Galatea

Chapter Two

Our Lady of Death

Thou ominous and fearful owl of death,

Our nation's terror and their bloody scourge!

The period of thy tyranny approacheth.

--William Shakespeare, Henry VI, pt. I

Draco wandered into the library. He was restless this evening, and didn't know what to do with himself. He was killing time, waiting for it to be night, for the sacrifice. He couldn't shake the feeling that there was something he should be doing. That it wasn't hopeless. But it was, he knew. If he interfered, he would die. He hoped Ginny would be able to fix it, but he wasn't going to hold his breath.

At the other end of the room, Draco spotted Delia Silvermoon hunched over a table poring over three books at once. Perhaps reading wouldn't provide adequate distraction, but a gorgeous redhead just might. Sighing inwardly and turning up the corners of his mouth in his trademark smirk, he walked over to stand behind her.

"What are you reading?" he asked, his voice low and smooth. Experience taught him that what he said didn't matter so much as how he said it. Draco could infuse even the most innocent question with sensual undertones. It was a gift.

She made a note on her parchment. "I found these with your father's books. It has several spells and potions I haven't seen anywhere else, and they're quite old. Most have become obsolete because they require Otherworldly magic."

"Do you think you can learn these spells?" he asked, leaning over her, letting his breath flutter her hair.

"If I can't, then my sister might be able to," Delia replied, goosebumps running up her arms. "Stop reading over my shoulder. It's distracting."

"Why don't you give me a...demonstration...of your magical talents?" he suggested. "We could go back to my rooms, have the elves bring us dinner..."

"Not interested," Delia said without even lifting her gaze from the heavy tome she was consulting.

Draco blinked. "I beg your pardon?" He leaned in closer, his chest a mere centimeter from her back, the warmth of his body creeping through her robes. "I'm not proposing marriage. Just a bit of fun. You work too hard. Even I make time for...amusement."

"Alicia Avery found out the hard way that your idea of amusement isn't always amusing," Delia said, making another mark on her parchment.

"Alicia Avery was a traitor in the making," he replied, his tone a little more snappish than he would've liked. Draco winced inwardly. Seduction wasn't accomplished by biting the girl's head off. He recovered quickly, his voice once again smooth, "You, on the other hand, are loyal and, I've no doubt, a sight more...amusing...than Alicia. Come upstairs, Delia. You've been in here for hours."

"Why don't you find Pansy Parkinson? I understand she's always up for...what was it you said? A bit of fun." She invested the words with the same breathy, sensual tone he had used, and Draco clenched his teeth. He sometimes got the feeling that, inside, she was laughing at him.

It had been worth a try. "If you change your mind," he said, "you know where to find me." Draco grabbed a book of the shelf at random and left without looking back. He didn't glance at the title until he was halfway up the stairs. One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi. It was going to be a long night.

* * * * *

Harry was sound asleep, one arm thrown over his head, the other around her waist, fingers curled into her skin, anchoring her against him. Ginny gazed pensively at his face. His jaw was shadowed with stubble, prickly hairs that had rasped across her body, creating sensations that swung from the merely ticklish to the deliciously, maddeningly sensual. His nose, slightly snubbed at the end, was nevertheless straight. His eyes moved in his sleep, causing his lids to twitch and fluttering his long, sooty lashes. And there, on his forehead, just visible beneath the tangle of black hair, was the lightning shaped scar. So many things to so many people -- the scar that inspired awe, pity, occasionally envy, for Harry, sorrow at the loss of his parents, for Voldemort, fear, and for Ginny, fascination. He wore the mark of his destiny right on his face, plain for all to see.

Ginny sent a quiet prayer of thanks to Lily Evans-Potter, wherever she may be, for her sacrifice. She thanked Harry's mother, the woman whom, when she was only Ginny's age, gave her life so Harry could live. So he could grow up, play Quidditch, fabricate his Divination homework, make the toast at Ron's wedding, be Ginny's protector and her love. The Pendragon's whispered gratitude to the woman to whom she owed so much soared to the world of the dead on silver wings of happiness, just as Ginny had known it would. A moment later, she was enveloped in a warm cocoon of peace. Her prayer had been received and acknowledged.

As she watched him sleep, Ginny felt a certain kinship with Lily Potter. Was this fierce protectiveness anything like what his mother had felt, looking at her infant son and knowing that, when called, she would do whatever was necessary to keep him safe? Ginny knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that, if need be, she would kill for him. She also knew that, without a question, she would die for him.

And that realization was what propelled her out of bed. She gingerly eased out of his embrace and slid out from under the covers, locating his old school robes right where she'd left them, wadded up in a ball in the corner of his closet. She needed to think.

Things had moved with astonishing speed once she'd arrived at his flat. He'd pulled her into bed before she'd known what was happening. Not that Ginny was complaining -- she had been a more than willing participant and it had been wonderful, just as she'd known it would be. It was the closeness that Ginny had trouble getting used to. Not the physical closeness, she was used enough to that, but the emotional ferocity that accompanied their intimacy was something utterly new and not a little frightening. Already, after only one night, she felt a deepening of her connection with Harry. It went beyond the link in their minds, beyond the love in their hearts; it was imprinted in their bodies, made real and tangible by what they had just shared.

Ginny wandered out onto the balcony off of his living room, the cold cement burning, then numbing, the bare soles of her feet. Harry's building was one of several arranged around a private, fenced in park. Right now, a blanket of snow coated the ground and the trees were lacey with ice. It was beautiful in the summer, though, with thick green grass and leafy shade, the perfume of flowers and the mad, wild trill of birds. She looked out over the snowy night, the city sounds of cars and people seeming very remote.

Standing on the balcony, arms wrapped tightly around her to ward off the cold, Ginny allowed herself to think back on the past week, to think about Shannon. If only her sight had been on. If only she'd torn her concentration away from the gun for one moment and listened to the symphony in the back of her mind. If only she'd questioned Shannon more closely when she'd recognized the anti-Muggle slant of her columns. If only she'd warned Shannon about Blaise Zabini. If only.... If only... Ginny could kill herself with if onlys. Shannon was dead. Ginny hadn't paid close attention to her powers, hadn't thought something like this could ever happen to someone she cared about. What's done was done. There was no way to go back. The only direction she could move was forward. With Harry. She'd reached a bend in the road, and couldn't ask for a better companion for the years ahead.

Behind her, the glass door slid open. "Isn't it a bit cold for stargazing?" he asked, walking up behind her and closing his arms around her waist. His torso and feet were bare, but he'd donned a pair of trousers.

"I was just thinking," she said, leaning back against him, her touch sending a gentle warming charm into his skin.

"About what?" His breath tickled her ear and his stubble scratched her cheek, making her giggle. Harry grinned at the sound. "It can't have been too serious then."

"About Shannon," Ginny said quietly, no longer laughing. "Going over all the things I could've and should've done, the warning signs that were right there, just waiting for me to notice -- "

"Gin, she pulled a gun on you," Harry interrupted.

"She was scared out of her mind," Ginny countered. "You weren't there. You didn't see it. She didn't want to hurt me. But I was an Auror and she was...one of them."

His arms tightened around her waist. "There was no way you could've known what she was. Nothing you could've done differently."

Ginny turned and rested her cold cheek against his warm chest, causing the muscles beneath his skin to tighten in shock at the sudden temperature change. "I've been saying so for the past week, but it's not true, is it? All I had to do was look at her, really look at her -- "

"That's not fair," Harry interrupted. "This power you have...using it on your closest friends...invasion of privacy, remember? Gin, Shannon made her choice. You didn't have a choice. Grieve for her, but don't feel guilty."

He didn't understand but, then, Ginny hadn't really expected him to. It was a situation difficult to empathize with, and she didn't hold it against him. Then, he leaned his head down and whispered against her ear, "I love you."

She responded in kind. "I love you too." As far as he was concerned, it was nothing short of a miracle. He wanted to stand here forever, telling her how he felt and having her say it back. He wanted everyone in England to be as happy as he was right now. He wanted to take her back to bed. Of the three, the last was most feasible.

Ginny interrupted his train of thought when she brought her hand up to his collarbone and brushed her fingers over a red mark. "What happened?"

He deadpanned, "Somebody bit me."

Ginny gasped with embarrassed laughter. Harry smiled at the blush that stole across her cheekbones. "If you'd like," he said, "we could go back inside and you could apologize properly." He found her chagrin absolutely charming.

"Are you laughing at me?" she demanded.

"No," he lied. "Come inside."

Ginny got a wicked glint in her eyes. "Why bother? I'm just fine out here." She stretched her body against his and dotted kisses along his chin.

At her suggestion and the look of mischievous desire on her face, Harry felt a dull red flush creep across his cheeks. She could dish it out just as well as she could take it. "Um...I don't think so."

She trailed her nails lightly down his back, raising gooseflesh on his arms. "Why not?"

"Because I have neighbors. I don't think...they...would appreciate..." He trailed off as her lips found his. Four, five, six kisses later, Harry finally managed a tenuous grasp on his need. "Let's go back inside," he murmured thickly.

Ginny brushed her lips across the bite mark. "Okay."

He was surprised. "Okay?"

She smiled. "Sure. I'm cold."

He pulled her inside and slid the door shut. "I can fix that."

After, she slept just as soundly as he.

* * * * *

He was cold. That's really all Draco was focused on at the moment. It was freezing in these woods; the snow was thick on the ground and his breath came in puffs of white. He couldn't believe he'd been desperate enough to read Magical Herbs and Fungi. How far he'd sunk.

The other Death Eaters stood in a circle around the yew tree, masked and hooded as he was. He could tell some of them by their shoes; Blaise stood on the other side of the ring, his hands pulled up inside his sleeves for warmth. Draco wore black gloves. They suited his image. They kept his hands clean.

The Dark Lord stood beneath the tree, in the circle of dead grass that had been cleared of snow by junior Death Eaters. His smile was ghastly. A hush of anticipation hung over the circle.

A shriek of terror shattered the winter stillness. Heads turned; Crabbe and Goyle the younger dragged a struggling man into their midst. The excitement in the circle grew to a fever pitch. Draco kept his stance relaxed and fought to keep the disgust out of his eyes. Impassivity would carry him through. He was good at hiding his thoughts behind a mask of boredom. One more night wouldn't make a difference.

The man writhed and kicked, struggled to free himself. The Dark Lord motioned to his second in command; Draco inwardly steeled his resolve and drew a vial of Drought of Living Death from his pocket. The glass was specially formulated to dissolve on contact with human saliva -- a Severus Snape original.

Crabbe and Goyle pinned the man to the ground, one holding his legs, the other his arms. Draco crouched down and looked into the prisoner's face, his gray gaze locking with the man's terrified green one. In that moment, the man knew he was going to die. Draco saw the unwilling acceptance, even as he continued to struggle. He grasped the man's chin and tried to pull his mouth open, but the prisoner locked his lips together. With a cool, businesslike gesture, Draco brought his gloved fingers up to the man's nose and pinched it closed. The prisoner held out as long as possible, then opened his mouth to gasp for air, and the moment his lips parted, Draco shoved the vial inside. The glass vanished, and the potion spilled into his mouth. Two seconds later, the prisoner was unconscious. Draco's eyes had been the last thing he would ever see.

Standing and brushing bits of snow and dirt off of his trousers, Draco stepped back and let his old roommates haul the limp body over to the waiting circle. The Dark Lord drew his knife, the twisted steel glinting in the frigid moonlight. Then, in one smooth motion, he bent down and carved two runes into the man's face, one on each cheek. The blade sliced deeply through skin and muscle; blood welled from the lines and poured onto the ground.

Then, the chanting started. Draco didn't understand the words; the Dark Lord had found them in one of the scrolls and the Death Eaters had learned them off phonetically. Voldemort was probably the only one who knew what they meant. He joined in, because he could not afford to draw attention to himself by not doing so.

Someone threw a rope around the tree branch. The prisoner was hoisted up. His strangled gasps for air echoed through the night, drowning out the chanted invocation of the Dark Wizards. His body twitched and convulsed in its death throes. Just before his life departed, Voldemort drew his hand back and sliced open the prisoner's stomach. Draco's hands fisted convulsively as the steel bit into flesh and the man's intestines spilled out, tumbling to the ground in long purple strings. A fevered cry went up from the circle, and they fell their victim.

Their hands were washed in blood as they used it to smear runes onto the tree bark. Draco stood, arms crossed across his chest, and watched their frenzy -- the chanting, the gore, the hot smell of death on the cold night, the Dark Lord's followers, their hands and feet stained red with the life of this man. Draco had nothing against killing. It was sometimes needed; he'd done it himself, more often than he could count. But this delight in slaughter, the torture, the messiness of these sacrifices repulsed him. Killing for revenge or out of necessity...this was understandable. But to delight and revel in it, to lose control of one's bloodlust...it was foreign to his nature. His barely concealed disdain for the proceedings mingled with his true, honest fear of what would happen at the end.

The runes were drawn. The circle was painted. The chanting was complete. And now Voldemort stepped back, out of the pool of blood, and raised his arms to the empty sky. His high pitched voice cried out in an ancient language as wind whipped their robes. The three crows were quickly dispatched and strung up beside the man.

Draco watched.

Fire blazed, its momentary heat making the coppery smell of blood and bile just that much stronger. Draco's stomach heaved, but he showed no indication of it. Cool detachment, he reminded himself. It was almost over.

The flames vanished, leaving the grass scorched and blackened beneath the eviscerated body. At the Dark Lord's feet, something glistened. Despair closed around Draco's chest in cold bands of iron as Voldemort bent down to pick it up, and then held it aloft in his long, bone-white fingers. It was a ring. A black ring, completely opaque. "Our Lady shows us her favor for years of faithful devotion. Badb is a generous goddess," Voldemort declared.

Magic knifed through the woods as he slid the magical talisman onto his finger. Draco shut his eyes against the sight. There was nothing for it now. Ginny was their only hope.

* * * * *

An explosion of blinding agony jerked Harry from sleep. His scar was on fire. He pressed his palm to it and tried to breathe through the pain and it did help, a little. When he cracked his eyes open, though, he gasped in shock. Ginny lay on the bed next to him, the sheets tangled around her body. Her skin glowed bright white; silver power poured out from her and illuminated the entire room. Her eyes, wide open, stared at the ceiling as her mouth gasped in vain for air. Harry sat up and looked around in panic for the cause of her distress, but saw nothing.

Ginny couldn't breathe. She was suffocating under the weight of the horrible, sticky black magic. It pinned her in place and spread across her mouth and nose, smothering her, blocking off her air. Ginny's vision began to close off, black spots danced in front of her eyes, and then, just as suddenly as it had started, the dark power vanished. Air rushed into her lungs as she rolled over and gagged, then raised her watery eyes to Harry.

"Are you all right?" he gasped.

She nodded weakly, unable to speak.

"My scar," he whispered, hand still pressed to his forehead. "I had a dream...."

She'd had it too.

Still weak, Ginny raised one silver hand, nudging his aside and pressing her palm to his scar. Her skin was ice-cold and almost immediately eased the fiery pain. He stared. "You're glowing." His voice was still nothing more than a whisper.

Her arm fell to her side and, her chest still heaving, Ginny said in his mind, I can't help it.

"What's happened? What was Voldemort doing?"

I don't know. How am I supposed to know? As her breath slowly came back, Ginny reached inside of herself for her silver power and wrestled it into submission. It was exhausting; the magic didn't want to submit to her will. It wanted to fly out and cover the world, to find what had spurred it to life. The light that poured from her skin faded.

"We need to talk to Dumbledore," Harry declared. "What happened just now...Voldemort has been getting help from somewhere, Dumbledore thinks. This might tell him something that it can't tell us."

"That poor man," Ginny murmured under her breath.

"Was that how Professor Moody looked?" Harry asked.

She nodded mutely, and he pulled her close. Now that she no longer glowed, her body was once again warm. "They're beasts," Ginny said quietly.

"What's going on, that it would make your power react that way?"

She raised her head up a little and met his eyes, luminous in the dark room. "I'm afraid to find out."

"We'll go to Hogwarts in the morning," Harry declared. "He has to know. Maybe he'll have some information for us."

"Doubtful," Ginny said, her lack of respect for the Headmaster obvious in her tone. She and Harry had just found each other that night, had a few brief hours of happiness, and now this had to happen. "It's not fair," she whispered, choking on the words.

He tightened his arms around her. She was warm, alive, and safe for now, the heat of her bare skin an intoxicating reminder of her well being. "We're together, Gin. One dream isn't going to drastically change anything. He's done at least a dozen of these sacrifices over the years."

Harry was wrong. Something very important had happened that night. Each sacrifice bought the Dark Lord a little more power, gained him a little more of an edge over the light side. And this time...this time had been different. Ginny didn't know how she knew, but she did. The balance, the all-important balance, had been thrown off, and her equilibrium careened wildly as her power struggled to get its bearings. Something had happened that night, and she desperately needed to know what, even as she dreaded the answer. The details of the dream slipped away...

"Try to get some more sleep," Harry murmured into her hair. "You need it."

They both needed it. But neither one so much as closed their eyes for the rest of the night.

* * * * *

Draco pulled his mask off as he walked into the entrance hall of Malfoy Manor. Someone made a joke and he turned to laugh, then responded with a jibe of his own. Delia stood on the stairs and watched them come in. She'd been surrounded by Slytherins for so many years, she'd learned to read them, to note any and all weakness that might help her keep her head above water in this den of snakes.

His smile was just slightly too tight, the set of his shoulders too straight. She'd been watching him for weeks as the pressure slowly mounted. He was discouraged at their lack of progress, angry at Shannon's death; he was holding his faction together with both hands and a roll of spellotape, and was no longer confident that he'd be able to pull off the coup he'd devoted his life to bringing about. And he would rather die than admit any of it.

Draco walked by without sparing her a glance, and she turned and followed him to his wing. The members of their faction waited in his private study; he pulled up short when he saw them but he did not allow himself to show any surprise. "Did it happen?" Elliot asked.

Draco gave a curt nod. He held the other man's gaze for a solid ten seconds -- the room was silent, no one dared to breathe -- before Elliot exploded. "What the hell is going on here? You promised us the Pendragon! You promised that we'd get rid of the Dark Lord, and that --"

He cut off abruptly as his leader grabbed the front of his shirt and slammed him up against the paneled wall. "If you think you can do better," Draco snarled through clenched teeth, "then you're welcome to try." His platinum hair hung in his eyes and the harsh angles of his face were contorted in fury. Elliot was terrified, sure he wasn't going to make it through this confrontation alive.

Draco's eyes bored into his and then, gradually, the rage that had invested the senior Death Eater's face melted. The tension in his muscles relaxed and he took a step back, releasing his hold on Elliot's shirt. All cool nonchalance, as though his wrath had been nothing but a mass-hallucination on the part of his followers, Draco flicked a speck of dirt off of the sleeve of his robes. "I didn't think so." His gaze played around the room. "Does anyone else have anything to say to me? No?" They all stared, wide-eyed, and he sighed. "We have to give Ginny time."

"We don't have any time," Mark Rigby-Jones said dolefully.

"None of that," Draco ordered. "If we lose morale, then we lose everything. We can and will do this; we've come too far not to. I'll leave you in Blaise's capable hands. He'll brief you on what happened tonight." Draco turned on his heel and left the room without another word and, sure she must have gone completely mad, Delia slipped out after him.

* * * * *

Draco shut the door to his suite with a satisfying slam, then stalked into the sitting room. On the sideboard, the elves had left a bottle of scotch and a glass. He'd just splashed some alcohol into the tumbler when he heard the door behind him click shut. "What," he asked, tightening his grip around the bottle, "is so important that you entered without knocking?"

Delia looked at his back, at the broad muscles, tense under his shirt, that narrowed to a slim waist. "I thought you might want to talk."

He rolled his eyes and turned. "You thought wrong."

Her voice tinged with disapproval, she asked, "You're drinking?"

Draco smirked. "I'd offer you some, but I'm afraid I've only one glass." He tilted his head back, the line of his throat moving as he swallowed deeply.

"It's not a way to deal with problems."

Eyes unusually bright, Draco tipped his head back down and looked at her. "What do you know about my problems?"

"I know you're discouraged."

"I'm not," he countered immediately.

"And that you're worried that the faction won't hold together long enough to --"

"That's not true," he said over her.

She didn't stop talking, "to accomplish you know is necessary, and that you're afraid of --"

"That's enough!" he hissed, grabbing her arm. "What the hell are you doing here, Silvermoon?"

"I told you, I thought you might want to talk."

"Talk?" he said, cynical smirk firmly in place. "I'm sure that's exactly what you wanted."

She rubbed the spot where his hand had grabbed her. "I want to help you. I want you to be confident. This is going to work. It has to."

"You, Delia, are a stupid, stupid girl," he said, taking another drink from his glass. "Naïveté is charming on debutantes and Hufflepuffs, but it just doesn't suit you." With satisfaction, he watched her flinch. He was good at this, at finding people's weak spots and hurting them. He wanted her to go away. He wanted her gray eyes to stop looking at him and teasing out his vulnerabilities.

"I'm not stupid," Delia insisted. "You're brooding, and when you get like this you can't see the forest for the trees. You have a large following. You're the Dark Lord's second in command. You're wealthy, powerful, charismatic, and Ginny Weasley is, no doubt, doing exactly what we want her to be doing. You're in a fantastic position right now. Don't let Elliot get to you. He's nothing; he doesn't know what he's saying." She shut up as soon as she realized she was rambling.

He turned his back to her and refilled the glass. "Do you want to know what happened tonight, Delia? The goddess gave him a ring. He has it on his finger right now, and nobody is going to get it off while he's still alive. As long as he's wearing it, there's nobody who can kill him. His powers --"

"Ginny can," Delia interrupted. "She will. She has to. None of us can do anything against him, but weren't we going to use her all along? This doesn't change anything; it only makes her job somewhat more difficult."

"What if she can't?" he snapped. "What if she --"

"What if she dies tomorrow in a broom accident?" Delia said. "Why waste your time on what ifs? You are, without question, the most intelligent person I've ever met. Don't let this drag you down. We need you to focus." She walked up behind him and rested her palm on his lower back, tracing it in small circles. "We need you."

He turned his head to the side and looked down at her, the patented sneer fixed on his face. His voice was cruelly ironic. "You came here to talk, did you?"

Delia met his eyes, didn't look away. "I want to help you feel better."

His mouth twisted with scorn and he jerked away from her touch. "A pity fuck? I like that. Thank you so much."

"I'm not --"

"Earlier tonight you told me to go to Pansy Parkinson."

"Did you?"

"No."

"Why?"

He lied, "I couldn't find her." He wasn't about to admit that he'd closeted himself in his room with a Herbology textbook.

"I turned you down earlier because --"

"I don't care why."

She talked over him, "Because you wanted to use me. You were anxious about the sacrifice and you wanted me as a distraction. I won't be used."

"And I won't be pitied."

"It's not that!" she exclaimed, frustrated. "I can help. I can make you feel better. Let me try, at least."

He leaned back against the sideboard and looked at her, flushed and breathing heavily with agitation. His voice was cold and diamond-hard. "So you're willing to whore yourself out for the sake of my mental health, is that it? You'll condescend to sleep with me because you think I'm frustrated and angry -"

"No!"

"Stop me when I get to the part that's wrong," he purred. "You think Elliot hurt my feelings and you're just the one to bandage them up. You think I'm convinced the coup will fail, and a roll in the sack will brighten my outlook on life because...why? Because you're special? You think my sleeping with you will fix this mess, and yet you insist that you're not stupid. Why couldn't we have gotten the Slytherin? At least she's practical."

"Because Dana wouldn't put up with your shit," Delia said, looking up into his face, nearly spitting with fury. "You think if you hurt me then I'll just go away and leave you alone to sulk in private, but you're wrong. You're not getting rid of me, Draco Malfoy. I swore an oath when I was fourteen years old --"

"So it's out of loyalty, is it?" he bit off and, because she had made a habit of watching him closely, Delia saw that the malice in his voice disguised his hurt. "This is all very heartwarming, and I'm sure you meant for me to melt into your arms the way Finnigan did with your sister, but it's not that easy."

"No," she said, taking a step away. "It's not, is it. We're both too proud, me earlier today and you now. Neither of us can admit what we want because...I don't know. Just because."

He twirled the glass in his hands and watched her steadily. She sighed. "I'd better go, then."

"Yes," he snapped, "you'd better."

Just as she turned from him, the door swung open and Goyle stepped inside, his ordinarily stupid face even more dumbfounded than usual. Quick as anything, Draco moved up behind her, his body pressed against the length of hers. "Can I help you?" he drawled, all tension gone or, at least, disguised. He was once again the calm, collected aristocrat.

"I heard voices," Goyle said.

"Yes," Draco confirmed. "That would have been because Miss Silvermoon and I were in here together, and we were talking. Voices are a necessary and natural byproduct of vocal communication, and I'd expect..." He trailed off at the confusion on Goyle's face, and Delia bit the inside of her cheek and fought to keep a straight face. Draco often made her want to burst out laughing, although it was usually unintentional on his part. She sensed, though, that this time he'd done it on purpose. He was trying to ease her tension and anger. He had a role to play for people outside the faction, and right now, she was a prop for that role.

"I don't want to interrupt anything," Goyle said, although he didn't move from the doorway. He just stood, large, clumsy hands hanging at his sides, looking at the man and woman pressed together in the center of the room.

"Then you should have stayed away," Draco said without missing a beat. His old roommate's face creased in concentration as he struggled to twist his mind around that statement, and Draco rolled his eyes. "Is there something you need, Greg?"

"The Dark Lord sent me," Goyle told him. "He wants to talk to you."

Draco nodded. "Tell him I'll be down shortly."

"I'll wait," Goyle said, looking very nervous indeed. Draco wondered what would happen if he decided to carry Delia into the bedroom for a few hours. No doubt Goyle would still be standing here when he came out.

"Very well." He drained the last of his scotch and then pulled Delia into a long, heart-stopping, spine-melting kiss. There was nothing there to tell her that the passion behind it wasn't real and, because Goyle was watching, Delia leaned into the embrace. Draco tasted like alcohol. He pulled back and said with a lazy smile, "You'll forgive me, won't you?" His tone showed that he didn't much care what her answer would be.

"Of course," she breathed, hoping she sounded besotted enough. She hadn't the faintest idea how to play lovesick. Not that Goyle would be able to tell the difference.

He gave her a brief, mocking smile, then turned and walked out ahead of Goyle, apparently dismissing her from his mind. Delia was worried. Voldemort had wanted the junior Death Eater to wait for Draco, to personally escort him down. That wasn't usual. Anxious for his safety, she left his rooms for the suite she maintained at the Manor.

* * * * *

Draco swept into the cold dungeon room, leaving Goyle in the hall. Voldemort stood alone. "You came quickly," the Dark Lord observed. "I don't believe you've ever been so prompt."

"I didn't have a choice, did I?" he said smoothly, crossing the room. Cool detachment. He could do it.

"I hope you weren't busy." Voldemort's red, slit-like eyes narrowed. They nearly disappeared.

"I'm never so busy that I would put off a summons from you," Draco replied.

"The sacrifices disgust you." It was not a question.

There was no point in lying about it. "It's the loss of control that gives me problems. We indulge their baser instincts and turn them into animals."

"All men are animals, young Malfoy," Voldemort replied, resting a hand on Draco's shoulder. "Allowing them to indulge their...baser instincts, as you put it, in a controlled environment keeps them from doing so when it is truly crucial."

"You call that controlled?" Draco asked. He kept his tone low and slightly subservient. The Dark Lord allowed him to speak his mind, but never wanted him to forget who was truly in charge.

Voldemort smiled. "I do call it controlled. Perhaps not by Malfoy standards, granted, but you have always had more...self-command....than most. Your impulses are securely locked away, aren't they?" His tone turned thoughtful and his hand strayed up to Draco's cheek. "Who knows what's going on inside that mind of yours?"

This was getting a little too close. Draco bowed his head, inwardly reeling, his mind struggling to get a foothold on reason. His eyes fell on the ring and Voldemort raised it to give the young man a better look. "Isn't it beautiful?"

Draco nodded in agreement. It truly was. The torchlight caressed the dark stone, sliding sensuously over its curve. The talisman was deep black against Voldemort's white skin. "It's an object of great power," he said, because the Dark Lord seemed to be waiting for him to speak.

"Yes. I must begin work straight away to unlock its secrets. The Pendragon will be invaluable in this. She will know what to do; with my power and hers combined, we will rid the community of mudbloods and establish a reign that will last a thousand years. I will finally conquer death, when she joins with us."

Draco raised his eyes from the ring to Voldemort's face. He had to tread lightly. "My lord?"

"You understand me correctly, Draco. It is time to find the Pendragon. One of the candidates is dead, which leaves two. Soon, I will bring her here and you will join your mind to hers. You were born to give me final victory over Albus Dumbledore. It is time for you to fulfill your destiny."

"Yes, my lord," Draco murmured, nodding. He didn't trust himself to speak any louder, for fear he'd be unable to disguise his anger at being used as a tool of personal vengeance.

"You are my most trusted servant," Voldemort told him. "When the day comes, you will sit at my right hand in the Great Hall of Hogwarts castle as we rid ourselves of the community's impurities."

"And Albus Dumbledore," Draco said.

The Dark Lord seemed momentarily taken aback, then he nodded. "And Albus Dumbledore."

"You will tell me when you find her?" Draco asked. "After so many years of inactivity, I'm eager to start."

His eyes were so like his father's, and yet so unlike, Voldemort thought as he watched his second in command. Lucius's gaze was cold and flat, unctuous and insinuating. This Malfoy, on the other hand, didn't seem to care what anyone thought of him. He was brilliant and cruel; arrogant, yet full of something very like anxiety. He tried to look cold, but the Dark Lord detected a latent fire behind that gaze of gray ice, one that could, at any moment, burst into flame. It hadn't yet; the young man had attained an astounding level of self-mastery. But all it needed was a spark, and someday...

"I will," Voldemort confirmed. "You will be the first to know."

Draco nodded in acknowledgment, and the Dark Lord raised his hand. Draco immediately realized that Voldemort wanted him to kiss the ring. He steeled himself against any open displays of revulsion and bent down, brushing his lips over the cold Otherworldly talisman.

"You may go," Voldemort declared. "I daresay you have something to occupy your attention this night. A certain redhead, perhaps?"

Draco arched an incredulous eyebrow.

The Dark Lord laughed. "Lord Voldemort always knows, young Malfoy. Do not forget. Enjoy your charming girl as well as you can."

"I'd hardly call her charming."

He nodded. "Then in this we agree." The dismissal in his tone was evident. Without another word, Draco turned and left the dungeon. Voldemort never failed to put him off balance. He felt shaken and dirty. He half walked, half jogged through the halls of the Manor until he came to a door. Hardly knowing what he was doing, Draco knocked an imperious, staccato beat.

Delia pulled the door open, instinct telling her who was on the other side. Draco was so pale as to be nearly white, his eyes bleak. "Come in," she said, moving aside and then closing the door as soon as he'd entered.

He sank onto the bed and leaned forward, resting his head in his palms. "He wants to find the Pendragon."

She knelt on the ground in front of him and looked up between his arms, into his face. "We'll handle it. All of us together, the same way we've dealt with all the other stumbling blocks that have been in our way. We'll adapt. We'll use his weaknesses against him. We can do this, but not without you." He opened his eyes and looked down at her, and she was shaken by what she saw. She was sure that no one, not even Blaise, knew the depths of his uncertainty and desperation. He played his role so well, was so locked into damage control and strategy that he didn't know how to admit his fear, to deal with it and put it behind him. Delia rose up on her knees, forcing him to sit up straight. She took his head in her hands and made him look her in the eye. "You were born for this, Draco. If the gods believe you can do it, why bother doubting yourself? I'll help you every step of the way. I'll do whatever I can, whatever you need." Not hesitating a moment more, she pulled his face close and pressed her lips gently to his, tracing her tongue along the seam of his mouth. After a moment, Draco kissed her back.

* * * * *

When the young man left the room, Voldemort turned and motioned to a small, curtained-off alcove. The heavy drapes parted and Draco's father stepped into the room. "What do you think?"

"He's my son," Lucius replied.

"Of course he is. The young man looks absurdly like you. His paternity is not what is at question," Voldemort said with a faint smile. "Is he loyal?"

"I saw nothing to indicate otherwise."

"That's because you're an unobservant fool," Voldemort said.

Lucius didn't even flinch at the insult. "Do you think Draco would betray you?"

"It's hard to tell," the Dark Lord said thoughtfully. "He doesn't like the sacrifices. They repulse him. He's never joined in the revelry, which is more than I can say for you."

Lucius shrugged. "It's his nature. He doesn't like to lose control."

"Perhaps...but perhaps not. He was hesitant to kiss the ring."

"It's an object of great power," Lucius pointed out, "as he said himself. I would be reluctant to come so close to such a thing."

Voldemort chuckled. "You tell lies easier than you tell the truth, my slippery friend. You would have this ring from me in a heartbeat, given the chance." Lucius opened his mouth to protest and Voldemort held up his hand. "Lord Voldemort always knows. Your son, however...I am not so sure what he feels about the goddess's gift. He does not covet it, at least not to the degree that you do."

"This is a sign of true loyalty, then," Lucius said, desperate to regain at least some of his family's standing with the Dark Lord. "You did make him your second in command."

"I suppose," Voldemort allowed reluctantly. "Still, the search for the Pendragon will begin tomorrow. An appropriate day, is it not?"

"My lord?"

Voldemort gave a thin smile. "Tomorrow is Draco's birthday, Lucius. Don't tell me you've forgotten. January thirty-first; I remember it like it was yesterday."

"Of course," Lucius said smoothly.

"Where are the candidates now?"

The elder Malfoy ticked them off on his fingers, although there were only two. "Our sources indicate that Stella Screwtape is on the continent. She's working as a desk clerk in a Wizard hostel in Rome. Apparently, she went on holiday and ran out of money, couldn't afford to get back, so she's there until she can earn enough to come home."

"And the other?"

"Ginny Weasley hasn't been seen in public since Shannon Cannon's death."

The Dark Lord's eyes were speculative. "Do we know where she's gone?"

"We believe she's staying with Harry Potter." Lucius knew his lord wouldn't like that. He was quite correct.

Voldemort drew breath in a long, snakelike hiss. "Potter!"

"Yes, my lord. We could do a midnight raid on his flat. He'll never expect us. We'll have her in a heartbeat."

The Dark Lord shook his head. "That's no good. The boy is too well protected. My Death Eaters won't be able to come within sight of his home, and as long as she is there, she's untouchable to us."

"Perhaps if we took her family --"

"Not yet. We need to cultivate her good will, not her resentment and fear." Voldemort was silent for a long time. Lucius waited patiently, allowing his master to plan without interruption. Finally, the Dark Lord spoke again. "We will take Screwtape right away. The German delegation arrives tomorrow; they will see that we are at least moving forward in this matter. As for Weasley, we wait and watch."

"And what about Draco?"

Voldemort's tone was thoughtful. "I have my suspicions, nothing more. He has never indicated by word or action that he's disloyal in any way. I can't help but think, though..."

"My lord?"

"We will capture the Pendragon without him," Voldemort declared decisively. "Provide Draco with a distraction of some sort until we have both candidates in custody."

"What do you mean by distraction? Would you like him to be in charge of feting the Germans?"

Voldemort sighed. "That won't effectively capture his attention, not for any length of time. Your son has a passionate nature, for all that he tries to stifle it. Find him something...consuming. Something that will occupy his hours and thoughts and dreams. A task, a person, revenge on an old enemy.... Just see that he stays out of our way. I don't want to take any chances with his devotion to me. Not when we're so close."