Twilight of the Dawn

Chapter Four

"Christ, Ginny!"

Her breath came in rasps and wheezes; she felt her body shake and there were hard, warm hands gripping her upper arms. "Oh, God," she moaned, her head falling back as the fight seeped out of her. Sobs tore from her throat and she collapsed into her brother's arms.

"Shhhh, Gin," Ron whispered, pulling her close, slipping his arms around her back. "It's alright."

"Ron," she cried brokenly, her hands clutching the front of his pajama top. "I'm sorry."

Ron smoothed his hands up and down her back. "It's alright," he repeated, his voice soft and soothing. Merlin, how she'd scared the shit out of him. He'd padded back down to the common room to nab the Quidditch magazine he had left there earlier, and spotted Ginny, frozen near the bottom of the girls' dormitory stairs. He'd taken in the blackness of the stairwell and her hitched breath, and wondered how long she had been standing there, lost in panic.

She was pale as death and he dug his fingers into her hair, pressing her head against his chest almost desperately, listening as she sniffed and hiccuped into his shirt.

"I-I forgot my wand," she finally said, her voice muffled by his top and her hair.

"Happens to the best of us," he said hoarsely, knowing that she didn't like to discuss her fear even in the midst of it. He shifted his hold on her and gently led her over to the sofa closest to the banked fire, pulling her down and settling her against his side.

Ginny let the warmth of Ron comfort her, deep down to her bones, and after several minutes, finally felt safe again. "Stupid," she muttered to herself. "So stupid." She hated it when she let herself behave like a baby, afraid of such a simple, innocuous thing like the dark.

Ron didn't comment on her words, instead squeezing her arm reassuringly. "Okay?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, then fell silent again, staring into the glowing embers of the fire. Her eyelids started to droop and she muffled a yawn against her palm.

Ron gave her a relieved smile. "Time for bed, I think."

"Alright," she agreed, shuddering slightly at the memory of the dark stairwell, but she walked with Ron over to the steps and accepted his wand, tip already glowing, and kissed him softly on the cheek as an unspoken thanks. "Night, Ron."

"G'night, Gin," he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets and watching as she carefully ascended the stairs, standing there until she disappeared behind her dorm room door.

******

Ginny blinked, bleary-eyed, up at the gray eyes hovering above her, slight tension etched into the pale skin surrounding them. "Oh, crap," she murmured sleepily, then pulled the covers over her head, rolling onto her side. "I don't need this," she said through her blankets.

"Ginny," he said, his voice impatient.

"Go away, Malfoy." She heard a low growl and her covers were ripped away. "Hey!" she cried, indignant, scrambling to keep the blankets at least to her chin. "Let go."

"Are you going to listen to me?"

Ginny turned onto her back and looked up at him, the flickering shadows cast from the lit candle on her bedside table hiding half his face. "Do I have a choice?" she asked, pushing herself into a sitting position against her headboard.

"Not really," he said, methodically tugging her covers out of her fingers until they puddled on her lap.

She crossed her arms under her breasts and frowned at him. "Well?"

He was sitting on the edge of her mattress, his knees brushing the heavy maroon drapes surrounding the bed, his hands braced on either side of her hips. "Did you give the book and orb to Potter?"

Ginny bit her lip. To lie, or not to lie? She started slightly when his fingers lifted to her face, his thumb smoothing her bottom lip out from under her teeth, but he dropped his hand quickly. She sighed. "No."

"Fuck, Ginny," he said harshly. "Can't you follow simple instructions?"

"I can. When they make any semblance of sense. You, Malfoy," she accused, her tone tinged with bitterness, "make less sense than a boggart disguised as Ron."

Malfoy dropped his head, shaking it back and forth, a few silver strands of his hair spilling forward. His eyes were hard when he lifted it again. "It all doesn't need to make sense, Ginny," he said. "At least not to you."

"Then why give me the task in the first place? Why not just hand them to Harry yourself?" Ginny's voice held genuine puzzlement.

His laugh was half scoffing. "Like Potter would trust anything that came from me."

"And what do you expect me to do? Trust you?" she asked sadly. "Blindly?"

He watched her for several minutes in silence, his gaze intense, his mouth pressed in a grim line. "Yes," he said finally.

Ginny shook her head. "I won't give them to Harry until I find out what they are. Hermione's working on a translation, but if you would just tell me--"

"And would you trust my words?" Malfoy scowled at her. "It doesn't matter, Ginny. Granger won't be able to figure it out. Give it to Potter."

"Harry would just ask Hermione for help anyway--"

Malfoy grabbed her arms and leaned close, his voice bordering on menacing. "Potter will know."

"But how...?"

"Good God, Ginny, just do it. Alright?" He shook her roughly, his expression exasperated. "Promise?"

"I will," Ginny gasped, clutching the front of his jumper. Eventually, she added to herself.

She's lying, Draco thought, releasing her arms, watching her dark eyes widen and flicker almost imperceptibly. He was always so good at reading her. He thought perhaps that it was unfair that he knew so much about the girl, when she knew next to nothing about him.

He knew every nuance of her smile; how she held her left hand in mid-air when something struck her as funny. He knew the rhythm of her breath; had counted her heartbeat by the pulsing vein at the base of her throat. And he remembered every flush of her naked body - every dip and curve and shadowed corner. He remembered how much more sensitive her right breast was than her left; how the slightest touch on the back of her knees left her breathless with laughter. If he closed his eyes, he could picture the cluster of light brown freckles at the small of her back. He could picture the faint stain of color that washed her cheeks and chest when she came.

"Is this fair?" he whispered, smoothing his hand up to the edge of the blankets, his fingers resting on her nightgown-covered hipbone.

Her breath hitched. "Fair?"

His eyes roved over her pale face, bathed in the golden candlelight. "Am I using you?" he asked, more to himself than her.

"I don't know, Draco," she said softly, vaguely apprehensive. "Are you?"

It was the sound of her saying his name that did it; contrasting so much to the bite of 'Malfoy.' His proper name from her lips never failed to elicit a response, and he felt something loosen deep inside. Something basic and so easily satisfied.

Ginny gave a small squeak of surprise as Malfoy's arms wrapped swiftly around her waist, pulling her towards him, tangling her legs in the bed covers. And then he held her there, crossways on his lap, tenderly.

Tenderly? It was odd. It was beyond odd, and strangely... nice. "Malfoy," Ginny said, incredulous, "are you hugging me?"

"No," he whispered, tightening his hold on her, burying his face in her hair.

She held herself stiffly, confused. Malfoy was most definitely hugging her; she couldn't be mistaken about that. His arms were stilled and tight about her. His hands were buried in the soft folds of her nightgown.

She had imagined many things about Malfoy, about what went on in his devious and obviously lascivious mind. She'd imagined many things about his younger self, too. She'd half thought they each wanted to shag her, then compare notes. But hugging? "I think you are," Ginny said softly.

He sighed, his breath rustling her curls, and then shifted so he was leaning against her headboard, her body sprawled on top of his. "Stop thinking," he said.

When she made to pull her head back, wanting to look into his face, he moved his hand up to her nape, pressing her back down against him.

"Stop," he repeated.

Slowly, she allowed herself to relax, marveling at the warmth emanating from him, at how comfortable the planes of his chest felt against her cheek, and how his scent, sharp with cinnamon, drew deep inside her with every breath. It should have disturbed her; the immense feeling of rightness and contentment. Instead, it soothed her into a dreamless sleep.

When she woke in the morning, he was gone.

******

"This isn't going to turn out to be some sort of obscure Quidditch text, is it?" Hermione asked Ginny as they made their way down to breakfast. She wasn't at all sure she wanted to translate a book about Quidditch. She wasn't at all sure why Ginny would want her to translate a Quidditch book in the first place.

"What?"

Hermione steered Ginny into an alcove and pulled out the square, vellum book. "I spent hours on the map translation last night," she said, flipping through the pages. "And as far as I can tell it's of the Quidditch pitch."

"Hogwarts?" Ginny asked, her mind racing. Malfoy wouldn't come back to give Harry a Quidditch book, would he? And what would be so daunting and hush-hush about that?

"Yes. Although it does describe all the way down to the lake, so it's not strictly the pitch. But the diagram in the back?" She held up the book for Ginny to see, gesturing at the scale drawing of the gold orb, measurements and foreign words snaking off the black and white sketch. "Doesn't that look like a snitch? Some differences, of course, but basically... it's a snitch."

Ginny admitted that it did bear a resemblance. No wonder Malfoy had thought it was a Quidditch book that day on the train. She had her doubts, however, that it actually was. She shook her head. "I don't think it has anything to do with Quidditch, Hermione. Have you found out anything else about it?"

"Well," she said, a hint of excitement in her eyes, "I haven't figured out the other languages yet, but I did come across a few things. This map, for instance, was added last."

"How do you know?"

"Books always have a few blank pages at the front and back, but this map," she explained, tapping the parchment, "is directly at the beginning. And the diagram butts up right to the back cover. It almost looks as though whoever wrote it ran out of room at the back. And look at this," she took out her wand, tapped the page and said a short incantation. The printed words shimmered once, then faded into a looping, slanting scrawl.

"It's hand written," Ginny said, reaching out to run her fingers over the text, the ink slightly raised on the parchment.

Hermione nodded. "Yes, exactly," she said. "The whole thing is. I checked."

"What does that mean?" Ginny asked, her eyes still focused on the unfamiliar lettering.

"No idea. But there's one more thing." Hermione paged past the map, about a dozen pages in, and stopped at a dark red heading. "There's several of these," she said. "It almost looks like a date of sorts." Her voice was thoughtful. She shrugged lightly and moved out of the alcove. "I'll work on it more later," she said as they continued down to breakfast.

Ginny nodded, but her mind was focused on what Malfoy had told her the night before, that Hermione wouldn't be able to translate the text and that she should just give it over to Harry. But she couldn't. Something just didn't seem right. Something didn't fit, and she was determined to figure out what it was.

******

The Headmaster found it very hard to concentrate on the letters set out in front of him. They meant little, really, in the grand scheme of things. He heaved a sigh and closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. He felt old. He felt his age, finally, and bone tired.

Draco Malfoy had given him hope, yes, and he was immensely proud of the boy. But with him, with his tales of the future that he'd lived, he brought pain and sorrow and an ultimate resigned-ness that, in the end, what will be, will be.

He knew that one day he'd die. He held no illusions of immortality, nor would he want to live forever in his mortal frame. But despite Draco's silence on that one particular subject, the fact that he continually came back to him for guidance spoke volumes. There was no one for him in his own time. In three short years, Dumbledore surmised, he would be as dead as Harry, and as useless to the fight.

Perhaps it was that which caused him so much grief. The uselessness. The burden of already knowing now that the grave would hold him back from doing what little he could to help; help the cracked and splintered lives of the wizards and witches loyal to the light, and those, he thought with Draco in mind, who had realized too late that the dark took more from them than they had been willing to give.

A knock sounded on the door and Dumbledore blinked open his eyes to see Professor McGonagall peek her head into the dimly lit room.

"Albus?" she asked, worriedly, stepping further into the room. "Are you all right?"

He cleared his throat. "Yes, yes," he said. "I'm fine, Minerva."

"Why ever are you sitting in the dark?" She took out her wand and lit the wall sconces on either side of the door.

"Just being melancholy," he said on a sigh. "Must have the proper ambiance for depression, you know." He gave her a tired smile and wondered briefly what she would say if she knew; but it didn't matter. He would never tell her. He would rather forget everything himself.

He gestured to the slips of parchment in front of him, resting haphazardly on the desk. "More sightings of the Dark Lord in France, it seems; and one from Zaire."

McGonagall shook her head, her thin lips pressed together. "Just yesterday he was spotted in Bangladesh. Can we trust any of them?"

"I'm not sure it matters anymore, Minerva," he said softly, absently stroking his long, white beard. "I'm not sure it matters."