Bribery works
As does a swift kick to the rear, except in regards to things like All Their Sins (I know, I know. It's pathetic, isn't it?) Either way, the bribery reminded me that I had a chapter sitting on my computer, all nicely beta'd and everything, so why the hell hadn't I posted it yet? Also, much thanks to
serendipity_50 for the lovely new story icon; Moose has been moved off to greener pastures, and been replaced with relevant characters.
Title: Tangled Webs
Chapter: Twelve (In which there is dubious logic)
Series: Post-Hogwarts
Chapter Length: 5100 words
Betas: Jenn, who's still willing to beta despite it all.
Chapter Twelve
In which there is dubious logic
Wednesday, December 23, 1998
"It's following me again."
With a frown, Ginny marked her place in her book and looked up at him. "You're paranoid," she told him, just as she had every time before - and he brought it up every few hours. At first, she hadn't actually believed it, but there had been a few times now when Kreacher really had seemed to be following him around, lurking in a way that was quite disturbing. "So I get the joy of your company again, do I?" The elf made no secret of disliking her and her red hair, and made a great show of avoiding her. Which was just fine with Ginny, except that she seemed to have become Malfoy's favourite hiding spot as a result.
"Shut up and suffer," he told her tartly, throwing himself into a chair. He was restless, and understandably so: at Hogwarts he at least had the castle to roam, even if he couldn't go outside without supervision. Honestly, it was a miracle they'd managed to get away without the teachers noticing - and she wondered, not for the first time, if McGonagall hadn't deliberately let them get away. It was really the only explanation for how an Invisibility Cloak, even if it was Harry's Cloak, had been enough to sneak him out of the castle. Why McGonagall had let them go, Ginny didn't know, and couldn't begin to guess.
"Why don't you try reading something?" she suggested, waving her hand at the collection of books that lined the walls. This was why she was here, after all: the Black collection, which contained volumes that were in the Restricted Section - or not available at all - at Hogwarts.
He shrugged easily. "Can't be bothered." Then he shoved himself out of the chair and came to lean over her. "What are you reading, anyway?" He flipped the book closed without waiting for an answer. Then his hand went very still. "Farw Chrau? Fuck!" He recoiled as though the aged leather had burned him. "Do you know what that is?" he hissed.
"I'm the one reading it," Ginny pointed out reasonably. "But how do you know about it?"
He waved one hand, impatiently. "That's not important. I thought you came here to study Healing."
"That's what I'm doing."
He seemed to have recovered from his shock, and was edging back towards her, although he kept a wary eye on the book, as though it were the Monster Book of Monsters, and about to attack him at any moment. "That's the Dark Arts. They aren't really the same thing, you know."
"Do you know how many books there are on curing Dark diseases of the blood?" Ginny asked him. "Or if the blood is cursed by the Dark Arts... do you know how many books have been written on how to help those people?" She met his gaze. "Eight. In the entire history of wizard-kind, only eight flaming books have been written on curing maladies of the blood. Five of those," she added dryly, "were written more than a thousand years ago."
"So you're studying the Dark Arts?" He settled himself in the chair next to her, and looked at her with utter seriousness. He's never this serious, she thought, and she felt something akin to a sliver of fear. There was always a small part of him that was sneering at something, or making a joke out of things, as though he was constantly running from reality - but also as though reality wasn't so terrible that it had to be faced head-on.
Unable to meet his eyes anymore, she looked down at the small book. "It's the same for souls, you know. The only people who know anything about them are the ones who are trying to destroy them. But..." She faltered. It had made so much sense, lying in the dark all those nights, thinking about Harry and George. And Tom... Tom had never been far from her thoughts, not with Voldemort out there somewhere, and not in the days since. "I thought, Deadly Nightshade... it's a poison, but it's used in antidotes as well. And I thought, maybe, there'd be something to that. Something that could be turned to light." She risked a glance at him. His gaze rested, unwavering, on where her hands covered the book, and his expression was curiously empty.
"Evil contains the seeds of its own downfall," he murmured. "It's possible." With a soft touch, he turned her face towards his, holding her there so their gazes locked. "Or as another man once put it, there is no good and evil: only power, and those too weak to seek it." He released his light hold, but she found herself unable to look away, and more shaken than she had been in a long time. "Yes, I thought you might recognize that one. It was one of his favourites." He turned away, and Ginny saw that he was pale, and his breathing was as uneven as her own.
After a long moment, she said quietly, "You think I'm wrong, then."
There was another silence, that went on until she thought he wasn't going to answer. "No," he said at last. "I don't. That's the problem." His smile was self-deprecating when he glanced at her through his veil of hair. "We all know I'm not exactly one to talk about morality."
"Maybe," Ginny said slowly. "But what Dumbledore did... a lot of that wasn't very moral, either. But maybe it was still right."
"Maybe." Then he sighed and shook his head slightly, and when he looked back at her again, his familiar smirk was firmly back in place. "You are right about one thing. There's an awful lot of Dart Arts books about blood and souls. Sangremancy and almancy, if you want the proper names." And wasn't he always just such an awful prick about it when he knew something she didn't, she thought, sticking her tongue out at him. "Hey, none of that now."
Reaching behind her, she selected a book at random from the shelf and threw it at him. "Go play with the house elf," she told him.
He caught the book easily. "Anecdotes of the Great Accountants, Volume 3? I think I'll hide from the creature a little longer - it looks like I'm in for a fascinating read."
-----
"It's quiet, without Ginny here," Ron said as he dropped down on the couch next to her. Hermione just looked at him. "Well, alright, maybe it helps that there's no one else here, either."
He really was dense sometimes, she thought resignedly. Having no one else around, and no classes, should have meant they had more time to spend with each other. She wasn't even asking for romantic evenings or grand gestures - only the occasional quiet chat by the fire, just the two of them, or maybe a game of chess. Just time with her boyfriend, without having to worry about Harry, or Ginny, or anyone else at all.
She didn't say any of that, though. Instead she said, "I got an owl from Neville, yesterday."
"What's he think he's doing, writing to you?" Ron asked suspiciously. If nothing else, Hermione thought dryly, she'd always have Ron's jealousy to let her know he cared.
"He didn't think either of you two lunkheads would reply," she told him tartly. "He wanted to know how we were getting on with school, and said he might drop by some time to say hello."
"Oh," Ron said, mollified. "I suppose that's alright, then. Doing well, is he?" Now that there was no suspicion that Neville was trying to poach his girlfriend - and where did he get the idea that was even possible, anyway? - Ron responded to the news with amiable indifference. It was just so typical of him, although at some point she'd probably stop finding it endearing.
"He says his gran let him build a greenhouse, and he just loves it."
"That's nice," Ron mumbled sleepily, lying down on the couch and putting his head in her lap - without asking, but it was nice that he was so comfortable with her now, despite the initial awkwardness of their relationship. "Wake me for dinner, right?"
"Of course," she murmured, smoothing his hair back. Sometimes he reminded her of Crookshanks: a pat on the head and regular meals was all it took to keep him happy. Of course, there were some things he was much better suited for than Crookshanks was. The thought made her blush.
Watching his peaceful face as he dozed, Hermione regretted lying to him once again, even if it had only been a lie of omission. Neville's wasn't the only owl she had received: there had also been one from Seamus. He'd written to say that he'd run into Ginny in Diagon Alley, and that she'd said it was alright if he wanted to pop by for a visit some time. He was back in Ireland right now, the letter had continued, but he'd be around just before New Years - did she think that might be an alright time for him to stop by the Burrow? Implicit in the message had been the sentiment 'you're a girl... help me out, would you?'
Seamus's interest in Ginny was unexpected, but not entirely out of character for him: he'd always had a certain affinity for fire, even if it tended to blow up in his face. Hermione rather thought that description apt for the little firebrand Ginny had become recently. But Seamus and Ginny were friends, so even if things didn't work out for them - and they wouldn't, Hermione was convinced, because Harry and Ginny belonged together - there wasn't any harm in them seeing each other. It might even be good for Ginny.
So she'd written back, and told him that Ginny was spending the holidays studying at Grimmauld Place, and told him how to get there. She'd added that Ginny would probably be lonely, after all that time on her own, just in case he needed that extra push to go visit her.
She'd tell Ron about it soon, too, she decided. That way it wasn't lying - she was just putting off telling him for a little while. Her conscience thus eased, Hermione settled down to enjoying some peaceful time with her boyfriend.
-----
"Scorpius," she carolled, drawing the name out. With a roll of his eyes, Draco lowered his book and looked up at her. Weasley was grinning at him, mischief glowing around her like a halo.
"I told you not to call me that."
"But it fits so well," she retorted. "Slimy little crawler that you are."
He rolled his eyes again, but didn't reach for his wand. He enjoyed squabbling with her, but wands were really unnecessary when there was no one around that would question their enmity if blood wasn't drawn. All he had to do was be an arse, and his part in the hostilities was taken care of, so the holidays could progress in a peaceful and cordially hate-filled fashion. "What do you want, Weasley?"
"I was going to make supper. Did you want some, or is your worshipper going to cook for you again?" Little weasel that she was, she knew that creepy house elf bothered him, and took every opportunity to rub his face in it.
"You know I don't trust anything that thing cooks."
She dropped onto the couch next to him. "Something happen?" she asked, curious. "You're not your usual, arse-hole self."
"I've been enjoying my book," he said, with great dignity. "I'd appreciate it if you'd stop ruining it for me."
She pulled the book up to glance at the cover. "The accountants one? Really?" Draco was a bit gratified to see her look so astonished.
"I won't bother trying to explain it to you. Obviously, a Weasley wouldn't have enough experience with money to understand the intricacies involved when there are large sums in question."
She glared at him but, as he had earlier, refrained from reaching for her wand. "Bastard. For that, I'll let you eat the house elf's cooking." She turned and sauntered out of the library.
"I've got a really good comeback coming, just you wait," he called after her. That should make her laugh enough to forgive me, he thought. He'd never say he was sorry, but beyond that he'd do his best to stay in her good graces, at least for so long as the choice was between her cooking and the creature's mystery concoctions.
-----
Ginny enjoyed cooking. There was a subtle art to it, one she had been trained in from a very young age. You can't cook when you're angry, her mother had always said, it'll make the food taste bad. That was true, but it went beyond that: when she cooked, Ginny entered a state that was almost meditative. Part of her was there, enjoying the tranquility of the kitchen, even when her hands were a blur of motion as she sliced vegetables. Another part of her was somewhere else, floating, and completely detached. She could consider things, which might otherwise upset her, in a rationale way.
Take, for instance, the last few days. Almost a week, really - it was their fifth day at Grimmauld Place. And in that time, she had not drawn her wand on him once. She hadn't even been tempted to. Oh, he had frustrated her no end, but it had always ended with one of them walking away with a sigh or a roll of their eyes. No nasty transfigurations or charms, no potions slipped into food. The holidays had been peaceful.
Too peaceful, really. Five days of living with her enemy, and not a drop of blood drawn. It was... not how things should be, she thought. That was the rationale part of her. The irrational part, the one that worked on feeling and senses and straight-up guess work, felt that this was how things should be. She was - and it surprised her to realize it - content to be here.
Some foolish girls, at this point, would have decided that maybe they had been mistaken in their enmity. They might start to delude themselves, thinking that they had never really hated him at all, or even that they had loved him, deep down, all these years. But that was patent foolishness. Ginny was well aware that she hated him, and that he was her enemy, and that things stood between them much as they always had, and ever would. The difference, though, was that, unlike those foolish girls, her hatred was not a petty anger born of frustration at his arrogance, or jealousy of his talents, or misguided sexual frustration. No, this hatred, the hatred that Ginny shared with Malfoy, was pure and absolute.
Anyone who understands true love - that is to say, those few fictional characters who experience it and then live happily ever after - will tell you that it is all you need. There need be no declarations of undying devotion (although those are nice), or romantic kisses (which might be even nicer), or perfect, passionate sex (which is actually somewhat taboo for True Love in this incarnation, although some circles would disagree). Thus was True Hate, Ginny reasoned. It was a perfect, crystal-clear understanding of each other and their mutual hatred, and all else was frippery. She did not need to hex him (fun though it was), and he did not need to insult her (despite his undeniable talent for being imaginative about it). They certainly didn't need to destroy half a corridor with Blasting Curses. All those things were optional: what was true, and immutable, was the hatred that needed no expression.
They could even, Ginny further reasoned, be perfectly civil to each other without abandoning hostilities. In fact, she'd heard it said that if you loved someone, you were bound to fight with them - therefore, if you hated someone, you must be bound to get along with them occasionally. As long as they knew that they truly hated each other, everything would be alright.
In the peaceful, detached place that Ginny inhabited as the onions browned in the skillet, all this made perfect sense. The nagging doubts that had been assailing her over the past few days - that this was Malfoy she was spending her holiday with, and in a perfectly pleasant fashion - were eased by this calm rationalization which assured her that the world had not, in fact, flipped upside-down on its axis. Really, it all made perfect sense.
-----
"Christmas knickers."
It was one of those moments that always made Hermione wish she had a camera: Ron's pumpkin juice sprayed across the table, splattering the boy who had been foolish enough to broach the subject. Not that Ron objected to festive knickers - just what Harry had mentioned them in relation to.
"You can fuck a frog if you think I'm going to let you talk about my sister like that," he growled, reaching across the table to lift his until-now best friend by the front of his robes.
Harry fixed him with a flat, green-eyed stare. "She's my girlfriend."
"She bloody-well doesn't seem to think so. And if you're spouting shite like that, you worm-eating little gargoyle, no wonder." Ron had a way with words sometimes, Hermione thought. It was a pity he was never poetic when he was talking to her. Not that she wanted to be called a gargoyle, mind, but it would be nice if he could occasionally come up with something more imaginative than 'you're really pretty.'
"Ron. Harry. Enough," she ordered them. They traded a last glare, which seemed to say, 'I'm not a pansy, I'm just choosing to let you live, for now' and then, machismo suitably appeased, sat and looked mutinous. Really, this is ridiculous. They had been cooped up in the castle too long, to Hermione's way of thinking. A bit of time outside, something to take their minds off, a rest-cure - if she could be excused the old-lady phrase - was what they needed. It would soothe their tempers and give them something to do besides look for 'that rat Malfoy' who seemed to be missing (but had probably just gone home, anyway).
"I'll acknowledge that Harry has a point," Hermione said, once she was sure they weren't about to jump up and start beating each other out of shear frustrated boredom. She held up a hand to forestall Ron's anger and Harry's self-satisfaction. "But only as far as saying that it's too bad Ginny is spending Christmas alone. I think it would be nice if we all went to visit her tomorrow. I'm sure we could get McGonagall to agree."
"No Christmas knickers," Ron said warningly, by way of agreement.
Hermione sighed. "Even if she was wearing some, Ron - which I doubt, by the way," she added hastily, to calm him, "it would be far too cold at Grimmauld Place for her to even think of showing them to someone. The heat never worked very well, remember?"
-----
"I packed all those jumpers, and it turns out that I don't need them," Weasley was saying. A part of Draco was glad that she wasn't talking about her research over supper - the Dark Arts weren't exactly an appropriate topic for supper-table conversation - but really, did she have to talk about those hideous things, which made her looks like a dyed sheep, instead? It was nearly as nauseating as blood bonding (not that Draco was squeamish, he just didn't like hearing about it). "What on earth did you say to Kreacher to get him to fix it?"
"Something along the lines of 'it's bloody cold in here,'" Draco said, with a superior smirk that was just the littlest bit forced. It was painfully obvious that Weasley had grown up poor: she didn't understand house elves at all. For his part, Draco wished that the dratted thing would leave him alone, so he wouldn't even have to talk about it. It was creepy.
"Well, it's much better now." She'd never say 'thank you', not that Draco was expecting her to. Hearing those words from her would be as much a shock as if the Dark Lord had one day burst into song. It simply wasn't going to happen.
"I'm glad you're happy," Draco grumbled. "It's getting worse."
She frowned at him. "You're not still on about that, are you?"
"It was going through my things today." It had been, too: sniffing around and muttering to itself with a look that was disturbingly close to ecstasy painted on its grotesque mug. Just because Weasley didn't understand the severity of the situation was no reason for her to poke fun at it.
"Well, order it to stop," she said with a roll of her eyes, like this was an obvious solution, so would he stop bothering her about it, already?
Draco scowled slightly, then a bit further when he realized his glares had no effect on her anymore. "It doesn't work like that. I'm not its master, so it's only obeying my orders because it wants to. If I give it an order like that, it'll probably make a fuss and actually steal something."
"Worried it might want your pants, Malfoy?" She really was evil, Draco thought, even as he blanched at what she suggested. Aside from the fact that no sane house elf (not that this one really qualified) would want clothes, that was just disturbing.
"Right, give me back my wand. I'm hexing the little wanker into a pile of vomit."
"Not happening, Malfoy," Weasley retorted, holding up her own wand in a way that clearly said 'just try and take it.' "You gave it to me precisely so you wouldn't do something like that. Be a bit of a downer if they traced you here and carted you off to Azkaban."
Of course. That bloody spell they'd put on his wand as part of his probation, which they could use to track him down if they thought he'd broken his parole. Giving her his wand so he wouldn't use it unthinkingly had seemed like a good plan at the time, and it was true he hadn't had need of it over the past few days, but now the situation was different. "Maybe I don't care," he snapped, making a half-hearted lunge for the wand, and falling predictably short when she snatched it away.
"You'd go to Azkaban over a house elf? Why, Malfoy, you're slipping - it's almost as if you think they're worth as much as a human."
Draco dropped back into the chair next to her with a sigh. "One of these days, Weasley, I'm going to wring your bloody neck while you sleep," he said tiredly, covering his face with his hands. Between his fingers, he could see her looking down at her own hands with a strange expression, as though remembering a time when she had attempted to do what he described. Oh right - the roosters. He remembered hearing about those - she'd absolutely decimated the school's chicken flock, and that giant oaf Hagrid had been devastated.
This happened, now and again: he would say something, unthinkingly, and she would get an odd look on her face, as though remembering something. Sometimes, he could puzzle out what it was she was remembering - the Battle of Hogwarts, perhaps, or Umbridge's reign of terror - but only when it was something he himself had been involved in. In many things, she remained a closed book. Not that it matters, anyway, he told himself firmly.
"Who would defend you from Kreacher then?" she asked teasingly, her relaxed composure returning as quickly and suddenly as it had disappeared.
He shrugged. "I'd be going to Azkaban, anyway. I'd get rid of it too."
"Sometimes it's hard to tell when you're joking," she said with a half laugh that implied she was pretty sure he was this time, but was a bit worried he might not be.
"Malfoys never joke," he told her, peering down his nose at her with all the haughty disdain at his disposal.
She had the gall to snicker. "Pull that wand out of your arse, Malfoy. No one takes you seriously." That was uncalled for, that was, and he told her as much while he upended the salad bowl over her head.
-----
The man looked up from his book. "Caractacus. Of all the people I didn't expect to come wandering into my study. You were acquitted, then."
Caractacus's smile was slightly bitter. "They said I was mad."
Xenophilius's eyebrows lifted. "Indeed? Does that have anything to do with why you're here to see me?" he guessed shrewdly.
"I've finished it."
This announcement didn't engender the reaction Caractacus had been hoping for. "Have you? As I recall, you once thought you'd solved the Mascian Field, before it turned out that what you thought was a node was actually tomato sauce."
"I've triple-checked all the figures," Caractacus said in annoyance. "The Red will rise. We may even live to see it."
"I don't see what you're so excited about. I had quite enough trouble with the last Dark Lord," Xenophilius said, testily. Well, fair enough. The Death Eaters had used his daughter as a hostage, after all.
"If you think that's all there is to it, you've never listened to a word I've said. The Rising of the Red will be glorious."
-----
Ginny awoke suddenly, snatching her wand up from the bedside table with the desperate reflexes of someone who has lived in fear for too long. Half out of bed, with her wand gripped firmly, she froze and listened for what had awoken her. It seemed for a moment that she had imagined it, or that her hearing was not as good when she was consciously trying to listen, but then it came again - the soft tread of a foot as someone picked their way across the creaky floor, trying not to make a sound. Ginny aimed her wand at the door.
Then there was a creak, and then footsteps were pounding across the floorboards. Closer they came, closer, then her door was thrown open with a bang. A jinx flew from Ginny's wand, missing the target and instead ripping a chunk of moulding from the ceiling - Ginny would later realize it had been a disarming spell, fired instinctively before she could properly register what was happening. The intruder slammed the door behind themselves, and said, between gasping breaths, "Fucking Merlin in a fairy ring, Weasley, what was that for?"
"Hecate's back hole, Malfoy, what the hell did you think you were doing, sneaking around like that?" Ginny snapped. "I thought you were..." She snapped her mouth shut. She had been about to say 'a Death Eater', except of course he was.
He didn't answer for a moment, and she was about to blast him one on principle, before she realized he was snickering quietly. "Sweet Circe, Weasley, but you've got a dirty mouth on you."
"Fat lot of help you are," Ginny retorted. "It's all your bad influence, anyway."
She heard him sigh melodramatically, and his shadowy form made its way towards her. "Don't blame your bad habits on me, Weasley. They're all your own. Can you get some light, anyway?" he added waspishly.
"Lumos," Ginny murmured. The soft light that came from her wand cast shadows across his face, so that he seemed to be a painting, done in stark blacks and whites. He was shirtless and barefoot, and his fine hair stuck up this way and that, so that he resembled a dandelion. His arms were in shadow, but the Mark was a darker smear on his forearm. She'd seen him in many different situations over the past few months - when he was drunk and injured, laughing and haunted - but this was the first time he had looked so startlingly, fragilely human. "Are you going to tell me what's going on?" she asked quietly. She didn't want to see this side of him - it inexplicably terrified her - but she couldn't look away.
He sat on the edge of the bed next to her, and Ginny could at last look away. She stared determinedly into the shadowy corner of the room, refusing to look at the man who was her enemy for fear that she would be forced to see him as he was under all that arrogance and posturing. "It snuck into my room. I got up to use the loo, and when I came back..." He shifted slightly, and she could feel barely-suppressed embarrassment rolling off him like a wave.
"So you're hiding behind me again, are you? Coward." She didn't need to look to see his flinch. That word had always been like a slap in the face to him - worse, in fact, because it stripped away his facade in ways a blow never could. If she hadn't been so tired and cross, she would never have used it.
"I see," he said quietly, and stood. Oh, shite, Ginny thought.
"Draco." Even without looking, she knew he paused. And wouldn't I, if he used my name?
"Yes?" His voice was flat and empty, and she was sure that if she'd looked, his face would have been equally devoid of emotion. Perhaps she was misjudging, but that emptiness spoke to Ginny of caution: he was waiting to see what she would say. Worse, he was being serious, and for the second time that day. Combined with that human face he had shown her just a minute ago, it was extremely unsettling.
What had she wanted to say, anyway? She couldn't apologize to him anymore than he could to her. And did it really matter, if he stomped off in a snit? But it does. "If you try anything, I'll nail your balls to the Whomping Willow. Stupid bastard," she added.
There was a pause, and then his quiet footfalls made their way back to the bed. He was silent as he slid between the sheets next to her, careful to leave as much space between them as possible. I need to get my head examined, Ginny thought in resignation. I'm not even drunk this time.
Notes and References:
*Evil contains the seeds of its own downfall: 'Good Omens' (Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman), I think. But I might be wrong.
*Farw Chrau: according to the online translator, Welsh for 'Dead Blood'. But, interestingly, it could be translated as any combination of 'dead', 'die', 'death', 'defunct' (etc) and 'hole', 'eye', 'blood' or 'stockade'.
*Almancy and sangremancy: as noted before, I made these up. 'Al' - coming from 'alma' (Spanish, soul) since 'almamancy sounds silly - and 'sangre' (Spanish, blood). I could have use Latin, getting 'animancy' and 'cruormancy' (or 'cruomancy'), I suppose, and been more in keeping with the original flavour of Harry Potter, but I liked the Spanish better.
*Anecdotes of the Great Accountants (Vol. 3): 'Night Watch' by Terry Pratchett.
*'True Love': Disney Princesses and Mary Sues. Enough said.
*Old-lady phrases: Lacy from 'Corner Gas' (can't remember which episode).
serendipity_50 for the lovely new story icon; Moose has been moved off to greener pastures, and been replaced with relevant characters.
Title: Tangled Webs
Chapter: Twelve (In which there is dubious logic)
Series: Post-Hogwarts
Chapter Length: 5100 words
Betas: Jenn, who's still willing to beta despite it all.
Chapter Twelve
In which there is dubious logic
Wednesday, December 23, 1998
"It's following me again."
With a frown, Ginny marked her place in her book and looked up at him. "You're paranoid," she told him, just as she had every time before - and he brought it up every few hours. At first, she hadn't actually believed it, but there had been a few times now when Kreacher really had seemed to be following him around, lurking in a way that was quite disturbing. "So I get the joy of your company again, do I?" The elf made no secret of disliking her and her red hair, and made a great show of avoiding her. Which was just fine with Ginny, except that she seemed to have become Malfoy's favourite hiding spot as a result.
"Shut up and suffer," he told her tartly, throwing himself into a chair. He was restless, and understandably so: at Hogwarts he at least had the castle to roam, even if he couldn't go outside without supervision. Honestly, it was a miracle they'd managed to get away without the teachers noticing - and she wondered, not for the first time, if McGonagall hadn't deliberately let them get away. It was really the only explanation for how an Invisibility Cloak, even if it was Harry's Cloak, had been enough to sneak him out of the castle. Why McGonagall had let them go, Ginny didn't know, and couldn't begin to guess.
"Why don't you try reading something?" she suggested, waving her hand at the collection of books that lined the walls. This was why she was here, after all: the Black collection, which contained volumes that were in the Restricted Section - or not available at all - at Hogwarts.
He shrugged easily. "Can't be bothered." Then he shoved himself out of the chair and came to lean over her. "What are you reading, anyway?" He flipped the book closed without waiting for an answer. Then his hand went very still. "Farw Chrau? Fuck!" He recoiled as though the aged leather had burned him. "Do you know what that is?" he hissed.
"I'm the one reading it," Ginny pointed out reasonably. "But how do you know about it?"
He waved one hand, impatiently. "That's not important. I thought you came here to study Healing."
"That's what I'm doing."
He seemed to have recovered from his shock, and was edging back towards her, although he kept a wary eye on the book, as though it were the Monster Book of Monsters, and about to attack him at any moment. "That's the Dark Arts. They aren't really the same thing, you know."
"Do you know how many books there are on curing Dark diseases of the blood?" Ginny asked him. "Or if the blood is cursed by the Dark Arts... do you know how many books have been written on how to help those people?" She met his gaze. "Eight. In the entire history of wizard-kind, only eight flaming books have been written on curing maladies of the blood. Five of those," she added dryly, "were written more than a thousand years ago."
"So you're studying the Dark Arts?" He settled himself in the chair next to her, and looked at her with utter seriousness. He's never this serious, she thought, and she felt something akin to a sliver of fear. There was always a small part of him that was sneering at something, or making a joke out of things, as though he was constantly running from reality - but also as though reality wasn't so terrible that it had to be faced head-on.
Unable to meet his eyes anymore, she looked down at the small book. "It's the same for souls, you know. The only people who know anything about them are the ones who are trying to destroy them. But..." She faltered. It had made so much sense, lying in the dark all those nights, thinking about Harry and George. And Tom... Tom had never been far from her thoughts, not with Voldemort out there somewhere, and not in the days since. "I thought, Deadly Nightshade... it's a poison, but it's used in antidotes as well. And I thought, maybe, there'd be something to that. Something that could be turned to light." She risked a glance at him. His gaze rested, unwavering, on where her hands covered the book, and his expression was curiously empty.
"Evil contains the seeds of its own downfall," he murmured. "It's possible." With a soft touch, he turned her face towards his, holding her there so their gazes locked. "Or as another man once put it, there is no good and evil: only power, and those too weak to seek it." He released his light hold, but she found herself unable to look away, and more shaken than she had been in a long time. "Yes, I thought you might recognize that one. It was one of his favourites." He turned away, and Ginny saw that he was pale, and his breathing was as uneven as her own.
After a long moment, she said quietly, "You think I'm wrong, then."
There was another silence, that went on until she thought he wasn't going to answer. "No," he said at last. "I don't. That's the problem." His smile was self-deprecating when he glanced at her through his veil of hair. "We all know I'm not exactly one to talk about morality."
"Maybe," Ginny said slowly. "But what Dumbledore did... a lot of that wasn't very moral, either. But maybe it was still right."
"Maybe." Then he sighed and shook his head slightly, and when he looked back at her again, his familiar smirk was firmly back in place. "You are right about one thing. There's an awful lot of Dart Arts books about blood and souls. Sangremancy and almancy, if you want the proper names." And wasn't he always just such an awful prick about it when he knew something she didn't, she thought, sticking her tongue out at him. "Hey, none of that now."
Reaching behind her, she selected a book at random from the shelf and threw it at him. "Go play with the house elf," she told him.
He caught the book easily. "Anecdotes of the Great Accountants, Volume 3? I think I'll hide from the creature a little longer - it looks like I'm in for a fascinating read."
-----
"It's quiet, without Ginny here," Ron said as he dropped down on the couch next to her. Hermione just looked at him. "Well, alright, maybe it helps that there's no one else here, either."
He really was dense sometimes, she thought resignedly. Having no one else around, and no classes, should have meant they had more time to spend with each other. She wasn't even asking for romantic evenings or grand gestures - only the occasional quiet chat by the fire, just the two of them, or maybe a game of chess. Just time with her boyfriend, without having to worry about Harry, or Ginny, or anyone else at all.
She didn't say any of that, though. Instead she said, "I got an owl from Neville, yesterday."
"What's he think he's doing, writing to you?" Ron asked suspiciously. If nothing else, Hermione thought dryly, she'd always have Ron's jealousy to let her know he cared.
"He didn't think either of you two lunkheads would reply," she told him tartly. "He wanted to know how we were getting on with school, and said he might drop by some time to say hello."
"Oh," Ron said, mollified. "I suppose that's alright, then. Doing well, is he?" Now that there was no suspicion that Neville was trying to poach his girlfriend - and where did he get the idea that was even possible, anyway? - Ron responded to the news with amiable indifference. It was just so typical of him, although at some point she'd probably stop finding it endearing.
"He says his gran let him build a greenhouse, and he just loves it."
"That's nice," Ron mumbled sleepily, lying down on the couch and putting his head in her lap - without asking, but it was nice that he was so comfortable with her now, despite the initial awkwardness of their relationship. "Wake me for dinner, right?"
"Of course," she murmured, smoothing his hair back. Sometimes he reminded her of Crookshanks: a pat on the head and regular meals was all it took to keep him happy. Of course, there were some things he was much better suited for than Crookshanks was. The thought made her blush.
Watching his peaceful face as he dozed, Hermione regretted lying to him once again, even if it had only been a lie of omission. Neville's wasn't the only owl she had received: there had also been one from Seamus. He'd written to say that he'd run into Ginny in Diagon Alley, and that she'd said it was alright if he wanted to pop by for a visit some time. He was back in Ireland right now, the letter had continued, but he'd be around just before New Years - did she think that might be an alright time for him to stop by the Burrow? Implicit in the message had been the sentiment 'you're a girl... help me out, would you?'
Seamus's interest in Ginny was unexpected, but not entirely out of character for him: he'd always had a certain affinity for fire, even if it tended to blow up in his face. Hermione rather thought that description apt for the little firebrand Ginny had become recently. But Seamus and Ginny were friends, so even if things didn't work out for them - and they wouldn't, Hermione was convinced, because Harry and Ginny belonged together - there wasn't any harm in them seeing each other. It might even be good for Ginny.
So she'd written back, and told him that Ginny was spending the holidays studying at Grimmauld Place, and told him how to get there. She'd added that Ginny would probably be lonely, after all that time on her own, just in case he needed that extra push to go visit her.
She'd tell Ron about it soon, too, she decided. That way it wasn't lying - she was just putting off telling him for a little while. Her conscience thus eased, Hermione settled down to enjoying some peaceful time with her boyfriend.
-----
"Scorpius," she carolled, drawing the name out. With a roll of his eyes, Draco lowered his book and looked up at her. Weasley was grinning at him, mischief glowing around her like a halo.
"I told you not to call me that."
"But it fits so well," she retorted. "Slimy little crawler that you are."
He rolled his eyes again, but didn't reach for his wand. He enjoyed squabbling with her, but wands were really unnecessary when there was no one around that would question their enmity if blood wasn't drawn. All he had to do was be an arse, and his part in the hostilities was taken care of, so the holidays could progress in a peaceful and cordially hate-filled fashion. "What do you want, Weasley?"
"I was going to make supper. Did you want some, or is your worshipper going to cook for you again?" Little weasel that she was, she knew that creepy house elf bothered him, and took every opportunity to rub his face in it.
"You know I don't trust anything that thing cooks."
She dropped onto the couch next to him. "Something happen?" she asked, curious. "You're not your usual, arse-hole self."
"I've been enjoying my book," he said, with great dignity. "I'd appreciate it if you'd stop ruining it for me."
She pulled the book up to glance at the cover. "The accountants one? Really?" Draco was a bit gratified to see her look so astonished.
"I won't bother trying to explain it to you. Obviously, a Weasley wouldn't have enough experience with money to understand the intricacies involved when there are large sums in question."
She glared at him but, as he had earlier, refrained from reaching for her wand. "Bastard. For that, I'll let you eat the house elf's cooking." She turned and sauntered out of the library.
"I've got a really good comeback coming, just you wait," he called after her. That should make her laugh enough to forgive me, he thought. He'd never say he was sorry, but beyond that he'd do his best to stay in her good graces, at least for so long as the choice was between her cooking and the creature's mystery concoctions.
-----
Ginny enjoyed cooking. There was a subtle art to it, one she had been trained in from a very young age. You can't cook when you're angry, her mother had always said, it'll make the food taste bad. That was true, but it went beyond that: when she cooked, Ginny entered a state that was almost meditative. Part of her was there, enjoying the tranquility of the kitchen, even when her hands were a blur of motion as she sliced vegetables. Another part of her was somewhere else, floating, and completely detached. She could consider things, which might otherwise upset her, in a rationale way.
Take, for instance, the last few days. Almost a week, really - it was their fifth day at Grimmauld Place. And in that time, she had not drawn her wand on him once. She hadn't even been tempted to. Oh, he had frustrated her no end, but it had always ended with one of them walking away with a sigh or a roll of their eyes. No nasty transfigurations or charms, no potions slipped into food. The holidays had been peaceful.
Too peaceful, really. Five days of living with her enemy, and not a drop of blood drawn. It was... not how things should be, she thought. That was the rationale part of her. The irrational part, the one that worked on feeling and senses and straight-up guess work, felt that this was how things should be. She was - and it surprised her to realize it - content to be here.
Some foolish girls, at this point, would have decided that maybe they had been mistaken in their enmity. They might start to delude themselves, thinking that they had never really hated him at all, or even that they had loved him, deep down, all these years. But that was patent foolishness. Ginny was well aware that she hated him, and that he was her enemy, and that things stood between them much as they always had, and ever would. The difference, though, was that, unlike those foolish girls, her hatred was not a petty anger born of frustration at his arrogance, or jealousy of his talents, or misguided sexual frustration. No, this hatred, the hatred that Ginny shared with Malfoy, was pure and absolute.
Anyone who understands true love - that is to say, those few fictional characters who experience it and then live happily ever after - will tell you that it is all you need. There need be no declarations of undying devotion (although those are nice), or romantic kisses (which might be even nicer), or perfect, passionate sex (which is actually somewhat taboo for True Love in this incarnation, although some circles would disagree). Thus was True Hate, Ginny reasoned. It was a perfect, crystal-clear understanding of each other and their mutual hatred, and all else was frippery. She did not need to hex him (fun though it was), and he did not need to insult her (despite his undeniable talent for being imaginative about it). They certainly didn't need to destroy half a corridor with Blasting Curses. All those things were optional: what was true, and immutable, was the hatred that needed no expression.
They could even, Ginny further reasoned, be perfectly civil to each other without abandoning hostilities. In fact, she'd heard it said that if you loved someone, you were bound to fight with them - therefore, if you hated someone, you must be bound to get along with them occasionally. As long as they knew that they truly hated each other, everything would be alright.
In the peaceful, detached place that Ginny inhabited as the onions browned in the skillet, all this made perfect sense. The nagging doubts that had been assailing her over the past few days - that this was Malfoy she was spending her holiday with, and in a perfectly pleasant fashion - were eased by this calm rationalization which assured her that the world had not, in fact, flipped upside-down on its axis. Really, it all made perfect sense.
-----
"Christmas knickers."
It was one of those moments that always made Hermione wish she had a camera: Ron's pumpkin juice sprayed across the table, splattering the boy who had been foolish enough to broach the subject. Not that Ron objected to festive knickers - just what Harry had mentioned them in relation to.
"You can fuck a frog if you think I'm going to let you talk about my sister like that," he growled, reaching across the table to lift his until-now best friend by the front of his robes.
Harry fixed him with a flat, green-eyed stare. "She's my girlfriend."
"She bloody-well doesn't seem to think so. And if you're spouting shite like that, you worm-eating little gargoyle, no wonder." Ron had a way with words sometimes, Hermione thought. It was a pity he was never poetic when he was talking to her. Not that she wanted to be called a gargoyle, mind, but it would be nice if he could occasionally come up with something more imaginative than 'you're really pretty.'
"Ron. Harry. Enough," she ordered them. They traded a last glare, which seemed to say, 'I'm not a pansy, I'm just choosing to let you live, for now' and then, machismo suitably appeased, sat and looked mutinous. Really, this is ridiculous. They had been cooped up in the castle too long, to Hermione's way of thinking. A bit of time outside, something to take their minds off, a rest-cure - if she could be excused the old-lady phrase - was what they needed. It would soothe their tempers and give them something to do besides look for 'that rat Malfoy' who seemed to be missing (but had probably just gone home, anyway).
"I'll acknowledge that Harry has a point," Hermione said, once she was sure they weren't about to jump up and start beating each other out of shear frustrated boredom. She held up a hand to forestall Ron's anger and Harry's self-satisfaction. "But only as far as saying that it's too bad Ginny is spending Christmas alone. I think it would be nice if we all went to visit her tomorrow. I'm sure we could get McGonagall to agree."
"No Christmas knickers," Ron said warningly, by way of agreement.
Hermione sighed. "Even if she was wearing some, Ron - which I doubt, by the way," she added hastily, to calm him, "it would be far too cold at Grimmauld Place for her to even think of showing them to someone. The heat never worked very well, remember?"
-----
"I packed all those jumpers, and it turns out that I don't need them," Weasley was saying. A part of Draco was glad that she wasn't talking about her research over supper - the Dark Arts weren't exactly an appropriate topic for supper-table conversation - but really, did she have to talk about those hideous things, which made her looks like a dyed sheep, instead? It was nearly as nauseating as blood bonding (not that Draco was squeamish, he just didn't like hearing about it). "What on earth did you say to Kreacher to get him to fix it?"
"Something along the lines of 'it's bloody cold in here,'" Draco said, with a superior smirk that was just the littlest bit forced. It was painfully obvious that Weasley had grown up poor: she didn't understand house elves at all. For his part, Draco wished that the dratted thing would leave him alone, so he wouldn't even have to talk about it. It was creepy.
"Well, it's much better now." She'd never say 'thank you', not that Draco was expecting her to. Hearing those words from her would be as much a shock as if the Dark Lord had one day burst into song. It simply wasn't going to happen.
"I'm glad you're happy," Draco grumbled. "It's getting worse."
She frowned at him. "You're not still on about that, are you?"
"It was going through my things today." It had been, too: sniffing around and muttering to itself with a look that was disturbingly close to ecstasy painted on its grotesque mug. Just because Weasley didn't understand the severity of the situation was no reason for her to poke fun at it.
"Well, order it to stop," she said with a roll of her eyes, like this was an obvious solution, so would he stop bothering her about it, already?
Draco scowled slightly, then a bit further when he realized his glares had no effect on her anymore. "It doesn't work like that. I'm not its master, so it's only obeying my orders because it wants to. If I give it an order like that, it'll probably make a fuss and actually steal something."
"Worried it might want your pants, Malfoy?" She really was evil, Draco thought, even as he blanched at what she suggested. Aside from the fact that no sane house elf (not that this one really qualified) would want clothes, that was just disturbing.
"Right, give me back my wand. I'm hexing the little wanker into a pile of vomit."
"Not happening, Malfoy," Weasley retorted, holding up her own wand in a way that clearly said 'just try and take it.' "You gave it to me precisely so you wouldn't do something like that. Be a bit of a downer if they traced you here and carted you off to Azkaban."
Of course. That bloody spell they'd put on his wand as part of his probation, which they could use to track him down if they thought he'd broken his parole. Giving her his wand so he wouldn't use it unthinkingly had seemed like a good plan at the time, and it was true he hadn't had need of it over the past few days, but now the situation was different. "Maybe I don't care," he snapped, making a half-hearted lunge for the wand, and falling predictably short when she snatched it away.
"You'd go to Azkaban over a house elf? Why, Malfoy, you're slipping - it's almost as if you think they're worth as much as a human."
Draco dropped back into the chair next to her with a sigh. "One of these days, Weasley, I'm going to wring your bloody neck while you sleep," he said tiredly, covering his face with his hands. Between his fingers, he could see her looking down at her own hands with a strange expression, as though remembering a time when she had attempted to do what he described. Oh right - the roosters. He remembered hearing about those - she'd absolutely decimated the school's chicken flock, and that giant oaf Hagrid had been devastated.
This happened, now and again: he would say something, unthinkingly, and she would get an odd look on her face, as though remembering something. Sometimes, he could puzzle out what it was she was remembering - the Battle of Hogwarts, perhaps, or Umbridge's reign of terror - but only when it was something he himself had been involved in. In many things, she remained a closed book. Not that it matters, anyway, he told himself firmly.
"Who would defend you from Kreacher then?" she asked teasingly, her relaxed composure returning as quickly and suddenly as it had disappeared.
He shrugged. "I'd be going to Azkaban, anyway. I'd get rid of it too."
"Sometimes it's hard to tell when you're joking," she said with a half laugh that implied she was pretty sure he was this time, but was a bit worried he might not be.
"Malfoys never joke," he told her, peering down his nose at her with all the haughty disdain at his disposal.
She had the gall to snicker. "Pull that wand out of your arse, Malfoy. No one takes you seriously." That was uncalled for, that was, and he told her as much while he upended the salad bowl over her head.
-----
The man looked up from his book. "Caractacus. Of all the people I didn't expect to come wandering into my study. You were acquitted, then."
Caractacus's smile was slightly bitter. "They said I was mad."
Xenophilius's eyebrows lifted. "Indeed? Does that have anything to do with why you're here to see me?" he guessed shrewdly.
"I've finished it."
This announcement didn't engender the reaction Caractacus had been hoping for. "Have you? As I recall, you once thought you'd solved the Mascian Field, before it turned out that what you thought was a node was actually tomato sauce."
"I've triple-checked all the figures," Caractacus said in annoyance. "The Red will rise. We may even live to see it."
"I don't see what you're so excited about. I had quite enough trouble with the last Dark Lord," Xenophilius said, testily. Well, fair enough. The Death Eaters had used his daughter as a hostage, after all.
"If you think that's all there is to it, you've never listened to a word I've said. The Rising of the Red will be glorious."
-----
Ginny awoke suddenly, snatching her wand up from the bedside table with the desperate reflexes of someone who has lived in fear for too long. Half out of bed, with her wand gripped firmly, she froze and listened for what had awoken her. It seemed for a moment that she had imagined it, or that her hearing was not as good when she was consciously trying to listen, but then it came again - the soft tread of a foot as someone picked their way across the creaky floor, trying not to make a sound. Ginny aimed her wand at the door.
Then there was a creak, and then footsteps were pounding across the floorboards. Closer they came, closer, then her door was thrown open with a bang. A jinx flew from Ginny's wand, missing the target and instead ripping a chunk of moulding from the ceiling - Ginny would later realize it had been a disarming spell, fired instinctively before she could properly register what was happening. The intruder slammed the door behind themselves, and said, between gasping breaths, "Fucking Merlin in a fairy ring, Weasley, what was that for?"
"Hecate's back hole, Malfoy, what the hell did you think you were doing, sneaking around like that?" Ginny snapped. "I thought you were..." She snapped her mouth shut. She had been about to say 'a Death Eater', except of course he was.
He didn't answer for a moment, and she was about to blast him one on principle, before she realized he was snickering quietly. "Sweet Circe, Weasley, but you've got a dirty mouth on you."
"Fat lot of help you are," Ginny retorted. "It's all your bad influence, anyway."
She heard him sigh melodramatically, and his shadowy form made its way towards her. "Don't blame your bad habits on me, Weasley. They're all your own. Can you get some light, anyway?" he added waspishly.
"Lumos," Ginny murmured. The soft light that came from her wand cast shadows across his face, so that he seemed to be a painting, done in stark blacks and whites. He was shirtless and barefoot, and his fine hair stuck up this way and that, so that he resembled a dandelion. His arms were in shadow, but the Mark was a darker smear on his forearm. She'd seen him in many different situations over the past few months - when he was drunk and injured, laughing and haunted - but this was the first time he had looked so startlingly, fragilely human. "Are you going to tell me what's going on?" she asked quietly. She didn't want to see this side of him - it inexplicably terrified her - but she couldn't look away.
He sat on the edge of the bed next to her, and Ginny could at last look away. She stared determinedly into the shadowy corner of the room, refusing to look at the man who was her enemy for fear that she would be forced to see him as he was under all that arrogance and posturing. "It snuck into my room. I got up to use the loo, and when I came back..." He shifted slightly, and she could feel barely-suppressed embarrassment rolling off him like a wave.
"So you're hiding behind me again, are you? Coward." She didn't need to look to see his flinch. That word had always been like a slap in the face to him - worse, in fact, because it stripped away his facade in ways a blow never could. If she hadn't been so tired and cross, she would never have used it.
"I see," he said quietly, and stood. Oh, shite, Ginny thought.
"Draco." Even without looking, she knew he paused. And wouldn't I, if he used my name?
"Yes?" His voice was flat and empty, and she was sure that if she'd looked, his face would have been equally devoid of emotion. Perhaps she was misjudging, but that emptiness spoke to Ginny of caution: he was waiting to see what she would say. Worse, he was being serious, and for the second time that day. Combined with that human face he had shown her just a minute ago, it was extremely unsettling.
What had she wanted to say, anyway? She couldn't apologize to him anymore than he could to her. And did it really matter, if he stomped off in a snit? But it does. "If you try anything, I'll nail your balls to the Whomping Willow. Stupid bastard," she added.
There was a pause, and then his quiet footfalls made their way back to the bed. He was silent as he slid between the sheets next to her, careful to leave as much space between them as possible. I need to get my head examined, Ginny thought in resignation. I'm not even drunk this time.
Notes and References:
*Evil contains the seeds of its own downfall: 'Good Omens' (Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman), I think. But I might be wrong.
*Farw Chrau: according to the online translator, Welsh for 'Dead Blood'. But, interestingly, it could be translated as any combination of 'dead', 'die', 'death', 'defunct' (etc) and 'hole', 'eye', 'blood' or 'stockade'.
*Almancy and sangremancy: as noted before, I made these up. 'Al' - coming from 'alma' (Spanish, soul) since 'almamancy sounds silly - and 'sangre' (Spanish, blood). I could have use Latin, getting 'animancy' and 'cruormancy' (or 'cruomancy'), I suppose, and been more in keeping with the original flavour of Harry Potter, but I liked the Spanish better.
*Anecdotes of the Great Accountants (Vol. 3): 'Night Watch' by Terry Pratchett.
*'True Love': Disney Princesses and Mary Sues. Enough said.
*Old-lady phrases: Lacy from 'Corner Gas' (can't remember which episode).