves of her hair, tears mingling with rain. And she let her own tears come, salty to her lips as her fingers rubbed circles into the nape of his neck. Where rain stopped and tears began she could not distinguish, but the wet of their skin did not quite register in her mind.

"I loved her so much," Harry said brokenly against her ear. "I love her still."

They stayed in that oddly comforting embrace as the storm began to retreat. The sky remained, as ever, gray and rich with ominous clouds, and Harry whimpered in a manner Ginny had never before seen. "It'll be alright, Harry," she murmured.

"It won't," he whispered. "She's not coming back, you know. Death is--death is final." He pulled back to look into her eyes, wetness bringing shine to his inky lashes. "I'm just so mad and I don't know who to be mad at, I don't have any place to dump all this anger, that's the worst part."ont>

"They don't know who killed her?" Ginny asked softly, eyes questioning.

Surprise flickered across his face. "They didn't tell you," Harry said slowly.

She shook her head. "There hasn't been time for that."

"There hasn't been time for anything but pain," was his bitter reply.

Running her fingers down his forearm, she flickered her eyes away from the raw emotion on his face. "I'm sorry," she told him, the only appate answer she could possibly draw. He had never been exceptionally tall, and it did not take much effort for her to press a light kiss to his cheek, as she had seen Hermione do countless times back at Hogwarts.

"I know," he answered, and began to say more--only instead, his attention was diverted to something behind her.

"What?" Ginny pressed, furrowing her eyebrows. She swung around to see a hooded figure standing tense and still. Death eaters was her first thought, but upon closer scrutiny the well-fitted robes and delicate jewelry didn't quite suit the uniform of one prepared for battle.

The rain turned into a light drizzle.

"Viane," Harry said, a bit nervous but more mourn

From under her wide umbrella, the woman - Viane, Ginny ran the name through her head - revealed her face. It was a stunning face, skin creamy like porcelein, eyes so deep a blue they could've been violet, and the most beautiful hair Ginny had ever seen, long and golden curls that pronounced her undoubtedly veela blood. She was both familiar and a stranger, thin lips set into a firm line while her white cheeks pinked rapidly. Ginny, with her drab funeral robes plastered to her body and red hair sticking around her face, had never felt plainer.

"Harry," Viane replied stiffly. She focused her gaze on Ginny. "Well, well. Ginevra Weasley. I didn't expect to see you here."

"I'm sorry," Ginny forced a smile to her face. "I don't believe I know you."

Recognition lit Ginny's eyes. "DuPont," she said softly. "Bridgette's..."

"Sister," Harry supplied. "And my sister-in-law."

Viane tilted her chin at him, narrowing those formidable eyes and sending him a calculating stare. "Not now," she said in a flat, toneless voice. "Not anymore."

"Oh, Viane," began Harry.

"But you knew that already, didn't you?" Viane directed her malevolent glare towards Ginny, ignoring Harry altogether.

Ginny started. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"You know what I mean," Viane said. "Honestly, the impudence! To show your face, here and now, clinging onto Harry like some two-sickle whore."

"I beg your pardon?" Ginny paled, more confused than insulted, more hurt than indignant.

"Don't beg," Viane sneered. "It's most unbecoming."

"Well why wouldn't I be here?" Ginny demanded. "I'm her best friend."

"Oh sure," Viane scoffed. "Best friend you are. You know that Bridgette would still be alive for you? You know that she was killed on the misson you were to go on? You should be dead, Weasley, not her. I shouldn't be at her funeral, mourning her death, not when it's supposed to be you."

"Viane--" Harry started sharply.

"You were in the tropics," Viane finished darkly. "You were tanning on a beach while a pregnant woman met her death."

All protest in Harry was lost then, and he glanced helplessly between his stunned friend and angry sister-in-law. "Pregnant?" he echoed in complete shock.

"She was pregnant?" Ginny whispered softly, utter horror upon her face.

Viane nodded. "Two lives, Weasley. Two Potters. But isn't that the way you wanted it?"

"No!" Ginny shouted desparately. "You don't understand - Bridgette was my best friend."

"Of course," said Viane. "And I suppose the fact that you're smitten with her husband has nothing to do with it."

"I am not," cried Ginny.

Viane took a meancing step closer. "You listen to me, and you listen good. I don't want to see your face around my sister's grave, or around her husband, ever again."

Casting Harry a pleading glance, Ginny protested in vain. "This isn't--Harry, tell her, please."

But he only stared blankly at her. "She was pregnant?" wll Harry could manage. "Pregnant?"

"That's right," Viane affirmed sorrowfully. "She was waiting for the right time to tell you, you know."

"Pregnant," repeated Harry. "I was going to be father."

Viane glared at Ginny, gently taking the befuddled man by the elbow. "Come with me," she crooned. "I have some things of hers you might want to see."

"Harry," Ginny tried one last time.

And then, together, they disapparated.

The rain splattered its dying drops and Ginny shuddered, wet and alone in the dismal cemetery. Gathering her robes around her, she knelt in the slopping mud, tracing her fingers where the tombstone should've been. She deserved better, Ginny thought fiercely as tears threatened to come. They all deserved better.

Liquid from the lasting storm, the black soil oozed between her fingers, lodged in the cracks of her long nails. There was a movement from behind her, movement which suggested that indeed, she was not alone. Turning her neck just slightly, Ginny saw a flash of black as somebody rested a hand on her shoulder.

"Terrible, isn't it?" came a soft, female voice.

So familiar...

"I remember a time," the voice continued, "When my situation was not so different from yours; shunned and desolate. Hopeless."

Ginny turned fully now, brown eyes wide, to see Hermione Granger looking down at her stoically. She had aged in the few short years since Ginny had last seen her, aged terribly. There were no laugh lines around her dull eyes, her hair pulled back neatly in a fashion which hinted to Ginny that never did she wear it down, never did she wear it the way Ron had so loved.

She smiled, only it was not really a smile, and offered a hand to the younger woman. "How good can I be?" she shrugged when in embarrassment Ginny did not take it. "My parents are dead. The only man I have ever loved, dead. Those who love him also remain, of course, only I am dead to them. Same old, same old, I'd say."

Ginny flushed, despite the noncommittal tone of voice Hermione had used, and stood up slowly to face her. "I don't..." she murmured. "I never...I...I'm sorry."

"Don't be," replied Hermione. "Given the time and circumstances...well I didn't come here to berate you anyhow." She glanced around the grounds thoughtfully. "I actually wasn't planning to come at all. Odd, isn't it?"

"What?" Ginny asked warily.

"This," Hermione gestured wildly. "Harry Potter's wife dies, and I don't even come to the funeral. Harry fucking Potter, Ginevra."

Ginny blanched at the obscenity. "You used to never call me that."

Hermione squinted at her. "Yeah, well, there are a lot of things I used to never do. You can't pretend nothing has changed, you know. You can't pretend we're conversing as we would have five years ago, you can't pretend we aren't strangers now."

Staring at the ground, Ginny only coughed, as there was no adequate response to that. "So," she said after some time. "Why did you come?"

"Truthfully speaking, it was business," Hermione answered frankly. "I've got a proposition for you."

Ginny raised an eyebrow. "What kind of proposition?" she asked with equal parts doubt and curiosity.

And then Hermione gave that smile-which-wasn't-really again. "A proposition not appropriate for this environment," was her matter-of-fact response. She reached inside her robes and removed a small white business card. "Here," she said, handing it to Ginny. "It's a Muggle bar in southeast London. I trust you can go home and clean yourself up, and make it there by, say, five?"

Ginny nodded mutely.

"Good," Hermione said with a satisfactory grin.

It was until after she'd disapparated that Ginny realized the engagement ring on her fourth finger was not the one Ron had purchased.

~*~

Callahan's was one of the few open Muggle bars left in dark London. Ginny arrived at promptly 4:55, looking around at the curious men with some unease. Ordering a questionable pink liquid, she settled in the vinyl seat, her worn jeans thankfully appropriate garb, and waited.

"Your arita," said the bartender after a few moments of apprehensive wait had passed. Ginny took the glass gratefully, glad to have something which would keep her preoccupied, and flashed him a weak smile. Bringing the wide glass to her face, she sniffed cautiously, and frowned when a fruity scent wafted to her nose.

"I wouldn't drink that if I were you," said Hermione from behind her.

Ginny spun around. "You're here."

The older woman took a seat beside her, not one bit incongruous with the setting as she ordered two glasses of water. "Wizards generally don't have a swell tolerance for Muggle liquor," she explained. "It's not quite the same as the alcohol the magical world is accustomed to."

Ginny gave her a small, embarrassed grildquo;I didn't know."

Hermione sent her a sidelong glance. "Without sounding too cynical," she said, "There's a lot of things you don't know."

Unsure of the proper response, Ginny took a deep gulp of her water. "Listen," she said uncomfortably. "I'm not sure why I came here, but I'm thinking things might blow smoother if we just cut to the chase."

Hermione studied her. "Fine," she agreed after a pregnant pause. "You know, I hesitated in selecting you for the job, considering our history, but you and I both know the ministry has no better auror."

"Thanks," Ginny said uncertainly.

"It's not a compliment," Hermione shrugged. "It's a fact." Before the other could respond, she slid out a series of photos.

Ginny glanced at the neat pile with bewilderment. "Muggle photographs?"

"There is a spell," Hermione said patiently, "A spell of the dark arts, of course, which can make you invisible to the camera. Only it doesn't seem to have the same effect on Muggle cameras, we've discovered."

Ginny blinked.

"This man," Hermione went on, "is conceived to be responsible for several auror deaths.&rdq/font>

"So why don't we throw him into Azkaban?" she wanted to know.

"It's not that simple," Hermione replied. "This man is extremely powerful, extremely wealthy, and as much as I hate to admit it--" she wrinkled her nose in distaste "--extremely intelligent. To prove him guilty is nearly impossible, and it drives me out of my mind because I have no doubt it's him."

A round 'o' of surprise formed on Ginny's lips.

"Go on," Hermione said, indicating the pictures. "Turn them over. Look at them. You might...recognize something."

In the last one, the same cloaked figure had turned towards the unseen camera, and in the hoary black of background two eyes stared piercingly at Ginny - two light, silver eyes like cold pools of mercury.

They were eyes Ginny would recognize anywhere, eyes she had loathed for quite a long time.

They were the eyes of Draco Malfoy, prince of Slytherin.

She snapped her head up, meeting Hermionie's leaden gaze with her mouth open in question. "Impossible," she whispered.

"My reaction precisely," Hermione responded.

Silence, at least to them.

"I thought you said we couldn't prove him guilty," Ginny said desperately. "So what use am I to you?"

"We can't," Hermione said, "Without an inside source investigating him."

"A rdquo;

She nodded.

In contemplation, Ginny fell quiet. "You don't mean to suggest...surely you aren't..." she found herself at a loss for words.

"It's really quite very easy," Hermione said, removing a thick envelope from her well-used bag. "Mr. Malfoy has opened up a position in his life you could fill."

All color drained from Ginny's face. "You aren't insinuating that I'm going to have to...hit on him?"

Hermione chuckled. "No, no," she reassured. "You will be paid by both ends for this job, I guarantee."

"Oh." There was an audible sigh of relief on Ginny's part.

"This here," Hermione went on, unfastening the envelope, "is a contract. It promises that upon completion of your task, you will receive 200 million galleons."

Both wary and confused, Ginny remarked, "But Hermione, I'm an auror. Why do I need a contract?"

"As of now," Hermione said, handing her a quill. "You're a freelancer. On this assignment, at least. See, the organization heading this operation is a secular branch of the Ministry. We work for them, but we have our own inte structure. And we're classified, highly classified."

Ginny glanced up from her perusal of the documents to take the quill. "You're part of the Freedom League?" she asked with great surprise.

A small smile played at her lips. "Well, don't tell me that you think I've been doing paperwork for the past years."

"No, no," Ginny amended. "But you know, congratulations are in order. The League is very elite, so I hear. Until now I'd not had solid proof of their existence, in fact."

"You hear right."

She signed the documents with flourish. "So what exactly will I be doing?" asked Ginny. "Cooking? Cleaning? Cooking and cleaning?"

Hermione hesitated and averted her gaze. "Not quite. Mr. Malfoy is seeking a, um--" she winced "--companion."

Incredulity and disgust flickered in Ginny's eyes, and she glanced from the contract to Hermione's face repeatedly. "Is that a fancy word for prostitute?" she demanded.

"No!" Hermione sounded scandalized. "You'd just accompany him to formal events. A prize, a trophy, I guess."

Ginny fell silent. "I don't understand," she finally said. "It isn't as if Malfoy can't find women. As much as I hate him, you and I both saw the disgusting display of Slytherin girls after him at Hogwarts. Has he grown two heads since then?"

"Not quite," Hermione replied with a shrug, gathering the papers from Ginny. "I guess we're never going to understand Malfoy, are we? Let's just be thankful this opportunity has opened."

Ginny nodded, as she had not much mind to do anything else.

"Come to the East wing of the Ministry at seven sharp tomorrow morning," Hermione told her, checking her watch. "There's a door there which leads to the secret opening of where the Freedom League resides. We will further discuss your plans from there."

Again, Ginny nodded, and Hermione turned to leave.

"Hermione," she called, just as the other woman was about to exit.

When she spun around, however, the thoughts that had been flitting about Ginny's head suddenly dissipated, and she had no way of coherently phrasing all the questions she had prepared for her.

"You're not wearing Ron's ring anymore," Ginny blurted out. "You wore it for so long after he died--I thought--we all thought you'd never take it off."

A wry smile twisted Hermione's lips, and she looked for a moment ready to laugh. "Yes, well," she finally answered dryly, "Love can make us do funny things." Then, turning sharply on her heel, she disappd into the dark night.

Ginny stared after her. "I suppose it can," she murmured, and downed the rest of her water.

- End Chapter 1-