Long-hidden Skies

Chapter Seven

This is Eternally Weird

The panther prowled restlessly through the darkened rooms, body coiled tight and ears alert, tail flicking with irritation. Something seemed off in the small house, but he hadn't yet found the source of the disturbance. In the den, Colin was curled up on a rug in front of the low-banked fire, the occasional pop and crackle of the flames and the terrier's light snores the only sounds.

With a low rumble in his chest, the big cat leaned over the dog and nudged him softly with his muzzle. One of Colin's eyes blinked open, the reflection from the fire making it glow a fierce green, then he lifted his head slowly with a yawn wide enough to make his jaw click. He licked his chops and shook the last of his sleep from his body, rising to his paws to follow Blaise quietly out of the room.

They'd patrolled together before, many times in the Forest, so they communicated little as they moved to the living room, Colin sniffing the air tentatively, scrambling under the coffee table and searching out shadowy corners while Blaise poised himself in the doorway, dilated pupils absorbing the room at large. The terrier was the only noticeable occupant.

Satisfied that his scouting turned up nothing, Colin slipped past the black cat and headed for the stairs, only to pause at the first step, a low whimper in the back of his throat that quickly melted into a threatening growl.

The panther lunged past the dog, taking the steps three at a time and skidding to a stop at the top of the stairwell, teeth bared in a silent snarl. Instantly, he spotted the thin line of golden light that spilled out from under Hermione's bedroom door and his previous sense of unease swelled into full blown foreboding as he glided on soundless paws towards it, shoving it open slowly with his shoulder.

Hermione was pressed up against her headboard, a look of confusion mixed with terror fixed on her face, her breath so heavy she was nearly panting. Lucius Malfoy had one of her hands fast in his grip, a wand trained on her throat as the flickering candlelight threw menacing shadows across his face and upper body.

"I don't understand," she whispered brokenly, her amber eyes glistening.

"I dislike liars," the blond man purred, trailing the wand tip along her skin to rest just above her heart. "You understand perfectly."

"But, Lucius..."

The leopard growled involuntarily at her use of the man's given name, and both heads swiveled sharply towards the doorway.

"Blaise," Hermione breathed, her body slumping in relief. Thank Merlin, she thought blindly. Blaise wouldn't let anything happen to her. Tugging at her trapped hand, she said, "Please, you have to let me go."

Lucius' gaze was genuinely curious. "Why?"

"Because," she hissed, "Blaise will rip your arm off if you don't." She wasn't sure how accurate that threat was, but the anger emanating from the large black cat was palpable, and she suspected he was capable of just about anything at that moment.

"Ah," he cocked his head, gazing at the leopard in fascination, "Blaise Zabini, is it? You're not needed here, boy."

The panther stepped further into the room, each movement a study in restraint.

"I don't think he agrees with you," Hermione said nervously, still trying in vain to twist her wrist out of the blond's grasp.

Lucius merely looked amused. "Really? Well, that's too bad." He flicked the wand towards Blaise.

"Is everything...?" Harry trailed off, hand gripping Hermione's doorframe. Quickly taking in the scene, he strode past Blaise and grabbed the wand out of Lucius' hand. "What the fuck do you think you're doing, Malfoy?" he shouted.

"Nothing." The blond grinned up at him.

"Let go of Hermione," he growled.

Lucius instantly released his grip on her, folding his hands neatly in his lap and blinking at Harry with overt innocence.

"Out," Harry growled, pointing to the door. "Now."

The blond man slanted Hermione a sly glance, his eyes glittering, then rose gracefully to his feet and sauntered towards the bedroom door, not the least intimidated by the hulking black leopard blocking his way. "If you would step aside?" he asked politely.

The cat bared his sharp fangs without a sound, frozen in place, muscles rippling with anticipation.

"Let him pass, Zabini," Harry said wearily, shoving a hand through his hair.

Blaise moved slowly, shifting to the side and circling behind the man, golden eyes locked on his slim form as he slipped from the room and disappeared down the hallway.

"Harry?" Hermione whispered, her voice small and shaky, fear making her eyes wide. "Why...?"

Harry sighed and sank down onto the bed. "I'm sorry, Hermione. I forgot to warn you that Lucius was staying here with me."

She rubbed a palm against her heart and took a shuddering breath. "I just... I..." She shook her head. "It was just a shock, I suppose."

Reaching out, Harry squeezed her hand and smiled reassuringly. "He's harmless, really," he explained. "Might be a good idea to keep your wand hidden, though."

She nodded mutely, her mind's eye still trained on the image of the slim, pale man, who'd seemed to have changed so frighteningly little over the years.

"Hey," Harry said gently, green irises laced with worry, "are you all right?"

Hermione curled her fingers around Harry's palm, reveling in the simple gesture. Warmth radiated up her arm from their joined hands, lightly constricting her heart, and she was horrified to feel tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. Quickly, she lifted her other hand and swiped at her cheeks, vainly attempting to stem the flow, choking back a pained sob.

And then, with a soft unintelligible soothing sound, Harry pulled her forward into a tight embrace. She collapsed against his chest, curling into herself as he circled his arms about her, letting his cheek rest on the top of her head. She cried silent, painful tears that clogged her throat and made her head ache, as if her mind was desperately fighting against the physical release of emotions.

It wouldn't make anything right. Nothing ever truly could.

She pushed back from Harry, her head bowed. "I'm fine," she said thickly, then sank back into the pillows, turning her head away from him and pressing a hot cheek against the cool fabric. Squeezing her eyes shut, she whispered harshly, "G'night, Harry."

The black-haired man lifted a hand as if to skim her cheek, but instead lightly smoothed over the back of her head. "'Night, Hermione."

She felt him hesitate, palm lingering softly at the base of her skull, and she wanted so much to dive into his arms again, let him hold her and pretend, for a little while, that everything was going to be okay. Fisting her hands into the sheets to keep them from shaking, she refused to acknowledge his continued presence and, after a few moments, he rose and walked away from the bed, shutting the door quietly behind him as he left the room.

She relaxed into the mattress, feeling somewhat hollow inside, then blinked open her eyes to see the panther gazing at her curiously. And then the candle flickered out, plunging the bedroom into moonlit darkness, and the reflective eyes of the big cat grew closer, until she could feel his hot breath fan across her face. "Blaise," she whispered.

He ducked his massive head, rubbing his brow along the edge of her jaw, an ear tickling her lips, and she tentatively lifted a hand to his thick neck, burrowing her fingers into the silky fur when he didn't protest her touch.

With a sigh, her eyes drifted closed, drained by fear and an overload of emotions she'd always fought so hard to suppress, and the Animagus gently pulled away from her. She only vaguely registered his presence sometime later as the bed dipped under his bulk, feeling the warm feline body curl up alongside hers. Sleepily, she shifted onto her back, and the panther moved his head to rest on her stomach, a comforting weight, and she smiled slightly into the darkness as he let out a contented huff of air.

Hermione's first thought when she woke in the small hours just before sunrise was that she'd slept better than she had in a long while, her body restive and surprisingly languid. Her second thought was that the leopard was still on the bed, curled protectively around her.

Then she realized leopards didn't spoon.

Behind her, she felt Blaise stretch and then yawn noisily. She twitched.

"You're awake, then," he said, his arm tightening around her waist, pressing her back more firmly against him.

Her eyes widened at the intimate contact. "Are you naked?" she asked breathily before she could stop herself.

"Take a wild guess, Granger," he replied dryly, nuzzling his face into her tangled curls.

"Could you..." She swallowed thickly. "Could you possibly put something on?"

"That would require me moving," he murmured, "and I'm rather comfortable right now. It's early, pet. Go back to sleep."

Go back to sleep? Was he insane?

Moments later his body relaxed into slumber, his soft, even breaths ruffling the hair behind her ear. She could sneak out now, pry his arm from around her and slip out of the room, but she found herself suddenly entirely too comfortable. Running her fingers lightly along his forearm still wrapped around her middle, she closed her eyes against the murky light of dawn that was steadily brightening the bedroom.

******

Ginny blinked, staring straight ahead, fingers clutching the edge of her blankets, feet sliding back and forth restlessly under the covers. She watched the hazy gray dawn light creep ever inward across the bedroom ceiling, having not slept a wink the whole night. Her eyes were dry and wide, and her mind was agitated and whirling with half-formed thoughts.

Hermione was near. She could feel it in her bones.

Silently, she slid out of bed, toes curling as they touched the cold floor. She got dressed quickly, and then moved down the hall to the kitchen, setting a kettle on for tea, careful not to disturb the sleeping Malfoy in the next room.

Judging it so she removed the pot just before it whistled, she settled down at the round kitchen table, leaning her forehead into her right palm. As she sipped her tea, an uneasy exhaustion pulled at her, but she knew she wouldn't be able to relax until she found out about Hermione.

She had never truly understood the odd link she had with Hermione, or the fact that it was now more powerful than ever, since she hadn't felt that same connection with Harry over the years.

Ginny hadn't been particularly fond of the older Witch at Hogwarts, despite Hermione's close relationship with Ron. They'd always been polite and semi-friendly, but they hadn't run with the same crowd and, truth be told, Ginny had always found the girl's obsessive behavior towards schoolwork, and eventually the Order, somewhat annoying.

On the battlefield of Avignon, she'd encountered Hermione for the first time in over a year. Once the war officially started, both women had been placed in entirely different regiments, with entirely different agendas. Ginny, who'd shown an extraordinary strength of offensive magic during a surprise attack on Hogsmeade during her sixth year at Hogwarts, had been immediately thrown into training as a Second Division Auror, or Nightstalker, as Harry, who'd joined those ranks as well, had called them. They were always the first into battle, usually under the cover of darkness, and jokingly went by the motto 'Attack first and think about it later.'

It was perfect for Ginny, who, while lacking some of the finesse and stealth needed for sneak attacks, was rash and often fearless in the face of danger. They were the first to go in, the first to destroy, and the first to get killed.

It was a wonder Ginny had made it to Avignon, or even past that morning's first battle cry as the Nightstalkers swooped down upon the Death Eater encampment. They'd been ready for them; a traitor had been hidden among the faithful members of the Order.

Which brought her thoughts back to Draco Malfoy. She took a sip of tea and shot a quick glance at the doorway, Malfoy's sock-feet just visible over the sofa arm. A spy? She believed it, if only from the simple fact that everyone else said it was true. And yet...

He'd fought against them. Fought the bloodiest battle of the war against them. She couldn't help wondering what had happened to cause his change of allegiance, and how he could reconcile his actions against the Order before and during Avignon. He had a dark past, and she had a sudden compulsion to learn everything about it.

"Fuck, it's too early."

At Draco's gruff voice, Ginny lifted her head to see him leaning into the doorframe, eyes slitted and bleary, a check-work of red creases on the right side of his face from the sofa's rough texture.

"Didn't mean to wake you, Malfoy," Ginny said, only somewhat apologetically. "Tea?"

"Anything stronger?" he grumbled, collapsing into a wooden chair and propping his head up with his hands.

She arched a brow. "Didn't think you'd want anymore alcohol after yesterday."

"Coffee, Weasley," he stressed, "sweet nectar of the gods."

"You'll have to make that yourself, then," Ginny said. "Any coffee I brew is known in Weasley circles as little better than swill." She cocked her head to the side. "Did George really ask you to be Freddy's godfather?"

"Heard about that, did you? Yes, well, I hope he was joking."

"All of the twins' jokes should be taken with the utmost seriousness," Ginny commented sagely, rising from her seat to find the coffee grounds.

"You're not making any sense at all." He stared at her intently, gray eyes narrowing slightly. "And you look like shit, Weasley."

She yawned wide, reaching up into the cabinet and pulling down a large canister of coffee grounds. "Not sleeping will do that to you." She pushed the can into his hands and dropped back down into her seat, drained.

Strangely, Harry's magic running through her veins never made her any stronger. In fact, it almost proved the opposite, although it was more a matter of being unable to focus the foreign magic into a productive force, than her powers themselves being dampened. The uncontrolled energy humming in her body, however, kept her from maintaining her level of prowess from her days as an active Order Auror. Magically, she was out of shape, only slightly better than Hermione after ten years without using any magic at all.

Add that to ten days of a questionable diet and sleep depravity, and Ginny was teetering dangerously on the edge of falling apart.

"And you didn't sleep why, exactly?" he asked.

"Hermione," she answered succinctly.

"Ah," he said, nodding, "more late night conversations with Granger."

"Not exactly. Hermione's near by."

His brows rose. "In town?"

She made an assenting noise. "I suppose, unless she's hiding in the woods. Unlikely, but possible." Ginny wrinkled her nose, swirling the sickly yellow-brown dregs in her teacup. "She was upset."

"Rude of her to keep you up," Draco groused.

"She didn't know, Malfoy." She slumped against the table and rubbed her temples with her fingertips. "I'm just so tired of it all."

"Still," he grumbled, and Ginny shook her head at his obvious disgruntlement.

"Go back to bed," she said, folding her arms on the tabletop and burrowing her face into them. After a moment of silence, she felt an arm snake around her waist, and her head shot up. "What are you doing?"

"Going back to bed," he answered, urging her to her feet.

She allowed herself to be herded down the hallway and pressed into her bed, and didn't mutter a word of protest as he slipped under the covers next to her, pulling her to his chest. She snuggled close, for once willing to use his warmth as a comfort, to take his gesture at face value. "Malfoy?" she asked finally, her voice a whisper.

"What?"

She wanted to ask him why. Wanted to ask him what he was doing there, what brought him to this point, what ran through his mind when he gazed out onto the dirt streets of the Order town. But she didn't. She wasn't all too sure she was ready for his answers. "Nothing," she said, and sighed.

******

Parvati stumbled to the door, jaw popping from a wide yawn, fingers fumbling at the terrycloth tie around her waist. The sky had barely faded from purple to pink, and the pounding on the thin wood was loud and persistent, echoing in Parvati's sleep-blurred mind.

"I'm coming, I'm coming," she grumbled, taking a moment to look through the small peephole. Lavender. Well, that was a worry. Lavender hardly ever got out of bed before ten.

With an intense feeling of dread, Parvati unbolted the door and looked down at her friend's pale face, noting the parchment clutched in her left hand.

"Parvati," Lavender breathed, her voice shaky.

"What is it, what's happened?" she asked, pulling the trembling girl into the cottage and shutting the door firmly behind them.

"It's..." she waved the parchment, swallowing convulsively. "It's from Neville."

Parvati's eyes widened, then filled with tears as she wrapped her arms around Lavender in a tight hug. "Oh, Lav."

"It is from him," she insisted emphatically, fisting her hands in Parvati's robe and pushing away. "It is. I know it."

An odd mixture of pity and grief thrummed through Parvati's body. Neville had been dead for years, taken in the last stand for Hogwarts, a brief and mercifully quick fight that had left the Order in permanent retreat.

"Read it," Lavender demanded, thrusting the missive into Parvati's face, a desperate gleam in her eyes. "It's him, damn it. The writing... my gods the writing, Parvati... it's the same."

Reluctantly, Parvati took the note and unfolded it gingerly, shooting Lavender wary glances. The writing on the parchment though... No, not just the writing. The words. "Lav..." she started, narrowing her eyes.

"It's him," Lavender said.

"Lav," she said again, a little bubble of hope building inside of her.

After Dean had died, a strange sort of bond formed between Lavender and Neville. It had much to do with Seamus than anything, as the boy had retreated within himself, preferring to grieve for his best mate in painful silence. Although Lavender had been dating Seamus at the time, she found she could offer him no comfort. What could she say to him, when the Irish boy would just stare at her with dead eyes?

But Neville... Neville kept everything simmering on the surface. Every emotion flashing in his wide, cow-brown eyes. She could wrap her arms around the boy and they would both feel comforted, both feel lightened. Both feel needed.

In the weeks that followed Dean's demise, they became almost inseparable. It hadn't been romantic, though. At least, not at first. Lavender had loved Seamus completely, or as much as her sixteen-year-old heart could love anyone, and didn't begrudge him his time alone. But Neville would let her talk for hours, and let her cry on his shoulder, and let her squeeze his hand when they passed in the hallways, and... somehow, through all of that, she fell. Hard.

She couldn't tell Seamus. She couldn't do that to him... couldn't tell him that, since his best friend died, he wasn't any good to her anymore. It was the harsh truth, yes, but that didn't make it right.

The shorthand scrawled across the parchment in front of her was pretty much incomprehensible to Parvati, but she recognized it. "It's been years," she said, half in awe, half still skeptical. "Shorthand... anyone can learn shorthand, Lav. Maybe--"

"It's him," she reiterated sharply, the words almost a mantra. She tapped the top of the note, where the familiar cursive Valerie had been penned. "And he's signed it Venice."

Val and Ven. Pet names, shifting to codenames in the onslaught of war, where they'd been ripped apart and sent off to do what they did best: Neville to the ranks of war nurses and Lavender to Order Intelligence.

Parvati led Lavender into the kitchen and put on a kettle for tea, pulling out a chair and forcing her friend to sit. "What does it say?" she asked softly.

"It says," she choked on a sob, burying her face into her hands. "It says that he loves me."

"And...?" Parvati prompted.

She took a deep breath. "He's coming home."

******

Aubrey Parkinson was a morning person. And very nearly tone-deaf.

The cat winced at the caterwauling drifting out of the bathroom, and hoped to Merlin that the woman had thought to leave up the silencing wards from the night before. No one, evil or not, deserved to hear that so early in the day.

Dean Thomas, humor making his eyes almost silver, hummed along, adding an odd lyric here and there, obviously making it up as he went along. He was sitting at the professor's desk, quill tight between opaque fingers, busily scratching on a scroll of parchment. He was supposed to be listing students, but the tabby cat greatly suspected he was simply doodling. The ghost boy didn't have the best attention span.

When Aubrey finally flounced out of the loo, she beamed over at him. "You've a lovely voice, Mr. Thomas," she complimented, looking as if she wanted to give him a hug.

The feline rolled her eyes and meowed plaintively.

"And you, my lovely Kitty, have some work to do," she added cheerfully, then admonished, "Now make sure you aren't seen. Oh, and give my regards to Albus. There really isn't a better wizard alive." She sighed. "I used to have quite a crush on him, you know, as a girl. There is nothing so attractive as raw power."

Oh, please stop, the cat thought desperately. Please just let me out.

"And his eyes," Aubrey went on, unaware of the Animagus' distress, a dreamy cast to her face, "they're just so merry and calming. I could drown in his eyes."

Lifting a paw, the feline scratched at the door, letting out an undignified yowl.

"Of course, of course," the dark-haired woman said, running a hand over the cat's back before reaching for the door. "I was rambling again. You really shouldn't let me ramble, Kitty."

Like I have any control over that. Twit. But she arched into the touch anyway, her throat rumbling with an involuntary purr, as it was a rare treat to have that sort of affection. And then she slipped out of the chamber, and padded quickly down the hallway, taking the stairs two at a time.

The windows in the Entrance Hall were not high, and she easily leapt up onto the ledge and then down into the dewy grass, hissing as the dampness soaked into the fur of her paws. Resisting the inane urge to lick them dry, if that was even possible, she skulked across the grounds and into the edge of the forest, still cast in pre-dawn shadows.

She froze at a slight rustling, then blinked up as a large bay horse stepped out of the trees, lowering its black muzzle to snort playfully into the cat's short fur.

Ears back, she hissed up at him. You're a laugh, Cull.

I know. The stallion whickered, tossing his mane flamboyantly, as only a truly beautiful animal can, and pawed the earth with a large hoof. Let's shake a tail feather, Miss Kitty. Bending down so his front legs kneeled in the soft, wild grass, he waited patiently for the cat to jump onto his back.

They had a great deal of distance to cover, and little time. Diagon Alley awaits. He'd take her as far as the outskirts of London, but didn't relish the thought of going so near the city. The noise and smells and crowds made him decidedly uneasy - even before the Tribe he'd been a country lad.

Has there been any news from Albus? she queried, seating herself comfortably on Cull's withers.

Only a hope that we are well, he rose to his feet, careful not to dislodge the tabby, and that Hogwarts is being prepared.

The feline narrowed her eyes. It's in the hands of a ghost and a nitwit now. Although, truth be told, she had great faith in Aubrey, and grudgingly admitted she was quite fond of the woman on the whole.

No claws in the hide now, Cull admonished, and then they were off, a brisk walk that evolved into a trot, before quickly segueing into a smooth, three-beat canter.

******

Blaise was gone when Hermione finally stretched out of bed, the imprint of his body left in the blankets beside her long cold. A glance at the clock showed that it was nearly eleven and she rubbed her eyes to make sure she was seeing right. She never slept that late.

Quickly, she slipped into a pair of jeans and a loose t-shirt, feeling lazy lying about in bed, but then she froze, staring at the closed door, unable to force herself into opening it. Lucius was out there. It was pathetic, how terrified she was of seeing the man. How, the night before, memories had assailed her in such a mad rush that she'd broken down. She wasn't supposed to break. She couldn't afford to.

Squaring her shoulders, she finally grabbed the doorknob and drew it open, looking up and down the hall before stepping out and slinking down the steps like a guilty child. Voices drifted up the stairwell and she paused, unsure. It wasn't Blaise. It was Harry, though, and...

Her heart caught in her throat. Merlin, it was Ron.

She wavered, fighting off an insane impulse to rush back up the steps and shut herself into her room. It was stupid, really. That same fear crawling up her throat as when she'd first thought of seeing Harry again.

Before she could continue down the last few steps, though, a figure came skidding out of the den, rounding the corner with infectious laughter that abruptly cut off when she caught sight of Hermione. It was a young girl, loose ginger hair falling to her shoulders, her eyes wide-set and pale blue, a smattering of freckles trailing across her nose to fade into her apple cheeks. She was pretty and slightly lanky and most definitely a Weasley.

"Aunt Hermione?" she asked, her eyes lighting up.

Hermione bit her lip and descended to the landing. "I suppose," she replied hesitantly, then gasped as the girl threw herself against her, wrapping her thin arms around her waist. "Um... do I know you?"

"That's Mel," a voice said softly, and Hermione jerked her head towards the archway where Ron stood, a hand curled around the jamb.

He looked... different. Older. Harry still had a boyish charm about him, an ageless quality in his smile, but Ron... Ron's face had matured into hard angles, and she could read the weariness in his washed out eyes. "Ron," she whispered. "I've missed you."

When she moved into the redhead's arms, it wasn't the same homecoming she'd had with Harry. The hands that held her were painfully unfamiliar, almost awkward. But then, she'd never had the same familial camaraderie with Ron. Harry had been her brother, but Ron had always been something more. If the war hadn't come, if it hadn't cut off their childhood so swiftly and brutally...

But it was no use dwelling on 'ifs.'

"You couldn't have missed me half as much as I've missed you," he said into her hair, his cheek pressed to the top of her head. He gave a choked laugh. "You've only just remembered."

"Ten years of missing all wrapped into two days," she said, her voice muffled by his shirt, and suddenly even the awkwardness felt right. Normal. "It's enough to make my heart miserable."

After one last squeeze, he stepped back and swiped away the telltale moisture at his eyes. "Look at us," he joked, his voice thick, "getting mushy."

She reached up and caught a stray tear with her thumb. "We aren't mushy people."

"No." He grasped her hand and pressed her palm briefly against his cheek. "No, we're not."

"Dad," Mel whined, tugging on his t-shirt.

With a long-suffering sigh, Ron released Hermione and looked down at the young girl beside him. "You're a nuisance, Mellie," he said, grinning, draping an arm across her shoulders. "What do you want?"

Mel frowned at the horrid nickname. "Introduce us properly," she demanded.

"Yes, your highness."

"Dad," she hissed through her teeth, "you're embarrassing me in front of Aunt Hermione."

Hermione stared at Mel - Ron's daughter - in wonder. "She's yours," she stated. She'd missed so damn much.

"No," Mel corrected firmly. "He's mine."

Ron arched a brow. "Since when did ownership enter into this equation?"

"The night my father gave you to me," she replied imperiously, nose tipped into the air.

"Oh, so that's the way it was," he said, nodding, and Hermione got the distinct impression that it was a conversation they'd had many times before.

"I think I'm missing something," Hermione said bemusedly, bouncing her gaze between them.

Mel nudged her dad in the arm and slanted him a narrowed look. "Properly."

A fond smile at his lips, Ron cleared his throat and made a grand gesture towards Mel. "May I present Miss Melissa Ginevra Weasley, commonly called Mel, never called Mellie - except by a select few who purposely wish to annoy her - my daughter and niece, and no, Miss Granger, she was in no way created by an incestuous union."

"Incestuous?" Mel asked curiously.

"Not for little ears," he replied, ruffling her hair.

Mel shot him a disgruntled glare, but curtseyed, a slight bow to her head, and said, "How do you do?"

"Better," Hermione said, her voice a broken whisper. "Much."

******

Ginny awoke some time before noon to the odd sight of Malfoy sitting up in bed next to her, reading. The drapes had been pulled tight to ward off the late morning sun, and pale candlelight curved over his exposed throat, giving his skin a golden cast and shadowing half his face.

He arched a pale brow, but didn't avert his eyes from the slim book. "Finally up?" he asked absently.

Yawning, she rubbed a palm over her forehead and rolled to her side, pillowing her head with an arm. "Almost." She still felt bone-tired, but realized she probably would for a good long while. "Why are you reading my journal?" She was more curious, really, than angry at his invasion of privacy. It wasn't exactly a diary, after all.

"I was bored," he drawled, finally shifting to look at her, "and you're very good."

"At what?"

He rolled his eyes. "Writing, Weaslette. I'm still hoping to find out what happens with Milord Nasty Pants," he said, not a little mocking amusement in his tone.

"I was practically hallucinating that story, Malfoy," she commented. "I doubt it will ever be put to paper."

"Pity."

After a few moments of silence, she pulled herself up into a sitting position and tilted her head back against the headboard. "What are we doing, Malfoy?" she asked softly.

"Enjoying a lazy morning in bed?"

She snorted. "You know exactly what I mean."

"Haven't the foggiest," he said, snapping the journal shut and turning towards her. "I'm here to watch out for you, plain and simple."

"It isn't simple at all," she protested, nicking the book out of his hands and tossing it aside, eyes flashing. "Nothing about you is simple. Nothing about me is simple." She sighed, letting her eyes fall closed. "And I don't trust you, Malfoy."

He nodded in agreement. "You shouldn't."

And that right there, that blunt honesty, well... it incited trust, didn't it? Made her previous words a lie. It was a twisted sort of logic, and Ginny certainly wasn't happy about it, but...

He nudged her arm and smirked. "You're rethinking your stance on me, aren't you?"

"No," she huffed.

"You are," he insisted smugly.

She scowled down at her lap, fingers fiddling with the edge of the blankets. "This is eternally weird."

"Weird, surreal, fucked up. Take your pick, Weasley. They all fit."

******

Thaddeus Wick was the bastard son of a hag and a dark wizard of dubious descent. He was a squib to boot, and thus was received less than favorably by the current pureblood regime, which didn't bother him in the least, since the animosity was returned to them ten-fold.

He did have his talents, however. And his greed.

Wick's eyes burned with hatred as he gazed at the familiar visage, those thin, aristocratic lips turned up in a derisive sneer.

"Well, Owl," Zabini spat, "to what do I owe this fire-call?"

"Information," he said shortly.

Interest flared briefly in the man's dark eyes. "What sort?"

Wick rocked back on his heels, gazing at the disembodied head in the fireplace, Zabini's skin tinted green from the licking flames. "Your whelp was in my establishment last evening."

"Was he?" he asked, one brow arched. He didn't have to wonder which child of his it was. He only ever paid Wick to watch the Tribe. "Come now, tell me what went on," he prompted somewhat testily. "You know you'll get your pay."

Zabini might have been a prick, but he never stiffed him. The Owl suspected the wizard was half afraid of him, despite his squib status. "He brought the mutt and a woman with him."

The dark man shifted forward. "A woman? Do you know who she was? What did she look like?"

"Pretty little thing," he answered gruffly, rubbing a palm over his rough beard. "Short. Brown, bushy hair. A smart look in her eyes, with a brave front." He found himself feeling uncharacteristically guilty, remembering the way the little rabbit had held her own with him. Money was money, though, and he wasn't gaining anything by keeping her visit to himself. "She wasn't part of the Tribe."

"Are you sure?"

Wick nodded. "I would've known her if she was." He'd spent enough years spying on the Tribe for Zabini to know each of the members by sight in both their human and Animagus forms.

"What did they want?" he demanded.

"To use my floo to go to Beauxbatons."

"Off to join Dumbledore," Zabini muttered to himself. "It must have been Ms Granger."

"Granger." Wick rolled the surname around his mouth, his eyes thoughtful. Somehow, having a label for the chit made this whole business harder to swallow.

A slow, malicious smile spread over Zabini's face, causing an unnatural glow in his pale blue eyes, and for the first time the Owl felt something akin to fear snake down his spine, chilling his blood.

"It's starting."