tudorrose1533 wrote "The Tower" for nyghtinggail 1/2
Title: The Tower
Rating: R for language and implied sexual situations
Summary: “The Tower is a card about war, a war between the structures of lies and the lightning flash of truth. It stands for false concepts and institutions that we take for real. You can expect to be shaken up, to be blinded by a shocking revelation. It sometimes takes that to see a truth that one refuses to see.”
Beta: My fabulous beta, Kaneesha, who puts up with my last-minute-ness and my crazy long fics.
Author's Notes: Phew. This fic took effort, and I hope you enjoy it, mystery recipient! The definitions of the Tarot cards come from my Tarot book, “Introduction to Tarot” by Susan Levitt. The description of the Tower card is taken word-for-word from http://www.aeclectic.net/tarot/learn/meanings/tower.shtml; though I am a Tarot reader myself, the description was too eloquent-and too perfect-to take apart. There is a minor homage to a dear friend of mine when Draco and Ginny discuss their favorite bands; I’m sure she’ll catch it. The Gaelic comes from a (hopefully) decent Gaelic translator site; the French is my own.
The Tower
MAGICAL MODIFICATION of inanimate objects is not an uncommon practice in wizarding society. From the witch of the household who charms her pots and pans to scrub themselves in the sink, to the beginning students practicing their Transfiguration skills on pincushions, simple inanimate objects have often been devices used by those with magical means. Ordinarily, these objects are hardly victims of their magical surroundings, but mere accomplices in the realms of efficiency, facility, and scholarship. However, there have been exceptions to this practice, and inanimate objects have on occasion fallen prey to wizards and witches who utilize these simple items for their own benefit…
-Widget, Tod. A History of Magical Tools and Resources. Little Red Books, 1967.
+++
“Travers, Donald.”
He was small for his age, with hair the color of corn silk, and watery blue eyes that seemed to threaten tears as he approached the stool with apprehension more befitting a hanging than a Sorting. He placed the hat upon his head with trepidation, and when it slipped over his pale face, hiding him from the hall of spectators, he seemed to breathe a sigh of relief; his shoulders relaxed, and his hands curled and uncurled around the rim of the stool, and when the hat shouted “RAVENCLAW!” he rose with grace and confidence, and made his way to the proper table with an easy stride.
He was the last of a long line of first years, and the hungry students all looked anxiously towards the empty platters adorning their house tables; some of the more eager placed their napkins in their laps, and reached for forks and knives. They were to be disappointed, for McGonagall rose, again, and addressed the student body in a voice clear as a bell.
“We have newly among us a young lady who will not be Sorted as a first year,” said the Headmistress to her pupils-of whom there were few and far between this year. “She has previously attended a smaller school of practical magic in the Lake District, but has reconsidered the direction of her magical education and come here, to Hogwarts, instead.”
The students began to whisper almost at once, the sounds of their hushed voices rising like the rustling of a fluttering flock of birds, excitement palpable in the air. Food forgotten, they turned again to the stool and Sorting Hat, which sat waiting for the entrance of this young lady.
She had been sitting by the door through which first years traditionally entered, and when she stood the pupils saw that she was old-a sixth or seventh year, wearing a plain uniform that was identical to their own, but bore no house crest or colors. She had jet-black hair and pale blue eyes, and she walked with a certain undeniable grace towards the stool, her eyes fixed only on the Sorting Hat, and not on the dozens of others who watched her every move with curiosity.
“I’d like you all to meet Cressida Wilkes,” said McGonagall with pure iron in her tone, and then she sat again at the head table, and with her bespectacled gaze followed the girl’s path to the stool.
When the newcomer sat, it was revealed that she had shapely legs, and good posture, and a figure that many of the girls might have envied, if they had not been at the moment so starved with hunger. She placed the hat on her head gingerly; it did not slip down as it had for the first years, but stayed perched on her high forehead, and so she shut her eyes to block out the many peering faces, and tightened her lips until they went from pale rose to light white.
She sat there for nearly a quarter of an hour, and rumbles of discontent rose from the students in the hall. In particular, a boy at the Slytherin table made a moue with his aristocratic mouth, and muttered cheekily to the girl beside him, “Clear she doesn’t belong here, wouldn’t you say?” The girl tittered, a loud sound that echoed in the near-silence, and she clapped an embarrassed hand over her parted, smiling lips, just as the hat’s brim stretched open to emit a screeching cry:
“SLYTHERIN!”
There was no disguising the shock on the faces of the whispering boy or the laughing girl, nor any of their housemates; neither could one have muffled the disappointed sighs echoing from the other tables, all of whom had hoped to inherit the newcomer, and were regretful to see her go to the none other but the house of snakes.
On her part, the black-haired girl merely stood, and placed the hat carefully back on the stool. She gave an odd little glance at McGonagall, who gave her so curt a nod of assent that one might have missed it in blinking, and then she stepped forward towards the Slytherin table, no hesitation in her step at all.
She walked with confidence towards the far end of the table, where the oldest students sat, and when she reached the blond-haired boy who had mocked her, and his companion, a brunette, she glanced at the bench and the space between the two conspirators, and waited.
“Shove over, Pans,” said the blond boy, after a moment’s decision-making, and the brunette wrinkled her nose in disgust, but moved over, making room for the newcomer to slip into the seat on the bench, with the blond boy on her right and disgruntled Pansy on her left.
“Wilkes, eh,” commented the boy, as he spooned a few servings of mashed potatoes into his plate, and poured liberal amounts of gravy over the small mountain he had amassed. “Not by any chance related to Isidore Wilkes, killed by Aurors in the first war, are you?” he asked, assessing his new housemate with a raised eyebrow.
“His niece,” said the girl, reaching for the pitcher of pumpkin juice and pouring some neatly into her small goblet. “My father’s older brother.”
“Is that so,” Draco Malfoy noted, and he scooped himself a mouthful of mashed potatoes, still observing Cressida Wilkes from the corner of his pale, discerning grey eyes.
+++
It hadn’t been so bad, really. Except for the fact that Pansy Parkinson was still miffed, and wouldn’t look at her, the other girls had accepted her quite easily, pointing out where things were located as they made their way to the Slytherin common room, and introducing her to the professors they passed along the way. It was difficult to hold her tongue-to pretend she didn’t know that Divination was taught in the North Tower, and that Professor Flitwick taught Charms. It was difficult not to wave at her former friends from across the hall, too. But she’d managed. She had no choice.
Daphne Greengrass, by far the nicest of the lot, had shown her to the bathroom, and warned her about Peeves the poltergeist, before smiling and heading back to the dormitory. She had been grateful for that, at least; she only knew of the prefect’s bath closest to Gryffindor Tower, not the ordinary one down near the dungeons, where, it turned out, the Slytherin common room was located.
It had been a nasty shock to undress and then turn and face a mirror. The reflection staring back at her was missing the comforting red hair, and the face full of freckles. Her warm brown eyes were now an icy blue, and even their form had changed to an almond shape. Her lips were the same, though, and her nose. Her ears, thankfully, they had shrunk, somewhat-though the new thick black mane would have hidden her outsize ears, anyway. Some of the changes were a tad pointless, but it was all an effort to render her as different as possible from her regular self. She couldn’t afford even the slightest resemblance to Ginny Weasley.
Ginny had been unable to tear her eyes off the sight of her strange new face for almost a full minute, before she realized that the bath was overflowing onto the floor, and she had best hurry back before the torches were extinguished, as she was sure to forget the way to Slytherin. As she soaked in the warm water, Ginny reviewed, for the hundredth time, the purpose of her mission. She could see Harry’s great gleaming green eyes as he pressed his forehead against hers, repeating instructions in a deep, focused tone-“You are to infiltrate Slytherin House and befriend the leaders of the Death Eater youth. Earn their trust, learn their secrets-and then, at the opportune moment, you will turn them in. And then we will do with them what we must to win this war.”
It was a crucial operation, and it had fallen to Ginny by chance. McGonagall headed the Order officially, but it was really Harry who ran things-Harry, with Ron and Hermione constantly at his side-and so none of the trio were expendable; none of them could have taken this place. Any of the Auror-trained Order members might have done the job, but for the one catch: it had to be someone school-age-somebody who could easily slip into the daily motions of life at Hogwarts-while still secretly spying and hatching a plan to catch the youngest, and most dangerous, generation of Death Eaters.
Lying in the bathwater, Ginny looked back on the Order meeting that had landed her in this position. She hadn’t even been present-just eavesdropping at the door, listening to Harry’s hushed voice-“They’re next in line, and they know it-they are preparing for it-they are waiting to take the reins, as we have, here-and they will be brutal. This generation does not intend to be left out of the war. We have to do everything-everything-in our power to stop them before they can get started.”
There was murmuring, contention, and then Moody’s voice above all the rest, drowning everyone out, creaking and crackling-“A spy. There’s nothing for it. We need a spy.”
She’d known, somehow, listening at the door, that they’d choose her. She heard them run through everyone, discuss the possibilities, grow frustrated by the increasingly obvious issue of choosing a teenager-someone the same age as these budding Death Eaters-to perform this mission. And she listened as they ran through the choices, before, finally, Harry said in a weary voice, “Ginny.”
And now here she was-after her mother’s tears, and her father’s protestations, and her brothers’ wild-eyed shouting-with long black hair and bright blue eyes and a secret buried deep inside of her. A secret, and a plan.
+++
“The body is full of electric impulses, and she invented this spell that would protect a person by harnessing that natural electricity. It took her about two months-and that’s ages for a witch like Hermione-but once it was complete it was an absolute success. It acted as a sort of shield, which was activated when anyone with malevolent intent touched the person protected by the shield…it would shock the offender, as though he or she had been burned, and leave the protected person untouched. It was the forerunner in combining magic with electricity, which was a power unexplored by wizards until then.”
-Remus J. Lupin on the invention of the Magi-Electric Defense
+++
“Partner up,” said Professor Trelawney, in as close as her misty voice ever came to an order.
The air in the North Tower was stuffy; the heady scent of incense seemed to cloud everyone’s minds. While in Charms a similar order might have prompted the wild scurrying of students across the classroom, forming partnerships with great to-do, in Divination the same pupils merely turned to those sitting nearby, and wearily agreed to work together.
There had been, previously, an uneven number of Slytherins in the Divination class; in prior years, Draco Malfoy had been forced to work with Professor Trelawney herself, as Pansy and Daphne always chose each other as partners, and Crabbe and Goyle were an obvious match. Today, however, he found himself drawing a chair over to the small table at which sat Cressida Wilkes.
“Hello,” he said genially, eyeing her as he had the night before, as though inspecting her. What he saw met his general approval-she was pretty, if not beautiful-but the utter silence on her end was a bit irritating, not to mention baffling.
“Hello,” she said in return, her eyes not leaving the tabletop.
“Not very talkative, are you?” he commented.
“Not very, no,” she agreed. She looked up, but only to glance at Professor Trelawney, who was rummaging through a trunk at the opposite end of the classroom.
“So, you’re really Isidore Wilkes’s niece?” Draco asked, trying to contain the eagerness in his voice.
“Truly.”
“Would you-are you-I mean…” Draco trailed off as she met his glance coolly, those frosty blue eyes providing no reception for Draco’s queries. Frowning, irritated at having been rebuffed, Draco bit his lip and said nothing for a moment. He, too, looked around for Trelawney, and noted that she was passing out Tarot decks to each partnership-at which he groaned loudly.
“I’m bloody awful at this ridiculous Tarot shite,” he grumbled. “Waste of time, anyway. Everyone knows Divination goes beyond some stupid card tricks.”
Cressida Wilkes did not comment, but merely untied the silk scarf encasing the deck they’d been assigned, and then pushed it towards her partner, saying softly, “You first.”
Sighing crossly, Draco lifted the deck in his hands as though he were touching something vile. He began to shuffle, but Cressida could see immediately that he was a failure at anything to do with a card deck; his motions were awkward, and he fumbled with the cards unhappily.
“I can play anything on the piano, but this-” he groaned, and he punctuated his complaint with an attempt to riffle the cards-a disastrous attempt, for they went flying everywhere, landing every which way on the tabletop-a few even fluttered towards the floor.
“Give me that!” his partner suddenly snapped, and Draco’s eyebrows shot up as Cressida Wilkes reached angrily for the cards on the table, whipping them back into deck form in a matter of moments, before whisking the cards from the floor in seconds and adding them back into the pile.
“Let me,” she said, attempting to reclaim dignity. “You were manhandling them, for Gryf-Salazar’s sake.”
Her slip of the tongue went unnoticed, for Draco was entranced by the easy manner in which she shuffled the deck, as well as the force behind those bright blue eyes, which, now that she had been roused, shone with a strange inner light.
“What’ll I read for you?” she demanded impatiently, but he could not find an answer in him; he merely shrugged.
“Oh, fine,” she said huffily, and Draco stared dumbly at Cressida’s quick flicks of the wrist as she placed five cards, facedown, across the table, in a circular pattern.
“The eight of swords,” she announced, as she turned the first face-up. “The three of pentacles. The seven of cups. The five of swords. All Minor Arcana. And…”
She flipped over the fifth and stared, as though unsurprised, at the card she had revealed. It was a picture of a castle tower; on the parapet stood a young man, who, as lighting struck, was thrown off the tower into the blackness of the night around him. The moving image replayed continuously.
“And that,” she said, “that-is the Tower.”
“The Tower!” came a quiet gasp from the opposite end of the room, and suddenly both Cressida and Draco raised their eyes from the cards to see that all around them their classmates were staring at the goings-on at their table. Even Professor Trelawney watched with bated breath.
It was a result of the crackling force in the air, emanating from the newcomer-an undeniable feeling of magical power. Its draw was magnetic, and every face was turned towards Cressida’s pale one. For all that she was behind in nearly every other class, having learned only the most cursory of magic skills at her former school, there was no denying the power that emanated from her in this class, as she stared down at the five cards displayed before her.
Flustered, Cressida looked back down, and fingered the edge of the closest card anxiously. Draco Malfoy glared at the class with annoyance before turning back to his partner and demanding, “Well?”
“Well.” Cressida took a deep breath. “Well…the eight of swords signifies overwhelm-exhaustion,” she intoned. “And the three of pentacles, hard work. The seven of cups…unrealistic desires and goals-wishful thinking, if you will. As for the five of swords…that’s an indication of lost interest, or lost hope.”
Opposite her, Draco Malfoy’s eyes narrowed, and his lips pressed together in a firm line. The eyes of the Slytherin students in the classroom all widened. Draco felt his cheeks flush, and he reached to loosen his tie. “You-” he threatened, his voice a growl. “You…”
“And then, the Tower card. Mars rules over the Tower,” said Cressida, interrupting him smoothly, eyes glued to the cards “The Tower is a card about war, a war between the structures of lies and the lightning flash of truth. It stands for false concepts and institutions that we take for real. You can expect, soon, to be shaken up, to be blinded by a shocking revelation. It sometimes takes that to see a truth that one refuses to see. Or to bring down beliefs that are heretofore well-constructed.”
“How dare-”
“What’s most important to remember is that the tearing down of this structure, however painful, makes room for something new to be built. Something new, and better.”
“That’s enough!” Draco shouted, and he reached out a hand to grab Cressida’s wrist, intending to fling the rest of the unused Tarot deck across the room, as well as startle her. Instead, he received an electric shock of enormous magnitude, which burned his fingers as though he’d touched a hot teakettle; he shouted in alarm and sprung backwards. The new girl stood uneasily, looking down at her fingers incredulously.
“It’s-it’s just a deck of cards,” she finally said, her voice low as she recovered from the shock. “And I was never very good at Divination anyway. It doesn’t mean anything-it’s all random happenstance.”
“It had better be,” Draco Malfoy ordered. “It had better be-for I haven’t got any false concepts, and there are no shocking revelations in store-no bringing down of well-constructed beliefs! Do you understand that?”
“I do,” said Cressida, and she sank slowly into her seat. “I do.”
There was a painful silence, and then Professor Trelawney whispered, “Class dismissed,” and the pupils shuffled out, like a well-ordered Tarot deck, in silence.
+++
Ginny Weasley sat cowering in a corner of the library, stacks of books piled high to hide her from anyone who might happen by. The book nearest her, through a twist of irony, was an instruction manual for Tarot reading, and Ginny smirked a little. She should have known better than to read for him; she had never picked up a Tarot deck and predicted falsely. The truth of the cards seemed to pour out from her like milk from a broken jug. But he had been so clumsy-so careless-with the deck, that she had snatched it from his hands without thinking twice.
And what a reading it had been! It had answered so many questions. For starters, his rage had confirmed that there was indeed an underground Death Eater association at the school, and that Malfoy was in charge. It had revealed that Malfoy was overwhelmed by his duties, and that they were, really, a lost cause. And, most importantly, the Tower had told her that Malfoy faced some sort of change-some enormous, catastrophic change. Which could only be Ginny’s success, and the Order’s arrival. Yes, the reading had been instrumental.
But it had also been dangerous. If Draco Malfoy was suspicious, now, and if Ginny were to be caught, then none of the predicted events would come true. Just as a boulder on the tracks could derail a train, so could a single event derail the impending future-and Ginny had no doubt that catching a spy from the Order in Slytherin House would be such a catalyst in the future of Draco Malfoy.
“Cressida.”
She gasped at the sudden hand on her shoulder, and turned, and there he was-her worst nightmare, his blond hair combed neatly, and his robes discarded for a dark green sweater and grey slacks. She was ready to run, but something in his eyes stopped her. He was looking at her intently, but not without compassion. There was gentleness there, if a certain pride, as well.
Draco gestured at the chair by hers, and asked, “May I?” Ginny nodded, and Draco sat. He folded his hands on the table, and peered into her eyes, and for a moment Ginny was certain he could see past the disguise. Her heart pounded, and she nearly jumped out of her skin when he moved his hand to place it over hers.
“I came to apologize,” said Draco quietly, and Ginny stared at him with a rabbit’s wide, petrified eyes. “My actions in Divination were uncalled for. Your reading…was clearly the result of powerful, powerful magic…and I should have known better than to touch anyone who was so recently involved with such a force. I upset you, and for that, I am deeply sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize to me,” said Ginny automatically.
“No?” asked Draco, quirking his lips into an amused smile. “Why not?”
“Because-” began Ginny, and then she clamped her mouth shut. Because I’m a Weasley, and you hate Weasleys. Because I’m poor, and you’re rich. Because I’m a a spy for the Order, and you’re the king of Slytherin. Because…
“Because I’m new,” she finished lamely. “And before this, I went to a stupid practical magic school. And I’m behind in all my subjects. And I didn’t give you a very good reading.”
“You’re talented,” said Draco. “And you deserve to be here. You should have been here from the start-you’d be a full prophetess by now, I warrant. And your reading was not your fault. It’s the truth.”
“It is?”
“It is.” He suddenly looked gloomy, and he repeated himself soberly. “It is. I’m overwhelmed…I’m under so great an amount of pressure…and my cause, I’m afraid, is a lost one.”
Ginny merely stared at him, unsure of what to say. How had this happened? How had her mission fallen into her lap like this? It was uncanny, and possibly unreal-was she dreaming?
“You will have heard that I was on the run this summer,” said Draco, more to himself than Ginny, running his hands through his hair worriedly. “I tried-I tried to do something foolish. And luckily, someone else accomplished the task for me, and I was able to argue my way back to school on that very fragile line of reasoning. Because my place here is of the utmost importance.”
He squeezed her hand, which was still under his, and leaned forward across the table.
“You’re of pure blood,” he said in a hushed undertone. “And your uncle was killed fighting for our cause. No?”
Ginny nodded.
“You have an immense power, Cressida Wilkes,” said Draco Malfoy softly, his grey eyes piercing hers persuasively. “We need someone like you on our side. There’s-there’s an organization, here. I run it. We keep it as quiet as we can, or else the Order of the Phoenix-that’s Dumbledore’s army, our greatest enemy-will come after us, but so far we are safe. We’re making…plans. Big plans. And we could use someone with your talent to help us.”
“You…you fight for You-Know-Who?”
“Yes. The Dark Lord. Address him with respect. He earned his title rightly,” said Draco fervently, and Ginny fought the urge to pull back from the feverish look in his eyes. “Will you join us, Cressida? Will you join our cause?”
Ginny opened her mouth, but no words emerged, and she stared helplessly at Draco as a voice in her head shouted mercilessly This is your chance! Take it, you bint, take it! This! Is! Your! Chance!
“Think it over,” said Draco smoothly, and he rose as gracefully as he had sat, brushing his long hair out of his eyes elegantly. He reached for Ginny’s hand, and pulled her from her seat.
“Walk back to Slytherin with me?” he proposed, and Ginny managed to squeak out a “Yes.” He hooked his arm through hers, and led her out of the library, down the dark, torch-lit corridors towards the dungeons. The topic changed at once, to lighthearted things, as soon as they were in public. He talked about his professors, and his favorite subjects (Arithmancy, which he’d taken since he’d dropped Care of Magical Creatures, and Potions). He said he liked classical music best, but he listened to the wireless, too, and he liked the band Icarus and the Wings. Most of all, though, he spoke about Quidditch-the thrill of flying, and being Seeker, and touching the clouds.
“Do you play?” he asked, as they neared the common room, and Ginny said no.
“I’m a terrible flier,” she lied, and Draco shook his head.
“That won’t do,” he said, pausing before they turned the corner to the common room. “I’ll have to take you up with me, sometime. And teach you.”
Ginny nodded. “I suppose,” she said. “I’d like that.”
“So would I,” said Draco, bending his head towards hers, and Ginny felt a smile growing on her lips, which she tried, unsuccessfully, to repress.
“You’re quite pretty when you smile,” Draco whispered, and he bent even closer towards her, and suddenly Ginny realized they were standing in a darkened corridor, alone, and they were very close, and he was about to kiss her.
He met her eyes right before he did, and then pressed his lips against hers in the gentlest of kisses Ginny had ever received-no lack of finesse, like Michael, or sloppy wetness, like Dean, or even Harry’s brutal snogging. Just a sweet kiss.
“What was that for?” she asked, when he’d pulled back, and Draco furrowed his brow.
“Why not?” he asked. “I felt like it.”
“You just met me. And you’re with Pansy!” Ginny blurted out.
“Pansy thinks she’s with me,” Draco corrected her. “And what I know of you-I like. And I would like to get to know you better. I think-I think-”
He stared at her, silenced and baffled, and Ginny realized that if any other boy had kissed her that way, in a quiet alcove, gently and without permission, she wouldn’t have made a fuss over it. It was the fact that he was Draco Malfoy-the boy who was working for Voldemort, who she’d been sent to spy on-that made matters complicated, and wrong. But he didn’t know that she was Ginny Weasley. She was just the pretty new girl, with pure blood and talent at Tarot. And he was the boy who could have any girl he wanted. From his angle, the kiss made sense. Just as much sense as it had made for Harry to kiss her, out of the blue, at the party last term.
“I’m sorry,” Ginny said carefully, twining her fingers and contemplating how to handle this unexpected situation. “That was-that was rude of me. It was a very nice kiss.”
“I’m glad,” said Draco, and he bit his lip and cast his eyes downward, as though also trying to suppress a smile-an indulgent smile, for Ginny had a feeling that the Slytherin girls were hardly that polite after complaining about a kiss, and that she’d come off as a little naïve, a little childish, in comparison. He had no way of knowing that she was truly a Gryffindor at heart; she must seem so different compared to the others.
“Shall we?” she asked, and he took her arm, and led them around the corner and down into the common room, where they parted ways and headed for their dormitories. The other girls were asleep, and she undressed in the dark. She heard the crinkle of parchment in her pocket, and when she had closed the draperies around her bed, she lit her wand, and unfolded the scrap of parchment she’d found.
Reading it, she remembered that she could not forget her purpose here. Nobody in Slytherin House was really as they seemed.
+++
Think over what we discussed in the library.
And tomorrow I’ll give you that broom ride.
-D.
+++
The sun was out, and there was the perfect stiff, autumn breeze for Quidditch. Draco Malfoy unlocked the shed with his captain’s keys, removed his broom from the rack, and then unleashed the Snitch from its encasings out into the great open sky. He grinned into the sun, shielding his eyes, as the little gold ball vanished into the blue; he loved chasing after the Snitch just for its own sake, not for points, or valor, or pride. Just to fly.
He mounted his broom, and soared easily towards the sky, alert for any movement of the Snitch. It always seemed to know when it was out alone; it didn’t travel as far, as though aware that Draco had no other distractions. It teased him, appearing by his ear, and then flickering away, sprite-like. He zoomed after it, letting out a whoop of laughter as he hit a gust of wind and burst forward like a rocket.
“What about me?” he heard, in the distance, and he peered down from his immense height and saw a tiny figure on the pitch, waving at him and calling at him in a tiny, faraway voice.
Cressida.
He swept downwards, grinning devilishly. He was flying directly at her, ready to scare her out of her wits. He didn’t slow down, didn’t deviate from his path, but charged right at her. At the very last minute, he swerved, flying past her at an incredible speed, so close that his sleeve brushed her arm, but he did not strike her.
To his disappointment, she didn’t scream. Or even flinch. She stood and let the wind blow through her hair, and she made an unimpressed face at him-is that all?
Screeching to a stop, he leapt off his broom and grabbed it by the handle, jogging to where she stood, puzzled by her stoic demeanor. Even the bravest of Gryffindors might have been frightened by that kind of performance, but she had stood her ground.
“Was that meant to impress me?” she asked, cocking a hip and placing a hand there for emphasis.
“I’d be lying if I said no,” Draco replied, grinning bashfully. “Was it boring?”
“You can fly fast, and straight. I don’t see what’s so difficult about that,” contested Cressida Wilkes.
“Well, I’d like to see you do better,” Draco challenged, trying to hide his irritation-she clearly had no idea the control, the precision, or the talent it took to steer and ride a broom like that.
Cressida’s face tightened, and then released, as though she were on the verge of saying something snappish back, and then changed her mind. She eyed his broom with something close to envy, and then shrugged and said, “I can’t.”
Draco shrugged, and reached out a hand for hers. “Would you like to take a ride? I’ll show you how.”
She nodded, and stepped towards his broom decisively; he mounted it, and then she climbed on behind him, wrapping two arms around his waist for balance.
“Ready?” he asked, and she nodded into his back.
“Hold on tight,” he laughed, and with a firm kick of his left foot, the broom soared into the sky.
The first thing he concentrated on was not speed, but height. He climbed higher than he even before, until he was beginning to feel a bit lightheaded from the air and the wind. Then he began to swoop across the Quidditch pitch, crossing once, twice, three times, getting lower each time, and diving dramatically, causing his ears to pop and his stomach to tighten with adrenaline. Behind him, Cressida tightened her grip on his waist, but she let out a tiny chuckle that encouraged him to do more.
As he grew closer to the ground, he picked up the speed, whirling through the sky like a pinwheel, testing the broom’s agility and endurance. He flew them upside down, spinning the broom like a top, laughing all the while, before diving into a Wronski Feint, as though the Snitch were glimmering on the ground-which it was, Draco suddenly noticed, as they sped towards the pitch-it was right there, right by the grass, near the goalpost. As he flew downwards, he reached out a hand and grasped blindly for the tiny gold ball, which he somehow, miraculously, snatched just as it zipped away, its tiny gold wings beating against the palm of his hand.
He pulled upward abruptly, and came to a stop, before tumbling off the broom and flopping onto his back in the grass, sprawled out eagle-spread and chest heaving from the exertion. The Snitch was still writhing in his hand. He rolled over onto his side, and saw that she had stumbled off his broom, and sank to her knees with dizziness and elation, grinning wildly at him before flopping down on the grass to join him.
“How was that?” Draco asked, and she replied that it had been wonderful.
“I want to learn to do that,” she added.
“I’ll teach you, if you like,” he offered, but she shook her head.
“I’ll teach myself, and then give you a demonstration. How’s that?”
“You’re an interesting girl,” said Draco thoughtfully, after a moment’s pause.
“Not really. I’m just a novelty.”
“A novelty with potential.”
“Potential for what?” asked Cressida, and Draco could have sworn he heard the slightest note of flirtation in her tone.
“Potential for us,” said Draco, squashing the flirtation with his grave voice. He sat up to look at her. “For you, and for me, and for the Dark Lord.”
A cloud seemed to pass over Cressida’s face, and Draco looked away, frustrated. Did she think he would forget? He couldn’t forget. He had one purpose in life, and that was to serve his society, through whatever means assigned to him. This had been made his duty. Did she think he would forget that after a wild broomstick ride?
“Do you really think I should join?” she asked in a small voice.
“You would be of immeasurable help. And you would reap equal rewards,” Draco told her, speaking nothing but the truth.
“Would I have to take-take the Dark Mark?”
Draco cast a quick, fleeting, glance at his right arm, but then looked quickly back into her blue eyes. “No,” he said. “Not right away. When you feel ready.”
“And-and would the others mind?” she asked. “Pansy, and-and your friends, and-”
“Not in the slightest,” he assured her, though he might have been lying slightly about Pansy’s reaction. “They would welcome you with open arms. We’re a family, Cressida. All of us purebloods, and all of us fighting to preserve our race, our culture. We would be family even without the Dark Lord and his service, but this will bring us even closer.”
His expression was earnest, and his words were truthful, and he could see the gears clicking in her head, as she swallowed and contemplated his speech, and then, with only the slightest nod of her head, assented.
“All right,” she said. “All right. When’s the next meeting?”
“Tonight,” said Draco with a broad grin, and he leaned over in the grass to kiss her, more firmly this time, on the lips.
+++
An unprecedented number of individuals took on the terrifying task of undercover work during both of the Voldemort Wars; no other war had an equal number of spies in the history of magical conflict. In the underground association The Order of the Phoenix alone, which received no support from the Ministry or any official enemy of Voldemort, there were twenty-two reported incidences of just long-term spywork in the two wars; rumor has it that the over seventy members spanning both wars all engaged in undercover work at some point during their Order careers.
Known Spies For The Order of the Phoenix (in alphabetical order)
Colin Creevey - VW2
Dedalus Diggle - VW1, VW2
Aberforth Dumbledore - VW1, VW2
Benjy Fenwick - VW1
Arabella Figg - VW1, VW2
Caroline Granger ¹ - VW2
Hestia Jones - VW2
Frank Longbottom - VW1
Neville Longbottom - VW2
Maureen McKinnon - VW1
Alastor Moody - VW1, VW2
Timothy O’Keefe - VW1
Padma Patil - VW2
James Potter - VW1
Honoria Radcliffe - VW1
Severus Snape ² - VW1, VW2
Ernest Underwood - VW1, VW2
William Weasley - VW2
Fred Weasley - VW2
George Weasley - VW2
Ginevra Weasley - VW2
Percival Weasley - VW2
¹Caroline Granger was the only known Muggle to be employed by the Order.
²Severus Snape also worked for the Death Eaters.
-Gibbons, Jasper. “The Spies of VW1 & VW2.” Magical Conflict Magazine.
+++
Right after dinner, two hours before Ginny was meant to meet the rest of the young Death Eaters behind the tapestry of Maleficent the Malevolent, Professor McGonagall brushed past her and requested an audience with Cressida Wilkes.
“We need to discuss your coursework, dear,” she said, but when she met Ginny’s eyes, the message was clear-this was about Ginny’s work for the Order, not anything to do with the fictional Cressida Wilkes.
McGonagall’s office was as spare and neat as her person, but there was a basket of biscuits on which Ginny nibbled as she waited for the headmistress to meet with her. When she heard voices down the corridor, Ginny gulped down the last biscuit and sat up straight, just before McGonagall entered the room at her usual quick pace.
“This has to be quick,” she said curtly, reaching for a biscuit herself, and perching carefully on the edge of her desk, staring down at Ginny in the old-fashioned chair. “I only want to make sure you’re keeping on track.”
“I am,” said Ginny, unsure of how to broach the topic that a Death Eater meeting was about to go on right under McGonagall’s nose.
“Because what I saw on the Quidditch pitch today did not look altogether acceptable,” McGonagall warned, and Ginny looked up in alarm.
“I don’t know what you’re up to, Miss Weasley,” scolded McGonagall, “but I had best hear of some improvements, or I’ll have you pulled off this mission faster than you can say ‘kissing Draco Malfoy.’ Is that clear?”
“There’s a Death Eater meeting tonight, and I’m going,” blurted Ginny at once, her cheeks flaming with anger and shame. “So before you question my methods, perhaps you ought to keep up with my goings-on.”
McGonagall’s face registered first shock at the revelation, and then anger at Ginny’s impertinence. She cast her steely eyes on Ginny and warned, “Miss Weasley, if I were you, I would mind my tongue!”
“I’m your spy,” said Ginny bluntly. “I’m not your student any longer. And as such I think I’m justified in saying to you whatever I feel is necessary. And what I feel is necessary is this-if snogging Draco Malfoy as Cressida Wilkes helps me learn what that scum is up to, then I’ll stick my bloody tongue down his throat every day. Is that clear?”
“Miss Weasley!” McGonagall shouted, but Ginny had already risen from the chair and stormed out of the office without looking back.
She headed directly to the tapestry, which was on the seventh floor; the long walk up the moving staircases did her good, for by the time she reached the woven portrait of the evil sorceress, she had regained her composure. Gathered before the tapestry were six figures-the first, recognizable by his blond hair shining in the darkness, was Draco Malfoy. The others were Pansy and Daphne, who looked surprised to see Ginny-as-Cressida walking down the corridor towards them, and then Blaise Zabini (who seemed always coolly expressionless) and the oblivious Crabbe and Goyle.
“Good,” said Draco, when Ginny reached them; he clapped his hands. “We’re all here. Shall we?”
They headed down the corridor, and suddenly Ginny realized where they were walking-straight to the Room of Requirement. It was a place of strong memories for her, and she felt her head swim at the absolute irony of the situation-that the room had been used for an organization of pure good-the D.A.-and was now being used for an organization of pure evil. Draco paced back and forth before the blank expanse of wall three times, and when he had finished, a door appeared, and all seven of them walked in to a library of immense size, furnished with sofas and a huge writing desk.
“As I’m sure you know, this is Cressida Wilkes, the late Isidore Wilkes’s niece, and our newest recruit,” Draco announced, waving a hand at Ginny, who had taken a seat on the edge of a blood-colored sofa with trepidation. “For those of you who take Divination, I’m sure you saw evidence of the kind of magical power she possesses, and I’m sure you’re as eager as I am to harness it towards our case,” he added. The words sent chills down Ginny’s spine, but perhaps it was the eerie concurrence of the cold, brutal words and the gentle look Draco was giving her.
“Now, first order of business-capes and hoods,” said Draco, suddenly business-like, and he launched into a speech on the importance of uniformity as both a terrorizing tactic and a method of boosting morale.
The meeting seemed to go on forever, and she had trouble keeping up-the Death Eater-related material was constantly interrupted by casual conversation, as the daily lives of the members seemed to intertwine with the actions of their terrifying alter egos. Eventually, Ginny found herself growing sleepy, and gave in to the urge, letting herself doze away on the edge of the sofa.
She stirred two hours later, when a familiar word pierced the haze of sleep around her, and startled her into wakefulness. Only Draco was left in the room, and he was bent over a giant map of wizarding England, his hair falling into his eyes and his face grave as he studied the chart.
“So that’s where the Weasleys live,” he muttered to himself, and the sound of her surname drew Ginny’s attention; her eyes popped open and she looked with fear on the handsome silhouette of the boy with the map, whose solitary air made a disturbingly pretty picture, considering what evil doings he was planning.
When Ginny shifted on the sofa, her muscles numb from having fallen asleep in a strange position, Draco noticed her movements, and beckoned her over with a smile. She rose and approached the map with a sense of panic thrumming through her veins; it was a struggle to keep a smile on her face when she saw that the map was a perfect picture of the region in which her family lived, with a pushpin placed precisely on the location of the Burrow.
Draco had been leaning over the table in silent contemplation, his two hands flat against the map as he inspected it. Now he moved so that Ginny could take his place; she stood with her churning stomach jammed against the edge of the table, her fingertips brushing the familiar Devon countryside. She was so utterly shaken that when Draco moved behind her, to peer over her shoulder and press himself against her back, she didn’t even move in protest, even when he returned his hands to where they had been before, so that he framed her body like two bookends stacked together.
“Have you ever heard of the Weasleys?” he asked in a low murmur. She could feel his breath stirring the hairs on her neck.
“Yes.”
“Then you’ll know they’re a foremost family in the Order-purebloods, but traitors to the cause, and as such, absolute filth. They fight for everything we stand against. And there are dozens of them-the parents, and their six sons, and one daughter, not to mention the little Mudblood brats they’ve adopted along the way. And they all live right here.”
He pointed at the pushpin, and Ginny nodded slowly; the world felt as though it had fallen off its axis, and was spinning in slow-motion. It was a struggle to swallow, as Draco continued, his voice inexplicably calm, lucid-gentle, even, as he explained to Cressida Wilkes the major plan of the Death Eater youth with the tenderness of a university student discussing his thesis.
“Well, we’re going to eradicate them,” he said. “In two weeks, the oldest son is getting married, according to our sources. They’re having the wedding in the backyard, the uncivilized scum. Well, we’re going to strike, and we are going to burn that house to the ground, and kill every one of them.”
Ginny turned so abruptly she thought she had given herself away; Draco pulled away and stared at her with startled eyes.
“You’re going to kill them?” she whimpered, and her voice cracked horribly.
“Of course we are,” Draco replied, a little nervously. The smile he wore on his lips seemed to falter as he stepped towards her. “What did you think we did, Cressida? Throw parties? Drink lots of wine?”
“That’s all Pansy seemed to talk about for the last two hours,” Ginny retorted.
Draco frowned. “There’s more to the Death Eater lifestyle than grand parties and high society,” he said. “The price for that luxury is the need to delve into the dirty, the brutal, the terrifying. In order to raise our children, protect our families, in a society of culture and extravagance, we need to get our hands dirty, so to speak.”
“Is it worth it?” Ginny cried, and she felt her blood run cold when Draco nodded and said, without hesitation, “Of course it is.”
“My father did it,” he went on. “And my grandfather before him. And so will I.”
“That’s awful,” Ginny cried passionately, heedless of the danger she was putting herself in by blatantly disagreeing with everything Draco Malfoy stood for.
“It is,” he said, and his answer shocked her into silence. He stepped closer, wearing a look of pure apology. “It is awful, but it’s the way of the world. Someone must take up the reins, Cressida, and who would you have it be? Crabbe? Goyle? They’re too stupid. And Blaise-Blaise is sharp, but selfish. No, it has to be me, and this is my place, and this is what I will do from now on-orchestrate killings, and plan raids, and arrange meetings-and if that means I can keep my family safe, and keep my world in order, then I will. I’m not a coward.”
Ginny merely shook her head, and looked away, unable to meet the infinitely kind grey eyes of the boy who stood before her, palms open, baring his heart to her, but speaking horrid, atrocious things. How could someone so clearly good--someone who loved Quidditch, and piano, and spoke of protecting his family and doing the right thing by his culture, his world-be so evil? He had the same motives as Harry, Ginny realized-the same desires, the same needs. But he had chosen the wrong way of seeing the world, and, as such, was perpetrating pure evil in order to achieve those goals. How could he be so blind to the wrongness of his actions?
“Come on,” said Draco when Ginny didn’t answer. “Let’s get out of here.”
He slipped an arm around her shoulder, and she didn’t protest as he walked them out of the Room of Requirement and down the deserted hallway, which was midnight black at this late hour. Their footsteps echoed softly on the marble floors, and there was a perfect symmetry to the way they walked together that seemed to calm Ginny’s racing pulse, and help her control herself again.
“You know, you’re the first person I’ve ever said all that to,” said Draco quietly, as they rounded a corner and reached a corridor lit by an enormous window, which sent pure moonlight pouring down the hall. She could see the light glinting off his hair, bringing out the white of his fair skin, and highlighting his high cheekbones.
“There’s so few people I can trust in this school,” he continued, his tone still soft, and somber. “There are enemies everywhere, and I know I’m a suspect. I tried to kill Dumbledore last year, and even though I failed, it was through my efforts that Professor Snape-may he rest in peace-succeeded in doing so. And even within my group of friends…I know they don’t really like me. They’re not my true friends. They fear me, and they follow me, because their fathers have done the same to my father and his father for generations. Behind that veneer of adulation, there’s only hatred, and envy.”
He turned to Ginny, and she thought for a moment he was crying. It was only a trick of the light, but his expression was so solemn, so heartfelt, so unguarded, that she had to double-check his eyes for tears.
“I’ve only just met you,” he said, “but I feel like I can trust you. I don’t know why. Do you know what I mean? Do you feel it, too? I feel like-I feel like there’s some connection between us. And I don’t know where it came from, but it’s here and-” He sighed, as though frustrated, and ran hurried fingers through his hair. Then he shoved a hand into his trouser pockets, and removed it clutching something tightly. He grabbed Ginny’s hand and shoved it into her palm, closing her fingers over the object-which was cold and smooth, attached to a long chain that dangled out of her hand-before she could see clearly what it was.
“I want you to keep that safe for me,” he said, almost brusquely. “There’s so many-so many spies about, and so many dangers, and-you’re the only person I can trust. Will you hold on to that for me? Guard it with your life?”
Ginny nodded silently. All she could think was that she could not help but pity him, this boy caught in the machinations of centuries of prejudice and war, who had no one to turn to, no one he could trust, and had just spilled his heart to the very person he feared the most-a spy.
“Thanks,” Draco mumbled, flushing a little at the melodrama of the situation, shoving his hands awkwardly into his pockets. “You know…you know…” he began, looking up at her with suddenly shy eyes, and Ginny knew, as instinctively as she had known the first time, that he was about to kiss her.
It was nothing like the gentle kiss from the first time they’d stopped in a corridor, just a little over a week ago; there was passion and sadness and anger, all twisted into one, as Draco kissed her, his hands coming up to cradle her face, his body pressing against hers and driving them up against the closest wall. For a moment, Ginny felt out of control, out of her depth, and then she raised her arms to wrap them securely around Draco’s neck, and everything seemed, somehow, to right itself.
+++
The first thing Ginny did after Draco walked her back to her dormitory in the Slytherin dungeon was open her trunk.
First she deposited within it the item he’d told her to keep safe. Upon examination, it proved to be a heart-shaped silver locket, beautifully engraved, with an ornate capital B on the front, and the hinges stuck shut. The chain it hung from was thick and equally elaborate; Ginny admired it for a moment before letting it slither to the bottom of her trunk with the thick sweaters and winter stockings.
Then she fiddled with a latch on the lid of the trunk, and sprang open the secret compartment; she slipped her hand inside and pulled out the hand mirror Harry had given her before she left on her mission, for use only in emergencies.
Slipping out of the dormitory, past the comatose Pansy and Daphne, Ginny hid in a corner of the common room, as far from the dormitories as she could. Then she said, in a whisper, “Harry James Potter,” into the mirror, and watched the clouds on its surface shift as she waited for Harry to respond.
When he did, he looked tired and disheveled; his glasses were crooked on his nose, and his eyes were blurry with sleep.
“Who is this?” he asked loudly, and Ginny groaned in annoyance.
“Ginny Weasley, you dolt,” she snapped. “And keep your voice down!”
Ginny’s blue-eyed, black-haired appearance suddenly registered, and then Harry was down to business, rubbing his sleepy eyes and adjusting his glasses, peering into the mirror urgently.
“What’s going on?” he demanded.
“They’re planning to attack the wedding,” Ginny whispered. “They’re going to-to burn the Burrow to the ground, and-and-”
“And what?”
“And kill everyone,” said Ginny, blanching at the thought. Harry stared at her, shocked into silence, and then shook his head in disgust.
“They’re monsters,” he growled. “Absolute monsters.”
“We can catch them there,” Ginny added hurriedly. “They’re-I-they’ve let me join their society. And Draco Malfoy has…has become my especial friend. I’m going to hear all the details. I’ll learn when they’re coming-what they plan to use to attack-everything. I can report all of that to you, and, when the time comes, we can be ready. They won’t get us-we’ll catch them.”
Harry nodded as she spoke, processing each idea and agreeing to them all, adding in suggestions and comments. He shot Ginny a hard, proud look through the mirror, and said, “Well done, Ginny,” before he explained that he had best leave and wake the others.
“All right, then,” said Ginny, who was beginning to feel sick discussing the subject of her family’s murder.
“Keep yourself safe,” Harry instructed, and Ginny nodded, watching the mirror dissolve into clouds, aware that it was by her presence that she had saved her life, and her family’s lives, and yet equally aware that she was signing Draco Malfoy up for certain death.
+++
The next two weeks were dizzying in more ways than one.
They seemed to speed by at an impossible pace, the days melting together in a combination of trivial schoolwork during the day, and intense meetings at night, all of which she reported to Harry dutifully.
Secondly, there was no denying the growing attraction between her and Draco Malfoy. He had not kissed her again, as though afraid to revisit the night he’d bared his heart and soul to her, but he was with her constantly, carrying her books, asking her opinion, and, once, spending the day with her in Hogsmeade. He, too, was as dazzling a contradiction as Ginny’s days and nights were; he seemed the epitome of the perfect gentleman, and, beyond that, a genuinely kind person. The snide bully he’d presented to the Gryffindors was a front for a charming, thoughtful young man who delighted in being with his new friend, whether they be laughing over dinner or talking seriously in the common room. And yet, during those meetings at which Ginny was most acutely aware of her role as a spy, he was different. He didn’t lose his gentle eyes or thoughtful tone, but he was as at home discussing the upcoming murder of the Weasley family as he had been talking Quidditch a few hours earlier. The evil he participated in-that he perpetrated-seemed as ingrained in him as his ability to walk, and talk, and breathe; it was as much a part of him as his surname, his blond hair, his accent. It was an inseparable facet of his personality, like Harry’s reckless bravery or Hermione’s pure intelligence. And that terrified Ginny more than she could have ever put into words.
The plan to attack Bill and Fleur’s wedding was not, thankfully, a very good one. Hampered by the weakness of his little army, Draco could not carry out the complicated maneuvers he might have wanted to, had he had able troops to command. Instead, it was a basic sneak-attack plan, in which the Death Eaters were to hide in the bushes until the time was right, and then jump out and hex everyone in sight. Potter was to be left to Draco, but the rest of the family was fair game, he said, and Ginny felt slightly sick when Pansy raised her hand and asked if she could request the right to kill the Weasley girl.
“Whatever you like,” Draco had replied, waving a hand as though it didn’t merit his attention.
The night before the raid, he asked her to take another walk with him, and Ginny did so, even though she knew that Harry was sitting home, waiting for another call in the hand mirror, with last-minute updates and important news.
“Tomorrow night is going to be it,” he told Ginny confidently, as they strolled the quiet grounds of Hogwarts castle, which loomed above them silently, watching and seeing all, but remaining an outsider to their conversation. The castle reminded Ginny something of herself, a passive participant in this charade, observing everything but taking no action. She eyed the stone giant fondly, and then turned back to Draco, who was still talking about the attack.
“If this is a success, the Dark Lord will accept me again,” he said. “And he will make sure my father is rescued from Azkaban, and he will return to paying my mother her stipend, so she can live comfortably again. And my aunt Bellatrix will stop telling me how-how weak I am. Tomorrow night, Cressida, is going to make my fortune.”
“Or break it,” Ginny offered, and Draco wheeled on her at once.
“Never say that!” he commanded. “Don’t ill wish me. Can’t you see how badly I want this? Can’t you see how badly I need this?”
“You don’t need anything from him,” said Ginny softly, placing a calming hand on Draco’s sleeve. “Without all this-without any of this-you would still be the same kind and thoughtful and intelligent wizard you are. Whether or not you succeed in the Dark Lord’s eyes has nothing to do with your actual success.”
“That’s what you think,” he said darkly. “Don’t you see how untrue that is? I’m nothing without the favors he bestows on me. He can make the Malfoy name into what it was before, or he can crush us eternally. He can allow me to marry-to have children-to have a life…or he can take it all away with a flick of his wand. He has the ultimate power, and I must do what I can so that he doesn’t use it against me.”
“You could be happy outside his circle,” said Ginny, but he ignored her comment, and ran his knuckles softly on her cheek.
“I don’t want to think about this,” he said, looking her straight in the eye. “All I want to do-all I’ve wanted to do since that day in Divination-is kiss you.”
“All right,” said Ginny, craning her neck up at the full moon that hung lazily over the turrets of Hogwarts castle, and thinking that this would be the last time she’d feel his lips on hers, the last time she could look at the sky with him. “All right.”
He drew her into a shadow of the castle, and kissed her, so sweetly and tenderly that Ginny felt an ache building in her throat, of frustration and regret. She looked up at him with sad eyes, and he smiled encouragingly at her, ran a hand down the side of her body, and then kissed her again, pulling her down onto the grass with him.
“This is a mistake,” said Ginny, as he undid the buttons on her jumper, but she reached a pale hand for the zipper on his trousers and felt the same inexplicable sense of rightness that she had the other night, which kept her hands and mouth moving, even as she knew she was sentencing herself, tomorrow, to a night of pain.
+++
You are cordially invited to celebrate
the wedding of
Fleur Oceane Delacour
and
William Arthur Weasley
on Saturday evening
September the twentieth
at six o’clock
The Burrow, Ottery St. Catchpole
followed by a reception
<+++
Ginny was right.
The night passed in a blur-a blur not unlike those Muggle nights filled with wailing sirens and flashing red and blue lights, one of pain and misery and torment, of screams and dreadful silences and endless confusion.
She watched her brother’s marriage from the bushes, with Draco holding her hand; she could feel his pulse beating furiously, like the tattoo of a war drum. When Bill and Fleur had been pronounced man and wife, he began to count to ten under his breath, slowly, as the bride and groom kissed, and then pulled apart, to the cheers of the family members gathered in the garden.
He reached ten as Bill turned to face the bushes; Ginny saw his eyes narrow, and knew he was aware of everything going on. She recognized in his piercing gaze supreme readiness, and as Draco spat out, “Ten!” and leaped out of the bushes in his cape and hood, Crabbe, Goyle, Blaise, Pansy and Daphne following suit, almost the entire Order of the Phoenix sprang from within the Burrow, wands at the ready.
Draco let out an agonized cry, and Ginny stepped out of the bushes just as he turned to look at her, confusion and fear scrawled across his face. She bit her lip, and watched him stare in agony as her black hair faded away, and freckles flooded her face; across the garden, Hermione had cast the counterspell, and she was free from her disguise.
Draco was speechless, though his mouth opened and closed, and he stared at her with wide, shocked eyes, until the darkest of furies and angers welled up in them, and he was finally looking at her with the strongest of hatreds.
So were the others, even stupid Crabbe and Goyle, all of whom had been hexed and cursed into submission, and whose hands were being bound with thick, magical rope by Kingsley Shacklebolt and Tonks.
“Bring them back to Hogwarts,” Harry ordered wearily, “and lock them up. We’ll deal with them tomorrow morning. Tonight-tonight, we celebrate-their capture, but most importantly, Bill and Fleur’s wedding!”
Everyone cheered again, and Molly Weasley rushed across the garden to pull Ginny into a warm embrace. From over her mother’s shoulder, Ginny could see Draco, his hands being bound by Harry himself. He had his chin high, and his lips sealed, and when he looked over at Ginny, she could feel the hatred like an arrow through her heart.
( The Tower 2/2 )
ORIGINAL REQUEST
What would you like to receive: High-level vocabulary, Use of foreign language [French or Gaelic], Imagery, flash back is nice if done well and I particularly like magic. Other characters and pairings I like include Ron/Pansy, Blaise/Luna, I love the Black Sisters.
The tone/mood of the fic: Drama/Angst/Romance/Mystery
A Theme/element/line of dialogue/object you would like in your fic: Any of the following: flowers/plants, potions/charms/Divination as classes, Wine References, Travel, Death Eaters, Death Eater Lessons, Hogwart's Express, Weather Reference/Influence, Pagan Ritual/ Traditions, Windows, Candles, Mirrors, Fabric, Cloaks, Jewelry [lockets, rings, anklets], Scar Stories, Tattoos, Description of the Castle, Creatures.
Rating of the the fic you want: PG-13
Canon or AU? Either, though I prefer Hogwart's Era.
Deal Breakers (what don't you want?): Please don't make Ginny a medi-witch or Draco a teacher. Draco shouldn't be sappy either. And I don't particularly like song fics, though I don't mind if you steal lyrics or lines from something.
Rating: R for language and implied sexual situations
Summary: “The Tower is a card about war, a war between the structures of lies and the lightning flash of truth. It stands for false concepts and institutions that we take for real. You can expect to be shaken up, to be blinded by a shocking revelation. It sometimes takes that to see a truth that one refuses to see.”
Beta: My fabulous beta, Kaneesha, who puts up with my last-minute-ness and my crazy long fics.
Author's Notes: Phew. This fic took effort, and I hope you enjoy it, mystery recipient! The definitions of the Tarot cards come from my Tarot book, “Introduction to Tarot” by Susan Levitt. The description of the Tower card is taken word-for-word from http://www.aeclectic.net/tarot/learn/meanings/tower.shtml; though I am a Tarot reader myself, the description was too eloquent-and too perfect-to take apart. There is a minor homage to a dear friend of mine when Draco and Ginny discuss their favorite bands; I’m sure she’ll catch it. The Gaelic comes from a (hopefully) decent Gaelic translator site; the French is my own.
The Tower
MAGICAL MODIFICATION of inanimate objects is not an uncommon practice in wizarding society. From the witch of the household who charms her pots and pans to scrub themselves in the sink, to the beginning students practicing their Transfiguration skills on pincushions, simple inanimate objects have often been devices used by those with magical means. Ordinarily, these objects are hardly victims of their magical surroundings, but mere accomplices in the realms of efficiency, facility, and scholarship. However, there have been exceptions to this practice, and inanimate objects have on occasion fallen prey to wizards and witches who utilize these simple items for their own benefit…
-Widget, Tod. A History of Magical Tools and Resources. Little Red Books, 1967.
+++
“Travers, Donald.”
He was small for his age, with hair the color of corn silk, and watery blue eyes that seemed to threaten tears as he approached the stool with apprehension more befitting a hanging than a Sorting. He placed the hat upon his head with trepidation, and when it slipped over his pale face, hiding him from the hall of spectators, he seemed to breathe a sigh of relief; his shoulders relaxed, and his hands curled and uncurled around the rim of the stool, and when the hat shouted “RAVENCLAW!” he rose with grace and confidence, and made his way to the proper table with an easy stride.
He was the last of a long line of first years, and the hungry students all looked anxiously towards the empty platters adorning their house tables; some of the more eager placed their napkins in their laps, and reached for forks and knives. They were to be disappointed, for McGonagall rose, again, and addressed the student body in a voice clear as a bell.
“We have newly among us a young lady who will not be Sorted as a first year,” said the Headmistress to her pupils-of whom there were few and far between this year. “She has previously attended a smaller school of practical magic in the Lake District, but has reconsidered the direction of her magical education and come here, to Hogwarts, instead.”
The students began to whisper almost at once, the sounds of their hushed voices rising like the rustling of a fluttering flock of birds, excitement palpable in the air. Food forgotten, they turned again to the stool and Sorting Hat, which sat waiting for the entrance of this young lady.
She had been sitting by the door through which first years traditionally entered, and when she stood the pupils saw that she was old-a sixth or seventh year, wearing a plain uniform that was identical to their own, but bore no house crest or colors. She had jet-black hair and pale blue eyes, and she walked with a certain undeniable grace towards the stool, her eyes fixed only on the Sorting Hat, and not on the dozens of others who watched her every move with curiosity.
“I’d like you all to meet Cressida Wilkes,” said McGonagall with pure iron in her tone, and then she sat again at the head table, and with her bespectacled gaze followed the girl’s path to the stool.
When the newcomer sat, it was revealed that she had shapely legs, and good posture, and a figure that many of the girls might have envied, if they had not been at the moment so starved with hunger. She placed the hat on her head gingerly; it did not slip down as it had for the first years, but stayed perched on her high forehead, and so she shut her eyes to block out the many peering faces, and tightened her lips until they went from pale rose to light white.
She sat there for nearly a quarter of an hour, and rumbles of discontent rose from the students in the hall. In particular, a boy at the Slytherin table made a moue with his aristocratic mouth, and muttered cheekily to the girl beside him, “Clear she doesn’t belong here, wouldn’t you say?” The girl tittered, a loud sound that echoed in the near-silence, and she clapped an embarrassed hand over her parted, smiling lips, just as the hat’s brim stretched open to emit a screeching cry:
“SLYTHERIN!”
There was no disguising the shock on the faces of the whispering boy or the laughing girl, nor any of their housemates; neither could one have muffled the disappointed sighs echoing from the other tables, all of whom had hoped to inherit the newcomer, and were regretful to see her go to the none other but the house of snakes.
On her part, the black-haired girl merely stood, and placed the hat carefully back on the stool. She gave an odd little glance at McGonagall, who gave her so curt a nod of assent that one might have missed it in blinking, and then she stepped forward towards the Slytherin table, no hesitation in her step at all.
She walked with confidence towards the far end of the table, where the oldest students sat, and when she reached the blond-haired boy who had mocked her, and his companion, a brunette, she glanced at the bench and the space between the two conspirators, and waited.
“Shove over, Pans,” said the blond boy, after a moment’s decision-making, and the brunette wrinkled her nose in disgust, but moved over, making room for the newcomer to slip into the seat on the bench, with the blond boy on her right and disgruntled Pansy on her left.
“Wilkes, eh,” commented the boy, as he spooned a few servings of mashed potatoes into his plate, and poured liberal amounts of gravy over the small mountain he had amassed. “Not by any chance related to Isidore Wilkes, killed by Aurors in the first war, are you?” he asked, assessing his new housemate with a raised eyebrow.
“His niece,” said the girl, reaching for the pitcher of pumpkin juice and pouring some neatly into her small goblet. “My father’s older brother.”
“Is that so,” Draco Malfoy noted, and he scooped himself a mouthful of mashed potatoes, still observing Cressida Wilkes from the corner of his pale, discerning grey eyes.
+++
It hadn’t been so bad, really. Except for the fact that Pansy Parkinson was still miffed, and wouldn’t look at her, the other girls had accepted her quite easily, pointing out where things were located as they made their way to the Slytherin common room, and introducing her to the professors they passed along the way. It was difficult to hold her tongue-to pretend she didn’t know that Divination was taught in the North Tower, and that Professor Flitwick taught Charms. It was difficult not to wave at her former friends from across the hall, too. But she’d managed. She had no choice.
Daphne Greengrass, by far the nicest of the lot, had shown her to the bathroom, and warned her about Peeves the poltergeist, before smiling and heading back to the dormitory. She had been grateful for that, at least; she only knew of the prefect’s bath closest to Gryffindor Tower, not the ordinary one down near the dungeons, where, it turned out, the Slytherin common room was located.
It had been a nasty shock to undress and then turn and face a mirror. The reflection staring back at her was missing the comforting red hair, and the face full of freckles. Her warm brown eyes were now an icy blue, and even their form had changed to an almond shape. Her lips were the same, though, and her nose. Her ears, thankfully, they had shrunk, somewhat-though the new thick black mane would have hidden her outsize ears, anyway. Some of the changes were a tad pointless, but it was all an effort to render her as different as possible from her regular self. She couldn’t afford even the slightest resemblance to Ginny Weasley.
Ginny had been unable to tear her eyes off the sight of her strange new face for almost a full minute, before she realized that the bath was overflowing onto the floor, and she had best hurry back before the torches were extinguished, as she was sure to forget the way to Slytherin. As she soaked in the warm water, Ginny reviewed, for the hundredth time, the purpose of her mission. She could see Harry’s great gleaming green eyes as he pressed his forehead against hers, repeating instructions in a deep, focused tone-“You are to infiltrate Slytherin House and befriend the leaders of the Death Eater youth. Earn their trust, learn their secrets-and then, at the opportune moment, you will turn them in. And then we will do with them what we must to win this war.”
It was a crucial operation, and it had fallen to Ginny by chance. McGonagall headed the Order officially, but it was really Harry who ran things-Harry, with Ron and Hermione constantly at his side-and so none of the trio were expendable; none of them could have taken this place. Any of the Auror-trained Order members might have done the job, but for the one catch: it had to be someone school-age-somebody who could easily slip into the daily motions of life at Hogwarts-while still secretly spying and hatching a plan to catch the youngest, and most dangerous, generation of Death Eaters.
Lying in the bathwater, Ginny looked back on the Order meeting that had landed her in this position. She hadn’t even been present-just eavesdropping at the door, listening to Harry’s hushed voice-“They’re next in line, and they know it-they are preparing for it-they are waiting to take the reins, as we have, here-and they will be brutal. This generation does not intend to be left out of the war. We have to do everything-everything-in our power to stop them before they can get started.”
There was murmuring, contention, and then Moody’s voice above all the rest, drowning everyone out, creaking and crackling-“A spy. There’s nothing for it. We need a spy.”
She’d known, somehow, listening at the door, that they’d choose her. She heard them run through everyone, discuss the possibilities, grow frustrated by the increasingly obvious issue of choosing a teenager-someone the same age as these budding Death Eaters-to perform this mission. And she listened as they ran through the choices, before, finally, Harry said in a weary voice, “Ginny.”
And now here she was-after her mother’s tears, and her father’s protestations, and her brothers’ wild-eyed shouting-with long black hair and bright blue eyes and a secret buried deep inside of her. A secret, and a plan.
+++
“The body is full of electric impulses, and she invented this spell that would protect a person by harnessing that natural electricity. It took her about two months-and that’s ages for a witch like Hermione-but once it was complete it was an absolute success. It acted as a sort of shield, which was activated when anyone with malevolent intent touched the person protected by the shield…it would shock the offender, as though he or she had been burned, and leave the protected person untouched. It was the forerunner in combining magic with electricity, which was a power unexplored by wizards until then.”
-Remus J. Lupin on the invention of the Magi-Electric Defense
+++
“Partner up,” said Professor Trelawney, in as close as her misty voice ever came to an order.
The air in the North Tower was stuffy; the heady scent of incense seemed to cloud everyone’s minds. While in Charms a similar order might have prompted the wild scurrying of students across the classroom, forming partnerships with great to-do, in Divination the same pupils merely turned to those sitting nearby, and wearily agreed to work together.
There had been, previously, an uneven number of Slytherins in the Divination class; in prior years, Draco Malfoy had been forced to work with Professor Trelawney herself, as Pansy and Daphne always chose each other as partners, and Crabbe and Goyle were an obvious match. Today, however, he found himself drawing a chair over to the small table at which sat Cressida Wilkes.
“Hello,” he said genially, eyeing her as he had the night before, as though inspecting her. What he saw met his general approval-she was pretty, if not beautiful-but the utter silence on her end was a bit irritating, not to mention baffling.
“Hello,” she said in return, her eyes not leaving the tabletop.
“Not very talkative, are you?” he commented.
“Not very, no,” she agreed. She looked up, but only to glance at Professor Trelawney, who was rummaging through a trunk at the opposite end of the classroom.
“So, you’re really Isidore Wilkes’s niece?” Draco asked, trying to contain the eagerness in his voice.
“Truly.”
“Would you-are you-I mean…” Draco trailed off as she met his glance coolly, those frosty blue eyes providing no reception for Draco’s queries. Frowning, irritated at having been rebuffed, Draco bit his lip and said nothing for a moment. He, too, looked around for Trelawney, and noted that she was passing out Tarot decks to each partnership-at which he groaned loudly.
“I’m bloody awful at this ridiculous Tarot shite,” he grumbled. “Waste of time, anyway. Everyone knows Divination goes beyond some stupid card tricks.”
Cressida Wilkes did not comment, but merely untied the silk scarf encasing the deck they’d been assigned, and then pushed it towards her partner, saying softly, “You first.”
Sighing crossly, Draco lifted the deck in his hands as though he were touching something vile. He began to shuffle, but Cressida could see immediately that he was a failure at anything to do with a card deck; his motions were awkward, and he fumbled with the cards unhappily.
“I can play anything on the piano, but this-” he groaned, and he punctuated his complaint with an attempt to riffle the cards-a disastrous attempt, for they went flying everywhere, landing every which way on the tabletop-a few even fluttered towards the floor.
“Give me that!” his partner suddenly snapped, and Draco’s eyebrows shot up as Cressida Wilkes reached angrily for the cards on the table, whipping them back into deck form in a matter of moments, before whisking the cards from the floor in seconds and adding them back into the pile.
“Let me,” she said, attempting to reclaim dignity. “You were manhandling them, for Gryf-Salazar’s sake.”
Her slip of the tongue went unnoticed, for Draco was entranced by the easy manner in which she shuffled the deck, as well as the force behind those bright blue eyes, which, now that she had been roused, shone with a strange inner light.
“What’ll I read for you?” she demanded impatiently, but he could not find an answer in him; he merely shrugged.
“Oh, fine,” she said huffily, and Draco stared dumbly at Cressida’s quick flicks of the wrist as she placed five cards, facedown, across the table, in a circular pattern.
“The eight of swords,” she announced, as she turned the first face-up. “The three of pentacles. The seven of cups. The five of swords. All Minor Arcana. And…”
She flipped over the fifth and stared, as though unsurprised, at the card she had revealed. It was a picture of a castle tower; on the parapet stood a young man, who, as lighting struck, was thrown off the tower into the blackness of the night around him. The moving image replayed continuously.
“And that,” she said, “that-is the Tower.”
“The Tower!” came a quiet gasp from the opposite end of the room, and suddenly both Cressida and Draco raised their eyes from the cards to see that all around them their classmates were staring at the goings-on at their table. Even Professor Trelawney watched with bated breath.
It was a result of the crackling force in the air, emanating from the newcomer-an undeniable feeling of magical power. Its draw was magnetic, and every face was turned towards Cressida’s pale one. For all that she was behind in nearly every other class, having learned only the most cursory of magic skills at her former school, there was no denying the power that emanated from her in this class, as she stared down at the five cards displayed before her.
Flustered, Cressida looked back down, and fingered the edge of the closest card anxiously. Draco Malfoy glared at the class with annoyance before turning back to his partner and demanding, “Well?”
“Well.” Cressida took a deep breath. “Well…the eight of swords signifies overwhelm-exhaustion,” she intoned. “And the three of pentacles, hard work. The seven of cups…unrealistic desires and goals-wishful thinking, if you will. As for the five of swords…that’s an indication of lost interest, or lost hope.”
Opposite her, Draco Malfoy’s eyes narrowed, and his lips pressed together in a firm line. The eyes of the Slytherin students in the classroom all widened. Draco felt his cheeks flush, and he reached to loosen his tie. “You-” he threatened, his voice a growl. “You…”
“And then, the Tower card. Mars rules over the Tower,” said Cressida, interrupting him smoothly, eyes glued to the cards “The Tower is a card about war, a war between the structures of lies and the lightning flash of truth. It stands for false concepts and institutions that we take for real. You can expect, soon, to be shaken up, to be blinded by a shocking revelation. It sometimes takes that to see a truth that one refuses to see. Or to bring down beliefs that are heretofore well-constructed.”
“How dare-”
“What’s most important to remember is that the tearing down of this structure, however painful, makes room for something new to be built. Something new, and better.”
“That’s enough!” Draco shouted, and he reached out a hand to grab Cressida’s wrist, intending to fling the rest of the unused Tarot deck across the room, as well as startle her. Instead, he received an electric shock of enormous magnitude, which burned his fingers as though he’d touched a hot teakettle; he shouted in alarm and sprung backwards. The new girl stood uneasily, looking down at her fingers incredulously.
“It’s-it’s just a deck of cards,” she finally said, her voice low as she recovered from the shock. “And I was never very good at Divination anyway. It doesn’t mean anything-it’s all random happenstance.”
“It had better be,” Draco Malfoy ordered. “It had better be-for I haven’t got any false concepts, and there are no shocking revelations in store-no bringing down of well-constructed beliefs! Do you understand that?”
“I do,” said Cressida, and she sank slowly into her seat. “I do.”
There was a painful silence, and then Professor Trelawney whispered, “Class dismissed,” and the pupils shuffled out, like a well-ordered Tarot deck, in silence.
+++
Ginny Weasley sat cowering in a corner of the library, stacks of books piled high to hide her from anyone who might happen by. The book nearest her, through a twist of irony, was an instruction manual for Tarot reading, and Ginny smirked a little. She should have known better than to read for him; she had never picked up a Tarot deck and predicted falsely. The truth of the cards seemed to pour out from her like milk from a broken jug. But he had been so clumsy-so careless-with the deck, that she had snatched it from his hands without thinking twice.
And what a reading it had been! It had answered so many questions. For starters, his rage had confirmed that there was indeed an underground Death Eater association at the school, and that Malfoy was in charge. It had revealed that Malfoy was overwhelmed by his duties, and that they were, really, a lost cause. And, most importantly, the Tower had told her that Malfoy faced some sort of change-some enormous, catastrophic change. Which could only be Ginny’s success, and the Order’s arrival. Yes, the reading had been instrumental.
But it had also been dangerous. If Draco Malfoy was suspicious, now, and if Ginny were to be caught, then none of the predicted events would come true. Just as a boulder on the tracks could derail a train, so could a single event derail the impending future-and Ginny had no doubt that catching a spy from the Order in Slytherin House would be such a catalyst in the future of Draco Malfoy.
“Cressida.”
She gasped at the sudden hand on her shoulder, and turned, and there he was-her worst nightmare, his blond hair combed neatly, and his robes discarded for a dark green sweater and grey slacks. She was ready to run, but something in his eyes stopped her. He was looking at her intently, but not without compassion. There was gentleness there, if a certain pride, as well.
Draco gestured at the chair by hers, and asked, “May I?” Ginny nodded, and Draco sat. He folded his hands on the table, and peered into her eyes, and for a moment Ginny was certain he could see past the disguise. Her heart pounded, and she nearly jumped out of her skin when he moved his hand to place it over hers.
“I came to apologize,” said Draco quietly, and Ginny stared at him with a rabbit’s wide, petrified eyes. “My actions in Divination were uncalled for. Your reading…was clearly the result of powerful, powerful magic…and I should have known better than to touch anyone who was so recently involved with such a force. I upset you, and for that, I am deeply sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize to me,” said Ginny automatically.
“No?” asked Draco, quirking his lips into an amused smile. “Why not?”
“Because-” began Ginny, and then she clamped her mouth shut. Because I’m a Weasley, and you hate Weasleys. Because I’m poor, and you’re rich. Because I’m a a spy for the Order, and you’re the king of Slytherin. Because…
“Because I’m new,” she finished lamely. “And before this, I went to a stupid practical magic school. And I’m behind in all my subjects. And I didn’t give you a very good reading.”
“You’re talented,” said Draco. “And you deserve to be here. You should have been here from the start-you’d be a full prophetess by now, I warrant. And your reading was not your fault. It’s the truth.”
“It is?”
“It is.” He suddenly looked gloomy, and he repeated himself soberly. “It is. I’m overwhelmed…I’m under so great an amount of pressure…and my cause, I’m afraid, is a lost one.”
Ginny merely stared at him, unsure of what to say. How had this happened? How had her mission fallen into her lap like this? It was uncanny, and possibly unreal-was she dreaming?
“You will have heard that I was on the run this summer,” said Draco, more to himself than Ginny, running his hands through his hair worriedly. “I tried-I tried to do something foolish. And luckily, someone else accomplished the task for me, and I was able to argue my way back to school on that very fragile line of reasoning. Because my place here is of the utmost importance.”
He squeezed her hand, which was still under his, and leaned forward across the table.
“You’re of pure blood,” he said in a hushed undertone. “And your uncle was killed fighting for our cause. No?”
Ginny nodded.
“You have an immense power, Cressida Wilkes,” said Draco Malfoy softly, his grey eyes piercing hers persuasively. “We need someone like you on our side. There’s-there’s an organization, here. I run it. We keep it as quiet as we can, or else the Order of the Phoenix-that’s Dumbledore’s army, our greatest enemy-will come after us, but so far we are safe. We’re making…plans. Big plans. And we could use someone with your talent to help us.”
“You…you fight for You-Know-Who?”
“Yes. The Dark Lord. Address him with respect. He earned his title rightly,” said Draco fervently, and Ginny fought the urge to pull back from the feverish look in his eyes. “Will you join us, Cressida? Will you join our cause?”
Ginny opened her mouth, but no words emerged, and she stared helplessly at Draco as a voice in her head shouted mercilessly This is your chance! Take it, you bint, take it! This! Is! Your! Chance!
“Think it over,” said Draco smoothly, and he rose as gracefully as he had sat, brushing his long hair out of his eyes elegantly. He reached for Ginny’s hand, and pulled her from her seat.
“Walk back to Slytherin with me?” he proposed, and Ginny managed to squeak out a “Yes.” He hooked his arm through hers, and led her out of the library, down the dark, torch-lit corridors towards the dungeons. The topic changed at once, to lighthearted things, as soon as they were in public. He talked about his professors, and his favorite subjects (Arithmancy, which he’d taken since he’d dropped Care of Magical Creatures, and Potions). He said he liked classical music best, but he listened to the wireless, too, and he liked the band Icarus and the Wings. Most of all, though, he spoke about Quidditch-the thrill of flying, and being Seeker, and touching the clouds.
“Do you play?” he asked, as they neared the common room, and Ginny said no.
“I’m a terrible flier,” she lied, and Draco shook his head.
“That won’t do,” he said, pausing before they turned the corner to the common room. “I’ll have to take you up with me, sometime. And teach you.”
Ginny nodded. “I suppose,” she said. “I’d like that.”
“So would I,” said Draco, bending his head towards hers, and Ginny felt a smile growing on her lips, which she tried, unsuccessfully, to repress.
“You’re quite pretty when you smile,” Draco whispered, and he bent even closer towards her, and suddenly Ginny realized they were standing in a darkened corridor, alone, and they were very close, and he was about to kiss her.
He met her eyes right before he did, and then pressed his lips against hers in the gentlest of kisses Ginny had ever received-no lack of finesse, like Michael, or sloppy wetness, like Dean, or even Harry’s brutal snogging. Just a sweet kiss.
“What was that for?” she asked, when he’d pulled back, and Draco furrowed his brow.
“Why not?” he asked. “I felt like it.”
“You just met me. And you’re with Pansy!” Ginny blurted out.
“Pansy thinks she’s with me,” Draco corrected her. “And what I know of you-I like. And I would like to get to know you better. I think-I think-”
He stared at her, silenced and baffled, and Ginny realized that if any other boy had kissed her that way, in a quiet alcove, gently and without permission, she wouldn’t have made a fuss over it. It was the fact that he was Draco Malfoy-the boy who was working for Voldemort, who she’d been sent to spy on-that made matters complicated, and wrong. But he didn’t know that she was Ginny Weasley. She was just the pretty new girl, with pure blood and talent at Tarot. And he was the boy who could have any girl he wanted. From his angle, the kiss made sense. Just as much sense as it had made for Harry to kiss her, out of the blue, at the party last term.
“I’m sorry,” Ginny said carefully, twining her fingers and contemplating how to handle this unexpected situation. “That was-that was rude of me. It was a very nice kiss.”
“I’m glad,” said Draco, and he bit his lip and cast his eyes downward, as though also trying to suppress a smile-an indulgent smile, for Ginny had a feeling that the Slytherin girls were hardly that polite after complaining about a kiss, and that she’d come off as a little naïve, a little childish, in comparison. He had no way of knowing that she was truly a Gryffindor at heart; she must seem so different compared to the others.
“Shall we?” she asked, and he took her arm, and led them around the corner and down into the common room, where they parted ways and headed for their dormitories. The other girls were asleep, and she undressed in the dark. She heard the crinkle of parchment in her pocket, and when she had closed the draperies around her bed, she lit her wand, and unfolded the scrap of parchment she’d found.
Reading it, she remembered that she could not forget her purpose here. Nobody in Slytherin House was really as they seemed.
+++
Think over what we discussed in the library.
And tomorrow I’ll give you that broom ride.
-D.
+++
The sun was out, and there was the perfect stiff, autumn breeze for Quidditch. Draco Malfoy unlocked the shed with his captain’s keys, removed his broom from the rack, and then unleashed the Snitch from its encasings out into the great open sky. He grinned into the sun, shielding his eyes, as the little gold ball vanished into the blue; he loved chasing after the Snitch just for its own sake, not for points, or valor, or pride. Just to fly.
He mounted his broom, and soared easily towards the sky, alert for any movement of the Snitch. It always seemed to know when it was out alone; it didn’t travel as far, as though aware that Draco had no other distractions. It teased him, appearing by his ear, and then flickering away, sprite-like. He zoomed after it, letting out a whoop of laughter as he hit a gust of wind and burst forward like a rocket.
“What about me?” he heard, in the distance, and he peered down from his immense height and saw a tiny figure on the pitch, waving at him and calling at him in a tiny, faraway voice.
Cressida.
He swept downwards, grinning devilishly. He was flying directly at her, ready to scare her out of her wits. He didn’t slow down, didn’t deviate from his path, but charged right at her. At the very last minute, he swerved, flying past her at an incredible speed, so close that his sleeve brushed her arm, but he did not strike her.
To his disappointment, she didn’t scream. Or even flinch. She stood and let the wind blow through her hair, and she made an unimpressed face at him-is that all?
Screeching to a stop, he leapt off his broom and grabbed it by the handle, jogging to where she stood, puzzled by her stoic demeanor. Even the bravest of Gryffindors might have been frightened by that kind of performance, but she had stood her ground.
“Was that meant to impress me?” she asked, cocking a hip and placing a hand there for emphasis.
“I’d be lying if I said no,” Draco replied, grinning bashfully. “Was it boring?”
“You can fly fast, and straight. I don’t see what’s so difficult about that,” contested Cressida Wilkes.
“Well, I’d like to see you do better,” Draco challenged, trying to hide his irritation-she clearly had no idea the control, the precision, or the talent it took to steer and ride a broom like that.
Cressida’s face tightened, and then released, as though she were on the verge of saying something snappish back, and then changed her mind. She eyed his broom with something close to envy, and then shrugged and said, “I can’t.”
Draco shrugged, and reached out a hand for hers. “Would you like to take a ride? I’ll show you how.”
She nodded, and stepped towards his broom decisively; he mounted it, and then she climbed on behind him, wrapping two arms around his waist for balance.
“Ready?” he asked, and she nodded into his back.
“Hold on tight,” he laughed, and with a firm kick of his left foot, the broom soared into the sky.
The first thing he concentrated on was not speed, but height. He climbed higher than he even before, until he was beginning to feel a bit lightheaded from the air and the wind. Then he began to swoop across the Quidditch pitch, crossing once, twice, three times, getting lower each time, and diving dramatically, causing his ears to pop and his stomach to tighten with adrenaline. Behind him, Cressida tightened her grip on his waist, but she let out a tiny chuckle that encouraged him to do more.
As he grew closer to the ground, he picked up the speed, whirling through the sky like a pinwheel, testing the broom’s agility and endurance. He flew them upside down, spinning the broom like a top, laughing all the while, before diving into a Wronski Feint, as though the Snitch were glimmering on the ground-which it was, Draco suddenly noticed, as they sped towards the pitch-it was right there, right by the grass, near the goalpost. As he flew downwards, he reached out a hand and grasped blindly for the tiny gold ball, which he somehow, miraculously, snatched just as it zipped away, its tiny gold wings beating against the palm of his hand.
He pulled upward abruptly, and came to a stop, before tumbling off the broom and flopping onto his back in the grass, sprawled out eagle-spread and chest heaving from the exertion. The Snitch was still writhing in his hand. He rolled over onto his side, and saw that she had stumbled off his broom, and sank to her knees with dizziness and elation, grinning wildly at him before flopping down on the grass to join him.
“How was that?” Draco asked, and she replied that it had been wonderful.
“I want to learn to do that,” she added.
“I’ll teach you, if you like,” he offered, but she shook her head.
“I’ll teach myself, and then give you a demonstration. How’s that?”
“You’re an interesting girl,” said Draco thoughtfully, after a moment’s pause.
“Not really. I’m just a novelty.”
“A novelty with potential.”
“Potential for what?” asked Cressida, and Draco could have sworn he heard the slightest note of flirtation in her tone.
“Potential for us,” said Draco, squashing the flirtation with his grave voice. He sat up to look at her. “For you, and for me, and for the Dark Lord.”
A cloud seemed to pass over Cressida’s face, and Draco looked away, frustrated. Did she think he would forget? He couldn’t forget. He had one purpose in life, and that was to serve his society, through whatever means assigned to him. This had been made his duty. Did she think he would forget that after a wild broomstick ride?
“Do you really think I should join?” she asked in a small voice.
“You would be of immeasurable help. And you would reap equal rewards,” Draco told her, speaking nothing but the truth.
“Would I have to take-take the Dark Mark?”
Draco cast a quick, fleeting, glance at his right arm, but then looked quickly back into her blue eyes. “No,” he said. “Not right away. When you feel ready.”
“And-and would the others mind?” she asked. “Pansy, and-and your friends, and-”
“Not in the slightest,” he assured her, though he might have been lying slightly about Pansy’s reaction. “They would welcome you with open arms. We’re a family, Cressida. All of us purebloods, and all of us fighting to preserve our race, our culture. We would be family even without the Dark Lord and his service, but this will bring us even closer.”
His expression was earnest, and his words were truthful, and he could see the gears clicking in her head, as she swallowed and contemplated his speech, and then, with only the slightest nod of her head, assented.
“All right,” she said. “All right. When’s the next meeting?”
“Tonight,” said Draco with a broad grin, and he leaned over in the grass to kiss her, more firmly this time, on the lips.
+++
An unprecedented number of individuals took on the terrifying task of undercover work during both of the Voldemort Wars; no other war had an equal number of spies in the history of magical conflict. In the underground association The Order of the Phoenix alone, which received no support from the Ministry or any official enemy of Voldemort, there were twenty-two reported incidences of just long-term spywork in the two wars; rumor has it that the over seventy members spanning both wars all engaged in undercover work at some point during their Order careers.
Known Spies For The Order of the Phoenix (in alphabetical order)
Colin Creevey - VW2
Dedalus Diggle - VW1, VW2
Aberforth Dumbledore - VW1, VW2
Benjy Fenwick - VW1
Arabella Figg - VW1, VW2
Caroline Granger ¹ - VW2
Hestia Jones - VW2
Frank Longbottom - VW1
Neville Longbottom - VW2
Maureen McKinnon - VW1
Alastor Moody - VW1, VW2
Timothy O’Keefe - VW1
Padma Patil - VW2
James Potter - VW1
Honoria Radcliffe - VW1
Severus Snape ² - VW1, VW2
Ernest Underwood - VW1, VW2
William Weasley - VW2
Fred Weasley - VW2
George Weasley - VW2
Ginevra Weasley - VW2
Percival Weasley - VW2
¹Caroline Granger was the only known Muggle to be employed by the Order.
²Severus Snape also worked for the Death Eaters.
-Gibbons, Jasper. “The Spies of VW1 & VW2.” Magical Conflict Magazine.
+++
Right after dinner, two hours before Ginny was meant to meet the rest of the young Death Eaters behind the tapestry of Maleficent the Malevolent, Professor McGonagall brushed past her and requested an audience with Cressida Wilkes.
“We need to discuss your coursework, dear,” she said, but when she met Ginny’s eyes, the message was clear-this was about Ginny’s work for the Order, not anything to do with the fictional Cressida Wilkes.
McGonagall’s office was as spare and neat as her person, but there was a basket of biscuits on which Ginny nibbled as she waited for the headmistress to meet with her. When she heard voices down the corridor, Ginny gulped down the last biscuit and sat up straight, just before McGonagall entered the room at her usual quick pace.
“This has to be quick,” she said curtly, reaching for a biscuit herself, and perching carefully on the edge of her desk, staring down at Ginny in the old-fashioned chair. “I only want to make sure you’re keeping on track.”
“I am,” said Ginny, unsure of how to broach the topic that a Death Eater meeting was about to go on right under McGonagall’s nose.
“Because what I saw on the Quidditch pitch today did not look altogether acceptable,” McGonagall warned, and Ginny looked up in alarm.
“I don’t know what you’re up to, Miss Weasley,” scolded McGonagall, “but I had best hear of some improvements, or I’ll have you pulled off this mission faster than you can say ‘kissing Draco Malfoy.’ Is that clear?”
“There’s a Death Eater meeting tonight, and I’m going,” blurted Ginny at once, her cheeks flaming with anger and shame. “So before you question my methods, perhaps you ought to keep up with my goings-on.”
McGonagall’s face registered first shock at the revelation, and then anger at Ginny’s impertinence. She cast her steely eyes on Ginny and warned, “Miss Weasley, if I were you, I would mind my tongue!”
“I’m your spy,” said Ginny bluntly. “I’m not your student any longer. And as such I think I’m justified in saying to you whatever I feel is necessary. And what I feel is necessary is this-if snogging Draco Malfoy as Cressida Wilkes helps me learn what that scum is up to, then I’ll stick my bloody tongue down his throat every day. Is that clear?”
“Miss Weasley!” McGonagall shouted, but Ginny had already risen from the chair and stormed out of the office without looking back.
She headed directly to the tapestry, which was on the seventh floor; the long walk up the moving staircases did her good, for by the time she reached the woven portrait of the evil sorceress, she had regained her composure. Gathered before the tapestry were six figures-the first, recognizable by his blond hair shining in the darkness, was Draco Malfoy. The others were Pansy and Daphne, who looked surprised to see Ginny-as-Cressida walking down the corridor towards them, and then Blaise Zabini (who seemed always coolly expressionless) and the oblivious Crabbe and Goyle.
“Good,” said Draco, when Ginny reached them; he clapped his hands. “We’re all here. Shall we?”
They headed down the corridor, and suddenly Ginny realized where they were walking-straight to the Room of Requirement. It was a place of strong memories for her, and she felt her head swim at the absolute irony of the situation-that the room had been used for an organization of pure good-the D.A.-and was now being used for an organization of pure evil. Draco paced back and forth before the blank expanse of wall three times, and when he had finished, a door appeared, and all seven of them walked in to a library of immense size, furnished with sofas and a huge writing desk.
“As I’m sure you know, this is Cressida Wilkes, the late Isidore Wilkes’s niece, and our newest recruit,” Draco announced, waving a hand at Ginny, who had taken a seat on the edge of a blood-colored sofa with trepidation. “For those of you who take Divination, I’m sure you saw evidence of the kind of magical power she possesses, and I’m sure you’re as eager as I am to harness it towards our case,” he added. The words sent chills down Ginny’s spine, but perhaps it was the eerie concurrence of the cold, brutal words and the gentle look Draco was giving her.
“Now, first order of business-capes and hoods,” said Draco, suddenly business-like, and he launched into a speech on the importance of uniformity as both a terrorizing tactic and a method of boosting morale.
The meeting seemed to go on forever, and she had trouble keeping up-the Death Eater-related material was constantly interrupted by casual conversation, as the daily lives of the members seemed to intertwine with the actions of their terrifying alter egos. Eventually, Ginny found herself growing sleepy, and gave in to the urge, letting herself doze away on the edge of the sofa.
She stirred two hours later, when a familiar word pierced the haze of sleep around her, and startled her into wakefulness. Only Draco was left in the room, and he was bent over a giant map of wizarding England, his hair falling into his eyes and his face grave as he studied the chart.
“So that’s where the Weasleys live,” he muttered to himself, and the sound of her surname drew Ginny’s attention; her eyes popped open and she looked with fear on the handsome silhouette of the boy with the map, whose solitary air made a disturbingly pretty picture, considering what evil doings he was planning.
When Ginny shifted on the sofa, her muscles numb from having fallen asleep in a strange position, Draco noticed her movements, and beckoned her over with a smile. She rose and approached the map with a sense of panic thrumming through her veins; it was a struggle to keep a smile on her face when she saw that the map was a perfect picture of the region in which her family lived, with a pushpin placed precisely on the location of the Burrow.
Draco had been leaning over the table in silent contemplation, his two hands flat against the map as he inspected it. Now he moved so that Ginny could take his place; she stood with her churning stomach jammed against the edge of the table, her fingertips brushing the familiar Devon countryside. She was so utterly shaken that when Draco moved behind her, to peer over her shoulder and press himself against her back, she didn’t even move in protest, even when he returned his hands to where they had been before, so that he framed her body like two bookends stacked together.
“Have you ever heard of the Weasleys?” he asked in a low murmur. She could feel his breath stirring the hairs on her neck.
“Yes.”
“Then you’ll know they’re a foremost family in the Order-purebloods, but traitors to the cause, and as such, absolute filth. They fight for everything we stand against. And there are dozens of them-the parents, and their six sons, and one daughter, not to mention the little Mudblood brats they’ve adopted along the way. And they all live right here.”
He pointed at the pushpin, and Ginny nodded slowly; the world felt as though it had fallen off its axis, and was spinning in slow-motion. It was a struggle to swallow, as Draco continued, his voice inexplicably calm, lucid-gentle, even, as he explained to Cressida Wilkes the major plan of the Death Eater youth with the tenderness of a university student discussing his thesis.
“Well, we’re going to eradicate them,” he said. “In two weeks, the oldest son is getting married, according to our sources. They’re having the wedding in the backyard, the uncivilized scum. Well, we’re going to strike, and we are going to burn that house to the ground, and kill every one of them.”
Ginny turned so abruptly she thought she had given herself away; Draco pulled away and stared at her with startled eyes.
“You’re going to kill them?” she whimpered, and her voice cracked horribly.
“Of course we are,” Draco replied, a little nervously. The smile he wore on his lips seemed to falter as he stepped towards her. “What did you think we did, Cressida? Throw parties? Drink lots of wine?”
“That’s all Pansy seemed to talk about for the last two hours,” Ginny retorted.
Draco frowned. “There’s more to the Death Eater lifestyle than grand parties and high society,” he said. “The price for that luxury is the need to delve into the dirty, the brutal, the terrifying. In order to raise our children, protect our families, in a society of culture and extravagance, we need to get our hands dirty, so to speak.”
“Is it worth it?” Ginny cried, and she felt her blood run cold when Draco nodded and said, without hesitation, “Of course it is.”
“My father did it,” he went on. “And my grandfather before him. And so will I.”
“That’s awful,” Ginny cried passionately, heedless of the danger she was putting herself in by blatantly disagreeing with everything Draco Malfoy stood for.
“It is,” he said, and his answer shocked her into silence. He stepped closer, wearing a look of pure apology. “It is awful, but it’s the way of the world. Someone must take up the reins, Cressida, and who would you have it be? Crabbe? Goyle? They’re too stupid. And Blaise-Blaise is sharp, but selfish. No, it has to be me, and this is my place, and this is what I will do from now on-orchestrate killings, and plan raids, and arrange meetings-and if that means I can keep my family safe, and keep my world in order, then I will. I’m not a coward.”
Ginny merely shook her head, and looked away, unable to meet the infinitely kind grey eyes of the boy who stood before her, palms open, baring his heart to her, but speaking horrid, atrocious things. How could someone so clearly good--someone who loved Quidditch, and piano, and spoke of protecting his family and doing the right thing by his culture, his world-be so evil? He had the same motives as Harry, Ginny realized-the same desires, the same needs. But he had chosen the wrong way of seeing the world, and, as such, was perpetrating pure evil in order to achieve those goals. How could he be so blind to the wrongness of his actions?
“Come on,” said Draco when Ginny didn’t answer. “Let’s get out of here.”
He slipped an arm around her shoulder, and she didn’t protest as he walked them out of the Room of Requirement and down the deserted hallway, which was midnight black at this late hour. Their footsteps echoed softly on the marble floors, and there was a perfect symmetry to the way they walked together that seemed to calm Ginny’s racing pulse, and help her control herself again.
“You know, you’re the first person I’ve ever said all that to,” said Draco quietly, as they rounded a corner and reached a corridor lit by an enormous window, which sent pure moonlight pouring down the hall. She could see the light glinting off his hair, bringing out the white of his fair skin, and highlighting his high cheekbones.
“There’s so few people I can trust in this school,” he continued, his tone still soft, and somber. “There are enemies everywhere, and I know I’m a suspect. I tried to kill Dumbledore last year, and even though I failed, it was through my efforts that Professor Snape-may he rest in peace-succeeded in doing so. And even within my group of friends…I know they don’t really like me. They’re not my true friends. They fear me, and they follow me, because their fathers have done the same to my father and his father for generations. Behind that veneer of adulation, there’s only hatred, and envy.”
He turned to Ginny, and she thought for a moment he was crying. It was only a trick of the light, but his expression was so solemn, so heartfelt, so unguarded, that she had to double-check his eyes for tears.
“I’ve only just met you,” he said, “but I feel like I can trust you. I don’t know why. Do you know what I mean? Do you feel it, too? I feel like-I feel like there’s some connection between us. And I don’t know where it came from, but it’s here and-” He sighed, as though frustrated, and ran hurried fingers through his hair. Then he shoved a hand into his trouser pockets, and removed it clutching something tightly. He grabbed Ginny’s hand and shoved it into her palm, closing her fingers over the object-which was cold and smooth, attached to a long chain that dangled out of her hand-before she could see clearly what it was.
“I want you to keep that safe for me,” he said, almost brusquely. “There’s so many-so many spies about, and so many dangers, and-you’re the only person I can trust. Will you hold on to that for me? Guard it with your life?”
Ginny nodded silently. All she could think was that she could not help but pity him, this boy caught in the machinations of centuries of prejudice and war, who had no one to turn to, no one he could trust, and had just spilled his heart to the very person he feared the most-a spy.
“Thanks,” Draco mumbled, flushing a little at the melodrama of the situation, shoving his hands awkwardly into his pockets. “You know…you know…” he began, looking up at her with suddenly shy eyes, and Ginny knew, as instinctively as she had known the first time, that he was about to kiss her.
It was nothing like the gentle kiss from the first time they’d stopped in a corridor, just a little over a week ago; there was passion and sadness and anger, all twisted into one, as Draco kissed her, his hands coming up to cradle her face, his body pressing against hers and driving them up against the closest wall. For a moment, Ginny felt out of control, out of her depth, and then she raised her arms to wrap them securely around Draco’s neck, and everything seemed, somehow, to right itself.
+++
The first thing Ginny did after Draco walked her back to her dormitory in the Slytherin dungeon was open her trunk.
First she deposited within it the item he’d told her to keep safe. Upon examination, it proved to be a heart-shaped silver locket, beautifully engraved, with an ornate capital B on the front, and the hinges stuck shut. The chain it hung from was thick and equally elaborate; Ginny admired it for a moment before letting it slither to the bottom of her trunk with the thick sweaters and winter stockings.
Then she fiddled with a latch on the lid of the trunk, and sprang open the secret compartment; she slipped her hand inside and pulled out the hand mirror Harry had given her before she left on her mission, for use only in emergencies.
Slipping out of the dormitory, past the comatose Pansy and Daphne, Ginny hid in a corner of the common room, as far from the dormitories as she could. Then she said, in a whisper, “Harry James Potter,” into the mirror, and watched the clouds on its surface shift as she waited for Harry to respond.
When he did, he looked tired and disheveled; his glasses were crooked on his nose, and his eyes were blurry with sleep.
“Who is this?” he asked loudly, and Ginny groaned in annoyance.
“Ginny Weasley, you dolt,” she snapped. “And keep your voice down!”
Ginny’s blue-eyed, black-haired appearance suddenly registered, and then Harry was down to business, rubbing his sleepy eyes and adjusting his glasses, peering into the mirror urgently.
“What’s going on?” he demanded.
“They’re planning to attack the wedding,” Ginny whispered. “They’re going to-to burn the Burrow to the ground, and-and-”
“And what?”
“And kill everyone,” said Ginny, blanching at the thought. Harry stared at her, shocked into silence, and then shook his head in disgust.
“They’re monsters,” he growled. “Absolute monsters.”
“We can catch them there,” Ginny added hurriedly. “They’re-I-they’ve let me join their society. And Draco Malfoy has…has become my especial friend. I’m going to hear all the details. I’ll learn when they’re coming-what they plan to use to attack-everything. I can report all of that to you, and, when the time comes, we can be ready. They won’t get us-we’ll catch them.”
Harry nodded as she spoke, processing each idea and agreeing to them all, adding in suggestions and comments. He shot Ginny a hard, proud look through the mirror, and said, “Well done, Ginny,” before he explained that he had best leave and wake the others.
“All right, then,” said Ginny, who was beginning to feel sick discussing the subject of her family’s murder.
“Keep yourself safe,” Harry instructed, and Ginny nodded, watching the mirror dissolve into clouds, aware that it was by her presence that she had saved her life, and her family’s lives, and yet equally aware that she was signing Draco Malfoy up for certain death.
+++
The next two weeks were dizzying in more ways than one.
They seemed to speed by at an impossible pace, the days melting together in a combination of trivial schoolwork during the day, and intense meetings at night, all of which she reported to Harry dutifully.
Secondly, there was no denying the growing attraction between her and Draco Malfoy. He had not kissed her again, as though afraid to revisit the night he’d bared his heart and soul to her, but he was with her constantly, carrying her books, asking her opinion, and, once, spending the day with her in Hogsmeade. He, too, was as dazzling a contradiction as Ginny’s days and nights were; he seemed the epitome of the perfect gentleman, and, beyond that, a genuinely kind person. The snide bully he’d presented to the Gryffindors was a front for a charming, thoughtful young man who delighted in being with his new friend, whether they be laughing over dinner or talking seriously in the common room. And yet, during those meetings at which Ginny was most acutely aware of her role as a spy, he was different. He didn’t lose his gentle eyes or thoughtful tone, but he was as at home discussing the upcoming murder of the Weasley family as he had been talking Quidditch a few hours earlier. The evil he participated in-that he perpetrated-seemed as ingrained in him as his ability to walk, and talk, and breathe; it was as much a part of him as his surname, his blond hair, his accent. It was an inseparable facet of his personality, like Harry’s reckless bravery or Hermione’s pure intelligence. And that terrified Ginny more than she could have ever put into words.
The plan to attack Bill and Fleur’s wedding was not, thankfully, a very good one. Hampered by the weakness of his little army, Draco could not carry out the complicated maneuvers he might have wanted to, had he had able troops to command. Instead, it was a basic sneak-attack plan, in which the Death Eaters were to hide in the bushes until the time was right, and then jump out and hex everyone in sight. Potter was to be left to Draco, but the rest of the family was fair game, he said, and Ginny felt slightly sick when Pansy raised her hand and asked if she could request the right to kill the Weasley girl.
“Whatever you like,” Draco had replied, waving a hand as though it didn’t merit his attention.
The night before the raid, he asked her to take another walk with him, and Ginny did so, even though she knew that Harry was sitting home, waiting for another call in the hand mirror, with last-minute updates and important news.
“Tomorrow night is going to be it,” he told Ginny confidently, as they strolled the quiet grounds of Hogwarts castle, which loomed above them silently, watching and seeing all, but remaining an outsider to their conversation. The castle reminded Ginny something of herself, a passive participant in this charade, observing everything but taking no action. She eyed the stone giant fondly, and then turned back to Draco, who was still talking about the attack.
“If this is a success, the Dark Lord will accept me again,” he said. “And he will make sure my father is rescued from Azkaban, and he will return to paying my mother her stipend, so she can live comfortably again. And my aunt Bellatrix will stop telling me how-how weak I am. Tomorrow night, Cressida, is going to make my fortune.”
“Or break it,” Ginny offered, and Draco wheeled on her at once.
“Never say that!” he commanded. “Don’t ill wish me. Can’t you see how badly I want this? Can’t you see how badly I need this?”
“You don’t need anything from him,” said Ginny softly, placing a calming hand on Draco’s sleeve. “Without all this-without any of this-you would still be the same kind and thoughtful and intelligent wizard you are. Whether or not you succeed in the Dark Lord’s eyes has nothing to do with your actual success.”
“That’s what you think,” he said darkly. “Don’t you see how untrue that is? I’m nothing without the favors he bestows on me. He can make the Malfoy name into what it was before, or he can crush us eternally. He can allow me to marry-to have children-to have a life…or he can take it all away with a flick of his wand. He has the ultimate power, and I must do what I can so that he doesn’t use it against me.”
“You could be happy outside his circle,” said Ginny, but he ignored her comment, and ran his knuckles softly on her cheek.
“I don’t want to think about this,” he said, looking her straight in the eye. “All I want to do-all I’ve wanted to do since that day in Divination-is kiss you.”
“All right,” said Ginny, craning her neck up at the full moon that hung lazily over the turrets of Hogwarts castle, and thinking that this would be the last time she’d feel his lips on hers, the last time she could look at the sky with him. “All right.”
He drew her into a shadow of the castle, and kissed her, so sweetly and tenderly that Ginny felt an ache building in her throat, of frustration and regret. She looked up at him with sad eyes, and he smiled encouragingly at her, ran a hand down the side of her body, and then kissed her again, pulling her down onto the grass with him.
“This is a mistake,” said Ginny, as he undid the buttons on her jumper, but she reached a pale hand for the zipper on his trousers and felt the same inexplicable sense of rightness that she had the other night, which kept her hands and mouth moving, even as she knew she was sentencing herself, tomorrow, to a night of pain.
+++
You are cordially invited to celebrate
the wedding of
Fleur Oceane Delacour
and
William Arthur Weasley
on Saturday evening
September the twentieth
at six o’clock
The Burrow, Ottery St. Catchpole
followed by a reception
<+++
Ginny was right.
The night passed in a blur-a blur not unlike those Muggle nights filled with wailing sirens and flashing red and blue lights, one of pain and misery and torment, of screams and dreadful silences and endless confusion.
She watched her brother’s marriage from the bushes, with Draco holding her hand; she could feel his pulse beating furiously, like the tattoo of a war drum. When Bill and Fleur had been pronounced man and wife, he began to count to ten under his breath, slowly, as the bride and groom kissed, and then pulled apart, to the cheers of the family members gathered in the garden.
He reached ten as Bill turned to face the bushes; Ginny saw his eyes narrow, and knew he was aware of everything going on. She recognized in his piercing gaze supreme readiness, and as Draco spat out, “Ten!” and leaped out of the bushes in his cape and hood, Crabbe, Goyle, Blaise, Pansy and Daphne following suit, almost the entire Order of the Phoenix sprang from within the Burrow, wands at the ready.
Draco let out an agonized cry, and Ginny stepped out of the bushes just as he turned to look at her, confusion and fear scrawled across his face. She bit her lip, and watched him stare in agony as her black hair faded away, and freckles flooded her face; across the garden, Hermione had cast the counterspell, and she was free from her disguise.
Draco was speechless, though his mouth opened and closed, and he stared at her with wide, shocked eyes, until the darkest of furies and angers welled up in them, and he was finally looking at her with the strongest of hatreds.
So were the others, even stupid Crabbe and Goyle, all of whom had been hexed and cursed into submission, and whose hands were being bound with thick, magical rope by Kingsley Shacklebolt and Tonks.
“Bring them back to Hogwarts,” Harry ordered wearily, “and lock them up. We’ll deal with them tomorrow morning. Tonight-tonight, we celebrate-their capture, but most importantly, Bill and Fleur’s wedding!”
Everyone cheered again, and Molly Weasley rushed across the garden to pull Ginny into a warm embrace. From over her mother’s shoulder, Ginny could see Draco, his hands being bound by Harry himself. He had his chin high, and his lips sealed, and when he looked over at Ginny, she could feel the hatred like an arrow through her heart.
( The Tower 2/2 )
ORIGINAL REQUEST
What would you like to receive: High-level vocabulary, Use of foreign language [French or Gaelic], Imagery, flash back is nice if done well and I particularly like magic. Other characters and pairings I like include Ron/Pansy, Blaise/Luna, I love the Black Sisters.
The tone/mood of the fic: Drama/Angst/Romance/Mystery
A Theme/element/line of dialogue/object you would like in your fic: Any of the following: flowers/plants, potions/charms/Divination as classes, Wine References, Travel, Death Eaters, Death Eater Lessons, Hogwart's Express, Weather Reference/Influence, Pagan Ritual/ Traditions, Windows, Candles, Mirrors, Fabric, Cloaks, Jewelry [lockets, rings, anklets], Scar Stories, Tattoos, Description of the Castle, Creatures.
Rating of the the fic you want: PG-13
Canon or AU? Either, though I prefer Hogwart's Era.
Deal Breakers (what don't you want?): Please don't make Ginny a medi-witch or Draco a teacher. Draco shouldn't be sappy either. And I don't particularly like song fics, though I don't mind if you steal lyrics or lines from something.