An Ideal Death-Eater

Authour's Notes: I'd like to thank you all for the reviews so far. They mean a lot to me. Also, I thank all of those who have stuck with this story so far. Trust me when I say, you're in for a journey. lol. I decided to collapse chapters 16 & 17 together, so that the real adventure begins in chapter 17, which is part two of An Ideal Death Eater. I know that some of you expressed doubts about Voldemort's death. One reviewer fondly stated that I had 'blown the whole story' because of the way that Voldemort died. Well, I don't think I blew the story. Ron killed him with a knife, the end. You'll all get to see more of the consequences of his actions in chapter 17, I believe it is now. Things are about to really heat up, so hold on to your knickers. Also, I want to see if any of you catch the meaning between the lines, so to speak, in this chapter; the part between Harry and Hermione, more specifically. I know that most of you have asked what happened to Harry and Hermione while all of this was going on. Well, here's your answer. *smirks*

Oh, and I know that some of you wanted to know more about Percy. Well, he gets his very own chapter, just for him, later on. Chapter 27 is Percy's story and I've already written it. As for all of your other unanswered questions, they will all be answered in time. Everything is answered in time. :)

Harry was cold.

The short walk he had anticipated seemed to last forever. He glanced down at Hermione, who was clinging to his hand, and thought to himself that she didn’t deserve this. She didn’t deserve to be out in the snow just because he’d lost his temper.

“Hermione, we should go back.”

“Go back?” She looked at him as if he’d suddenly grown a bird’s beak, the cold wind reddening her cheeks and battering fine hairs that had escaped from the knot she had wound on the back of her head. “Of course we shouldn’t go back. I can’t imagine having to face Ron again; at least not this soon. And it’s Christmas; I want to enjoy it.”

Harry frowned but kept moving. He wouldn’t go back if she was that adamant about it. But there was this feeling that kept urging him to ignore Hermione and walk back to the Burrow. Not to mention that his scar was throbbing more than usual.

They broke through the trees then and the tiny village of Ottery St. Catchpole stood at the bottom of the hill. Smoke from dozens of chimneys filled the air and Harry welcomed the earthy smell of burning peat. It was so quaint and old-fashioned, just like the village itself. He walked more quickly, anxious to dry off in front of one of those roaring fires.

“Harry, slow down! You do remember that my legs are much shorter than yours are?” Hermione asked him. Her teeth were chattering so much that it was difficult to make out what exactly she was saying, but Harry understood.

“Oh, sorry.” He stopped and waited for her to catch up before slipping his frozen fingers back into her hand. “Come on, it’s not much further.”

“I see it,” she sighed, gripping his hand tight. “I’m so hungry I could eat a Hippogriff. Are you sure they’ve lodgings down there?”

“Yes, I came here last year with Mr Weasley. Remember when he became obsessed with Muggle beer?”

Hermione giggled. “I remember. Mrs Weasley was furious when you brought him back. He was more than three sheets to the wind that night.”

Harry smiled briefly. “Well, he’d had more than just a few pints. He kept drinking and scribbling into his notepad. The terrible thing was that he could never figure out what he had written and Mrs Weasley forbade him to ever go back again.”

Hermione sighed, breath clouding in front of her mouth. “I do feel awful now, Harry. Perhaps we should have stayed. I mean, we’ve spent the last two Christmases at the Burrow. Maybe I could have ignored Ron.”

“Do you want to go back?”

She thought about it a moment and shook her head. “Not now, we’re already here. Maybe we can go back later.”

Harry nodded. They were coming up on the first street and the inn he remembered wasn’t much further ahead. It would be stupid to go back now.

A sign, half covered with frost read ‘The Sparrow’. The building was made of stone and seemed incredibly old, but secure. Obviously, it was well cared for.

Harry dropped Hermione’s hand and pulled out his money pouch. There were a few Sickles at the bottom along with four twenty-pound notes. It would surely be enough for a room in the village and passage to London on one of the tube trains that came through Thorney, which was only a mile away. He could always get more at Gringott's once they arrived back in London.

The innkeeper seemed surprised to see two young people walk into his establishment so early on Christmas morning, but he welcomed them anyway and ushered them up the stairs to a modest sized room. Harry paid him with two of the twenties and set their trunks down near the door.

Hedwig, Hermione, and their cloaks all received an odd glance from the innkeep, but the man kept his peace and accepted the money. He said breakfast would be available in a few hours and to have a Happy Christmas before closing the door.

Hermione walked over and lit a fire in the grate. She rubbed her hands briskly and tossed a few bricks of peat into the hearth before settling on the small sofa in front of it.

“I’m freezing,” she said, holding the backs of her arms. “This place is terribly drafty.”

Harry shrugged out of his cloak and hung it near the fire to dry, slipping out of his overshoes and regular shoes.

“The building is made of stone and the windows are sealed tight. Once the fire gets going, it’ll be warm.”

"I hope so,” Hermione shivered out. “Could you bring me the quilt off that bed?”

Harry grabbed it and walked back to the couch, wrapping it around her shoulders before kneeling down to take off her shoes.

“You’ll get mud and snow all over the sofa,” he murmured.

Hermione grinned at him, eyes dancing. “I thought I was the house-elf today.”

“We’ll take turns,” Harry returned dryly as Hermione wriggled her toes at him. It brought to mind that night they had sat in front of the fire at the Burrow. The night he had kissed her for the first time.

“Come keep me warm, Harry. There’s plenty of blanket for both of us.”

Harry stood and motioned for Hermione to lean forward so he could sit behind her. He pulled her back against his chest while she fussed with covering up his legs, tucking the ends underneath their bodies. Hermione didn’t make a bother over him because she thought he was weak, she did it because she cared and Harry respected that. It had taken ages to understand, but now that he did, Harry was glad that there was someone who would always fuss over him. Just a little bit.

“There,” she said at last. “Like a cocoon.”

He mumbled something against her hair and squeezed his arms around her middle a little tighter. There was definitely something to be said for being more than ‘just friends’.

It was Christmas morning and they were together. He could see stretching out before him years upon years of Christmas mornings spent with Hermione, holding her like this. There was the winter perfume of her hair and the softness of her body in his arms, the warmth of his love keeping her safe from the world.

Harry couldn’t imagine being more content with life than he was at that moment.

Hermione sighed and tilted her head to the side, leaning it against his left shoulder. “This is nice,” she murmured, tracing a finger over the pattern of the quilt. “Just the two of us, no interruptions.”

Harry rumbled his agreement and buried his face in her neck. He was so sleepy and she was so warm, her heart beating against his chest. The heat between them was intensifying, becoming tangible, and Harry pressed a few tired kisses to the flushed skin under his lips.

Hermione’s breath hitched and she shifted against him, her hand gripping his knee under the blanket. Harry could feel something stirring down below and he kissed her neck a few more times before moving up to her ear. His hands seemed to be guiding themselves up over Hermione’s torso to cup her breasts.

“Hermione,” he breathed into her ear. Harry felt his own hot breath reflected against her skin. Her name was repeated again and again as his hands moved over the buttons of her blouse to reach inside and touch the soft flesh.

He felt drunk. A warm feeling, like that of drinking Fire Whiskey straight from the bottle, washed over him and Harry closed his eyes, revelling in the contact of skin on skin. Hermione moaned softly, kneading his thigh with her cold fingers.

“Harry,” she said, the sound coming from the back of her throat. “What are you doing to me?”

He didn’t answer, but instead dropped one of his hands to her leg, hitching her skirt up slowly, his fingers dancing over the outside of her thigh. She sat up then and half-turned her body to face him. Harry thought for a moment that she was going to make him stop, but instead she kissed him soundly on the mouth.

Her tongue flickered against his lips while her hands came up to hold the side of his face. Harry trailed his fingers over her ribs, down to her waist. He kissed her back then, the need for her evident from the way his fingers curled over her blouse.

Control was fast slipping away.

Harry slid to the right and pushed her back against the couch, climbing on top to nestle his body between her thighs. Hermione looked him in the eye then, straight and true. She held his gaze a moment longer before he bent down to kiss her throat. Harry trailed his mouth down to the well between her breasts, pushing the material that clung to them aside with a trembling touch. Things were going so fast that it made his head spin and he latched his lips around her nipple in the hopes that it would all stop whirling if he just had a firm hold on something. She arched and gasped, bringing her legs up to lock ankles over his back.

Hermione had him now. He wasn’t spinning anymore.

His hand kneaded one breast while working the other with his mouth. The taste of Hermione’s skin was all that he had imagined it to be; hot, buttery-smooth and melting over his tongue. The nub in his mouth was pebbling, turning hard with desire and her breath clouded his glasses. Hermione pushed his head away and looked him in the eyes again. Harry thought she was finally going to say something, tell him to stop, and he felt a flush of frustration and embarrassment stain his skin. But Hermione only removed his specs and set them on the floor, she didn’t say a word.

Now everything was softly out of focus and her tiny, cold fingers fumbled between their bodies, tugging at his belt until it was free and flinging it into the fire. Harry pushed her woollen skirt up with shaky hands and plucked clumsily at the scrap of cotton cloth underneath until he was able to pull them down her thighs the same time as she released the buttons on his fly. Hermione was pushing his trousers down and kicking them off with her feet as he kissed her on the lips again, his tongue plunging deeply into her mouth and tasting the winter cold from outside. Her hands roamed over his lower back to the band of his boxer shorts, sending them to meet their fellows on the floor quickly. Hermione’s crisp button-down and white, cotton bra followed, and Harry was somehow able to contort her body enough so that he could pull her knickers the rest of the way down her legs. There was suddenly very little left to cover the two lovers.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Harry knew that he should say something, to stop this before she regretted it. To the best of his knowledge, she’d never done this before, and he’d only had a few rolls in the hay with that girl from the Quivering Rooster. But Hermione, sensible Hermione, had no intentions of halting the exploration of teeth and tongues, and she demonstrated this by kneading his bottom with fingers that were thawing from his body heat.

Harry moved away from her mouth and toward a tender earlobe to the side, the heat of it all making him see double. “Hermione, we should stop.”

“No,” she shushed while peppering kisses over his neck. “I want to be reckless for once, Harry.”

“But—” Harry licked his lips, still tasting the salt of her skin. “We’ve only just started a— a relationship and you‘ve never . . .”

“Harry.” She grabbed his face with one hand and turned it so she could touch her damp forehead against his. “We’ve known each other for years. It’s different for us.”

“But—”

Hermione cut him off by pressing her moist lips to his, inhaling his breath, and he forgot every argument he had against the wonderful feeling she was creating inside him. Harry opened his mouth and she plunged inside, roughing his tongue while reaching between them to stroke his erection with trembling fingers.

“Hermione,” Harry gasped out, hunching forward and breaking his mouth away to place it instead over the wildly beating pulse on her neck. The need to complete the act was irresistible, especially as the peaked tips of her breasts strained against his chest in urgency.

The fabric of the sofa was coarse under Harry’s hand as he pushed himself up to hover over her. Hermione’s skin had taken on a ruddy glow and her breath was hitching in excitement, making her breasts heave and fall dramatically. She brushed the hair from his eyes with her free hand.

“Harry.” Hermione’s voice wavered. “Don’t stop now.”

This crumbled all resolve and he closed her eyes with the gentle pressure of his mouth, shifting his hips to push his erection against her entrance. It was slow, and Hermione turned her head to bite his forearm with sharp teeth, her eyes screwed tightly shut as Harry pushed further and felt the small liquid burst of something breaking at the same moment a sharp, stabbing pain lanced over his forehead.

Harry sucked in a breath and stared down at Hermione, who was now gazing up at him expectantly, tears welling in her large, brown eyes. He ignored the ache in his head and, eyes never leaving hers, he slowly built a rhythm comprised of strokes both deep and shallow in relation to her breathing. Hermione’s ridged inner muscles clamped down and her hips awkwardly rolled up to meet his as he inhaled, thrust, exhaled, plunge, inhale, exhale.

The hair next to his fingers was crisp but soft, and Harry released the clip holding it together so he could wind a skein around his hand to hold her head back, exposing the sensitive flesh of her neck. Hermione’s breath was coming in great gulping pants and a rumble started deep in the back of her throat. His lips were cool compared to the skin beneath them as he covered her neck in kisses before suckling a spot just below her ear, feeling the mad fluttering of her pulse. It seemed to go on for hours, days, and years.

Harry was trying desperately to remember what one of his friends had told him about women. There was a spot somewhere that if he touched it, she’d—well, have a good time. If he could only find it . . . Harry reached down between them to stroke her with his thumb, searching for a small knot. When Hermione gasped, he knew that he had found it. Harry rubbed in gentle circles as he sheathed himself in her warm, moist flesh. Hermione was tensing all around him as the thrusts became more urgent and he sucked her neck harder, gnawing the flesh to keep himself from screaming as his release drew closer. There was one, and then two more deep strokes before he could feel himself droop and slide out of her wet opening.

Harry collapsed, letting his arms come around to hold her closer to him as he gave her a gentle peck on the lips. The pain of his scar was gone, gone completely for the first time in years as if it had never been and he relaxed further against her. Hermione sighed contentedly and returned the embrace, her ankles slipping down from his hips to lie over his calves.

“Mmmn, I don’t think I’ve felt this nice in . . . well, ever,” Hermione whispered against his neck. “You do know how to warm someone up, Mr Potter.”

“Glad I could oblige, Miss Granger,” Harry mumbled, burying his face in her hair.

“Well, as warm as it is this way, my ribs are starting to hurt.”

“Oh.” Harry scrambled off of her quickly, before sitting down to pull her close to him. “I forgot that you’re still tender there. Did I hurt you?”

Hermione shook her head in the negative before resting it on his shoulder. “No, I’m fine.”

Harry stared at the embers in the grate and fiddled his fingers nervously. “We shouldn’t have done that, Hermione,” he said after a moment.

“You do things all the time that you aren’t supposed to do. I‘m terribly impressionable, you know.”

“But you’d never—”

“Harry.” Hermione sat up and placed a hand on each side of his face, resting her forehead against his again. “The rules don’t apply to us. We’ve been friends for almost seven years. That’s more time getting to know each other than most people these days.”

He stared at her for a moment, her eyes a large, brown blur, before shaking his head and laughing quietly. “I really am a bad influence on you. I never thought I’d hear you say rules don’t apply.”

She pulled away and smiled softly. “Yes, you’re the absolute terror of my waking hours.”

“Mmmn, waking.” Harry glanced over at the bed. “Why don’t we sleep in for awhile? Then we can go downstairs and eat breakfast and trade gifts.”

Hermione stifled a yawn and picked up the quilt, wrapping it around her half-naked body as she made her way to the bed, flopping down on it like a child. Harry followed her example and was soon spooned up against her. He still had his shirt on and he was thankful for the extra warmth, as the bed itself was very cold. She shivered and wrapped his arms around her body more tightly.

“I’m dreadfully tired all of a sudden, and I had a full night’s rest and everything.”

Harry smiled and kissed her neck. “I wore you out, then?”

She scoffed and batted his hand, already falling asleep. “You’re awfully full of yourself, Mr Potter.”

“So you’ve told me, Miss Granger,” he mumbled into her ear as his eyelids closed. A gentle snore was his only reply.

*~*~*~*~*

Who would have thought that Fred Weasley was intelligent?

Draco surely didn’t. But he had to give the boy credit for keeping his cool throughout the long day that followed Voldemort’s death.

Fred started simply enough. He mourned with his family, murmuring things into his twin’s ear while still managing to embrace his father as they hovered over the body of their dead brother. But after a suitable amount of time, perhaps an hour, he stood up and examined the Death Eaters, making sure that their bonds were tight and there was no chance of them escaping. Then he checked on his other brother, Ron, who was still standing in the same place he had been after killing Lucius.

Fred went over to whisper something in his father’s ear before walking outside, past the hedgerows, and Apparating away. Draco still sat at the kitchen table, dimly taking in everything that happened next.

Only a few moments after he’d left, Fred reappeared, dragging along Cornelius Fudge, who was still in his tasselled nightcap and dressing gown. The man shrieked when he saw the shrivelled remains of Lord Voldemort lying on the floor and a gaggle of Death Eaters tethered together with rope over near the larder. For a moment, Draco thought that the Minister would faint, but was sadly disappointed.

“Now do you believe that You-Know-Who came back?” Fred queried acidly, hands on his hips in the posture of one deeply exasperated.

Fudge nodded dumbly. “I-I see that I may have been mistaken. I’ll call the Aurors in at once.”

He attempted to Disapparate there before Fred reminded him that he had to walk outside of the property first. Fudge shuffled out, flapping his slippered feet over the stones and out of the kitchen door.

Fred chuffed and took a seat opposite of Draco, shaking his head. “Who’d have thought that I’d be ordering around the Minister of Magic?”

Draco didn’t say anything; he was staring at the group still huddled around Percy. All of the red heads gathered so close to each other seemed out of place against the bleak atmosphere. They were too bright and vivid, the colours melding into a single fire that would never warm their brother again.

Fred followed Draco’s eyes to their source and put a hand to his face, attempting to wipe away the sticky trail of former tears.

“I’m done with crying,” he said softly. “I suppose I was never made for it in the first place because they just won’t come to me anymore, no matter how much I want them, too.”

Draco lifted an eyebrow in response, but his focus was on Ginny. Her tears had trickled down into one or two every now and then, with maybe a soft sigh or gulp of breath to break the monotony. He couldn’t stop thinking of how ugly she was just then: the splotches on her nose and cheeks, under her eyes, and over the usually pale expanse of her neck. Freckles that had almost faded completely away reappeared with a vengeance and the combined effect was hideous.

It only furthered his conviction that grief, like any other emotion, was an appalling thing to see.

“I appreciate you keeping her out of harm’s way today, Malfoy.”

Draco glanced over at Fred, finally acknowledging that he was there. Maybe he wasn’t as intelligent as Draco had given him credit for after all.

“I had no wish to die. If she had gone out there and thrown herself in front of Percy, she doubtless would have dragged me with her.”

Fred shook his head again; it seemed to be habit forming. “You’re a cold fish, Malfoy. I don’t suppose it would kill you to say that you did it to keep an innocent girl safe?”

Draco sniffed at the thought. Ginny was hardly innocent. “I worry about myself first, others last if at all. Or hadn’t you figured that out by now?”

The older boy turned to glance at Lucius’ body before coming back to Draco. “That’s what he thought, too.” Fred indicated the corpse with a jut of his chin. “And look where he is now. You’ll get the same if you don’t change your attitude.”

“A threat, Weasley?”

“No,” Fred said slowly, rolling the word around in his mouth. “Just a friendly warning. You may be an annoying little arse, but I don’t think you’re so far gone as to deserve his fate.”

Draco could see the pity in Fred’s eyes and it disgusted him. The Weasleys had seen him at his worst, and they’d been the cause of some of it, but none of them had dared to be so open about their commiseration until now. Not even soft-hearted Ginny, who had empathised, but never degraded him so much as her brother was doing right now.

Fred stood up and looked around the room, making sure everything was still in order before turning his attention back to Draco. “I’m off to see if I can find Harry. Do you know where he is? Poor bloke should know what’s happened.”

“I don’t have a clue. I heard he was on his way to London though.”

“London.” Fred whistled. “Wonder what capped his bum so bad that he just up and left like that.”

Draco didn’t say anything, but stared pointedly at Ron. Fred understood.

“Ah, well they’re always bickering about something or t’other. I’ll just send out Pig, he’ll find Harry and bring him back.”

It wasn’t as if Draco cared, why did the boy keep prattling on and on about stupid things? Nerves were stretched tight enough without Fred flapping his gums to make it all worse. Chattiness seemed to be a family trait.

But he still watched as Fred walked out the door to capture the pesky little owl and bring it inside where it fluttered vapidly above Draco’s head. He had the urge to swat it, just to see if it would splatter on the stones like an egg, but he didn’t.

Fred had found a spare piece of parchment, a quill, and a bottle of ink. He chewed the feather in his hand softly for a moment before dipping it in the ink and scribbling over the paper, his tongue between his teeth as if it were a particularly troublesome bit of schoolwork instead of a simple note.

Once he had recaptured the owl and tied the note to his leg with a spare bit of twine, Fred sat back down in his chair, watching Pigwidgeon fly out the open door.

“That owl is the most annoying thing I’ve ever seen,” Draco said, rubbing the back of his neck. “When the bloody hell are those Aurors supposed to arrive?”

Fred shrugged. “Whenever that fat arse, Fudge, gets around to it.”

“Mmmn,” Draco replied. He was gazing at Ginny then, noticing that her face had become its normal colour again and her eyes were dry. Maybe she would be up to making a pot of tea now, it was dreadfully cold all of a sudden. Perhaps it was the fact that the door was still open and letting in the snow. Or maybe that he was still shirtless with bare feet.

As if Ginny had read his mind, she rose from the cluster of Weasleys and walked over to the sink. He watched as she pulled the teapot from the cupboard and filled it with water and tea leaves from a tin on the counter. Apparently she no longer cared about the fact that she wasn’t supposed to use a wand outside of school because she grabbed a spare one from the floor and used it to heat the water inside of the teapot.

After a moment, she waved the wand over the pot and muttered something under her breath. The tea leaves shot out and hovered in a mass for a few seconds before throwing themselves in the dustbin.

Ginny flicked the wand toward the cold cabinet and directed a pitcher of cream to the table. Another wave sent several teacups over along with the teapot and a spoon.

She sat down then, next to Draco, and began to pour out cups of tea, spooning in sugar and stirring in the cream. Ginny handed one to Draco, then to Fred, and kept one for herself.

“You’re a bloody mind reader,” Draco said, gulping at the hot brew.

“I had to do something useful. I couldn’t bear just sitting there anymore. Besides,” she murmured, staring into her cup and sloshing the liquid around. “Tea heals all things.”

Draco scoffed. “It won’t do them any good, will it?” he said, pointing with his chin first at Percy and then at Lucius.

Ginny stiffened, her eyes narrowing. “You’re a bastard.”

“Well, it’s official now; seeing as how your brother hacked up my father like a butcher. I doubt anyone would buy cuts of him, though. Probably poison somebody,” Draco muttered. “Although it seems that Father was a rather crafty butcher himself,” he finished with a hollow chuckle at his own crude joke. The stupid bint didn’t have any right calling him a bastard, not now. He noticed that Fred was looking at them but he really didn’t care.

“I’m sorry, Draco,” Ginny said, putting a hand on his thigh in comfort.

Draco flinched and pulled away; she wasn‘t apologising for calling him a bastard, was she? No, she said it for that twit she called brother. “What are you apologising for? You weren’t the one with the bloody knife, were you? Besides, it’s better this way. Now I don’t have to deal with the bugger anymore.” Draco laughed then in a self-deprecating way; he simply couldn’t stop making those stupid jokes! But he felt as hard and unyielding as stone, so perhaps it didn’t matter if his humour was misplaced. “Buggerer, that’s what he was, too: a damn poofter.”

Draco threw his teacup against the wall and it shattered into fragments that rained down on his father’s body. Ginny set a hand on his cheek, turning him to face her.

“Draco, calm down.”

“No, I won’t. How do I know I won’t end up like him? It’s not like I’m going to go soft and become one of Potter’s lemmings, is it?” Draco stared at her intently, his eyes flickering over the pulse in her neck. Then he reached up to wrap his hand around her throat; the fluttering of her heartbeat under his fingers soothing him. “I’m vicious. I’m cruel. And I could kill you with a snap of my fingers.”

Fred stood up but Ginny motioned for him to sit down again. She turned her eyes back to Draco and gazed at him calmly. He still had his hand around her neck but she didn’t even flinch. Was the girl daft?

“If you really think that you could kill me now, go ahead.”

She was daft, or maybe insane. Didn’t she know well enough not to bait someone like that? It was almost a dare, the way she stared at him, her breath slow, even, and completely fearless. Draco squeezed just a little but she didn’t budge. How could he do this when she was looking right at him? Her eyes seemed to penetrate his soul and he shuddered, dropping his hand and looking away.

“You may be vicious,” Ginny said softly in his ear. “And you may be cruel. But what separates you from your father is the fact that he would have strangled me just now, but you didn’t. As long as you don’t cross that line, Draco, you won’t meet his end.”

Draco ignored her and reached over to pick up Ginny’s cup, swallowing some of her tea. It was cold now. In just the space of a few moments the liquid had almost turned into a block of ice.

“Pour me some more,” he said, shoving the cup toward Ginny without looking at her. She snatched it away and slammed it on the table.

“Are you going to avoid everything your whole life?” she asked in exasperation.

Draco flicked his eyes up to meet hers then, leaning forward. “It isn’t any of your bloody business what I do with my life. Just because we—” He broke off and glanced at Fred from the corner of his eye. “It doesn’t give you the right to meddle in my affairs, woman.”

“Meddle in your affairs? Damn it, I’m just trying to help you, you stupid prat!”

“I never asked for your fecking help in the first place, so keep your little freckled nose out of it.”

“Go to hell!” Ginny shouted, standing up to glower at him. Draco stood up, too, and she had to tilt her head up as he bent down to look her in the eye. He felt a little dizzy standing there, as if all of his anger had drained into a very pointed part of his anatomy. And it was pointing at her.

“I’ll see you there,” he whispered before turning around and walking up the stairs to his room.

*~*~*~*~*

Harry woke to a persistent tapping somewhere in the room. He lifted his head and looked around, straining to suss out what exactly was making the sound. Eventually, he glanced up at the window and saw that it was Pigwidgeon, fluttering in a fluffy grey mass outside of the inn.

He groaned and sat up, sliding out from under the quilt and away from the warmth of Hermione’s wool-covered backside. Opening the window brought in a blast of cold air that hit Harry directly in the privates. He shivered and closed it up as soon as the owl was inside. Hermione stirred on the bed.

“Harry?” she asked sleepily. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing, love,” he murmured while attempting to catch the wretched bird. “It’s just an owl post.”

“Oh,” she said, turning over to face him. “Well, what’s it say?”

“I’ll tell you as soon as I catch this stupid owl.”

“Pig? I hope it’s not from Ron.”

Harry finally grabbed the little owl, who was hooting happily against his fingers, and detached the note on his leg. He unrolled it and read carefully, tilting his head to the side in puzzlement.

“Who’s it from?” Hermione asked.

“It’s from Fred. He says that we need to come back to the Burrow as soon as possible. There’s been some sort of— well, he doesn’t really explain, but it seems urgent.”

Hermione sighed and sat up, swinging her feet over the side of the bed. “I suppose there’s no help for it then. We were going to go back anyway.”

Harry shrugged and searched around for his trousers, slipping them on. He couldn’t find either his boxers or his belt. But Hermione’s bra and blouse were dangerously close to the fire, so he snatched them up to keep them from burning and handed them to her. She accepted them and quickly put them on, noticing with apparent distaste that a few buttons were missing.

“Harry,” she said, looking under the sofa. “Have you seen my knickers?”

He thought about it for a moment before smiling sheepishly. “I, uh— I tossed them over there.”

She sat up on her knees and stared at him from the floor. “There?”

“Um, I think they went into the fire. Don’t you remember?”

“No, I was a little distracted at the time.” She blushed a rosy pink and walked over to her trunk, pulling up a section of lid that didn’t have a cat cage on top of it.

Harry smiled and walked to where she was, her bottom stuck in the air as she bent over to root through her clothes. He grasped her hips and pulled her to him, leaning over to kiss her neck. Hermione went still and allowed him to continue for a moment before standing up straight.

“We need to get going, Harry. Whatever it is that’s happening could be important.” She reminded him in a tone that clearly said she was making an effort to be stern.

He sighed, wrapping his arms around her middle. “I wish it could be later. We have a—” He stopped to kiss her neck again. “A lot of catching up to do."

Hermione turned in his embrace and raised an eyebrow. “Catching up? What have we missed?”

Harry grinned wickedly and ran a hand down her back to squeeze her bottom. “This.” He kissed her on the mouth briefly letting his tongue glide over her lips. “And that.”

Hermione recovered after a moment and shook her head. “Harry Potter, you’re an absolute fiend,” she said teasingly. “Besides,” she laughed. “Pig doesn’t need a show.”

He frowned then. “No, I suppose not. It would be odd, wouldn’t it? Having a bird in here while we— you know.”

“But there’s Hedwig, she’s been over here this whole time along with Crookshanks.” Hermione pointed behind her at the box and cage on her trunk and laughed. “Poor animals, we’ve scarred them for life, no doubt.”

Harry covered his face. “I’ll never be able to look Hedwig in the eye again.”

“I don’t think they mind, Harry.”

He shook his head and put on his shoes while Hermione slipped on some new knickers. “I suppose we’ll leave our things here. We will be coming back tonight, right?”

Hermione nodded. “I suppose so. I don’t imagine that we have to be there for very long.”

Harry murmured his agreement. “I don’t think that it’s anything too bad. Probably just Ron and Malfoy got into a fight over Ginny or something.”

“Ginny?”

“Yeah, her and Malfoy— well, they’re a lot more than— whatever they were before.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “You don’t mean— she did it with him?”

“So I’m told. I went to give him the note for Mr Weasley and his room was a mess. And,” Harry snickered; he couldn’t help himself. “When he answered the door, he was completely starkers and started calling me ‘Ginny’.”

A shocked look passed over Hermione’s face before she gave in to helpless giggles. “He was naked?”

“Yeah, it was horrible. He could probably beat Professor Lupin in an ‘overall hairiness’ contest.”

“Oh, my.” She patted him on the shoulder, still tittering. “Poor Harry. At least you didn’t walk in on them.”

Harry shuddered. “I think I would’ve had to Obliviate myself if that ever happened.”

“Those two are like oil and water, heaven knows why they came together like that.” Hermione said, and then paused for a moment before adding: “Maybe Ginny will have some potion, I’ll have to ask her about it.”

“Potion?” Harry crinkled his brow, hopelessly confused.

“Yes, you know that potion? The one to keep me from getting—”

“Oh.” Harry cut her off, suddenly feeling very uncomfortable. “Right, I’d uh, I’d forgotten about that.”

Hermione shook her head. “Honestly Harry, if your head wasn’t attached, you’d forget that, too! You should know better.”

“I’m sorry.” Harry blushed, ducking his head.

“That’s all right, dear,” she said reassuringly, patting his cheek. “That’s why you have me. I’m the brains in this relationship; you get to be the hero.”

*~*~*~*~*

Ginny watched Draco stomp his way up the stairs. He was acting like a child. Then again, his father had just died, not much more than an hour ago.

But she couldn’t think about him right now, despite the warmth flooding through her system, despite wanting to run up those stairs and tear his trousers off. She had her family to worry about.

Well, what was left of it anyway.

Her eyes travelled over to Percy, still composed and peaceful in their mother’s arms. Other than Ginny, Fred seemed to be the only one able to pull himself away long enough to do something useful.

Ginny sighed and sat back down, feeling distinctly uneasy about everything. Ron was still standing in the same place he had been before, his features sprayed with blood and never changing much except when he muttered an odd phrase here and there that she couldn’t make out. Would he ever recover from this? He had just murdered two people with his bare hands. Yes, they were evil, one barely even human. But it was two lives silenced forever, with a knife wielded by her brother.

Her brother.

Her brothers.

They had always protected her; kept her safe from harm. But to go this far? Ron had killed Voldemort, he had done this even though he had never been able to say the man’s name before. That strength, that anger, where had it come from? And Draco’s father, why had he killed him? It would have been just as simple to bash him in the head with something heavy. But she knew that if it had been her with the knife, she would have used it, too.

Ginny was spared from any more contemplation by the arrival of the Aurors. They came in as if fully expecting to walk straight into a war zone, wands at the ready. Their leader held his wand up and directed them to split into groups to search the house while a small band would stay with him.

“There’s a Death Eater in my room,” Ginny said, standing up to walk over to the man. He grunted and waved at the Aurors waiting to go upstairs. “My room is on the third floor, and Draco’s up on the second landing, but he‘s not one of them.”

The Aurors all left after hearing this bit of information, except for the five or six remaining in the kitchen with the older man.

Ginny studied him for a moment, wondering who he was and how he had managed to get such a large group together so quickly.

“So you live here, I assume?” he asked gruffly, soaking up everything in the room with a sweeping glance.

Ginny nodded. “Yes.”

“Could you tell me what happened?”

She nodded again. “We were attacked earlier by a group of Death Eaters. Then—” She almost said Voldemort, but restrained herself at the last moment, remembering that not everyone could bear to hear his name. “Then You-Know-Who arrived and wanted to know where Harry was. He started talking to my brother Ron, since he’s a friend of Harry, and then—” Ginny broke off. What could she possibly say that wouldn’t put Ron in Azkaban? Not for killing Voldemort, but for killing Lucius.

“Go on, girl,” the man prompted her impatiently.

“W-well, my brother Fred distracted everyone by throwing a— I’m not sure exactly what it was, but there was smoke everywhere and then Ron stabbed You-Know-Who with a knife before the Death Eaters could see him do it, and now You-Know-Who’s dead.” Ginny pointed over to Voldemort’s corpse, frozen in the act of clawing the air. “He’s just there.”

The man nodded, rubbing his generous chin. It was as if this sort of thing happened to him everyday and it grated Ginny just a little. “And the others? What killed them?”

Fred came up then and stood behind Ginny, hands on her shoulders. She relaxed visibly and managed to speak. “Lucius Malfoy killed our brother Percy with the killing curse and then— Ron killed him.”

The old Auror’s eyes travelled slowly from Voldemort, to Percy, to the cloth covered Lucius, and finally to Ron, who still hadn’t moved. The hardness in his gaze softened a little and he turned back to Ginny. “Your brother is very brave to have done what he did. I only hope that it doesn’t destroy him.”

Ginny sighed in relief. “You mean he won’t go to Azkaban?”

The man laughed softly, breaking the pretence he wore with a shake of his head. “Azkaban? Merlin‘s beard, whatever gave you that idea?”

“Because, well—” She twisted her hands in her nightdress, realising for the first time that it was all she was wearing. Ginny flushed for both her attire and for the fact that she had actually believed Ron would be imprisoned for killing a Death Eater. “It was foolish of me to think that, wasn’t it?”

“My girl, your brother could murder everyone in this room and I still doubt anyone would send him to Azkaban for it; not after what he‘s done for us all.”

Ginny nodded, still wringing her hands. “Thank you for that, sir. May I be excused from the rest of your questions? I‘m very tired and my brother Fred is here. I‘m sure he wouldn‘t mind answering for me.”

Fred clapped her on the back a few times as the man waved her off. “Of course, I’ll send one of my men up with you.”

“No, that’s all right. I’m sure that they’ve found anyone who may be hiding by now.”

The old Auror shrugged and she escaped the kitchen, passing the Aurors coming from downstairs. Two of them were dragging the Death Eater who had been in her room between them. The others all gave a friendly nod, and one of them said: “All’s safe for you up there, no need to worry.”

Ginny mumbled a thank you and walked slowly up the stairs. As she was passing the second landing though, a hand shot out and grabbed her arm, pulling her into the darkened corridor. She was about to scream but her mouth was covered by another‘s, drawing away her breath. Ginny beat her fists against the person’s chest, twisting in their embrace. They broke away from her mouth, but still held her tight.

“What took you so long?” Draco whispered harshly into her ear.

She didn’t relax much, but was still relieved that it was only him and not a Death Eater. “You scared me to death.”

In the dark, Ginny could see the twin corners of his lips lifting in a smirk. It wasn’t nice, barely even human.

“There are other ways to die, you know.”

Before she could protest, he had her pinned against the wall, reaching his hand down to tug at her nightdress. Ginny realised that she needed this as much as he did; the feel of flesh to warm her, to remind her that she was still among the living.

Draco lifted her by the waist and pushed his hips between her thighs, already rock hard. He buried his face in her neck as she reached down to unbutton his trousers and push them off his hips. Neither of them had bothered to dress properly after their last encounter, so there were no impediments as he shoved up into her.

Ginny gasped, bringing her hands up to support herself against the wall. Her eyes closed as Draco thrust into her roughly, his pelvis slamming against her own with force enough to knock the breath out of her body. It felt as if there were a million ants crawling over her nerves, finding that wound within her that would never heal.

He was making small sounds, words that she didn’t understand grunted into her ear that soon became more audible.

“The French call the moment of climax Le petit mort.” Draco groaned as she milked him with all the strength she had left. “But I’ve had enough of death today. We’ll have to name it something else.”

Ginny moaned, her head going back to expose her throat, and her fingers dug at the plaster of the wall. Her hands bled, but the wall held firm. She didn’t know what was real anymore, but it didn’t matter.

It felt so good to be alive.

Reviewing is good for the soul. Especially when it's constructive reviews. I take everything my reviewers say into consideration, so just remember that. This is also the point where I guilt trip you into saying something to let me know what you thought of this chapter. It doesn't have to be good. Heck, I'd rather hear your issues with the story/chapter rather than hear 'that wuz grate' one more time. *shrugs*

Cheers,

Sing