Two to Lead

Chapter 21: Start Again

There is nothin' fair in this world
There is nothin' safe in this world
And there's nothin' sure in this world
And there's nothin' pure in this world
Look for something left in this world
Start again

-Billy Idol, 'White Wedding'

*******

Ginny felt like a complete idiot. Draco was standing there looking all conflicted, and the more she thought about the situation, the more it became obvious that the only way to get out of this with a modicum of dignity would be to just leave, figure out his course schedule, only eat in her room and generally avoid him for the rest of her life. She was readying herself to do just that when he walked over to her. She looked up at him apprehensively. His expression gave away none of his thoughts.

"Stop looking at me like that, Red," he said impatiently. "I'm not going to bite your head off, I'm just not entirely sure what to do with a virgin."

"Can't we just do what we were doing and see what happens?" she asked tentatively.

He sighed in a long-suffering manner and offered her a hand. Ginny stood, relieved. She really hadn't wanted to start on the bed, anyway. She'd much rather work up to the bed part. Draco led her over to the cushions by the fire and sat down. Obligingly, Ginny sat down next to him, waiting for a cue as to what she was supposed to do next.

Draco sent her a searching look, then lounged back on one of the fluffy pillows. "Why don't you come here and kiss me?"

So he was all hers. Ginny liked that. Slowly, she crawled over until she was kneeling between his legs. Bracing her hands on both sides of the pillow, she leaned down and took his mouth as her hair fell down to create a curtain around them.

For a moment, Draco wouldn't respond, and a thrill shot through her stomach at the thought of him just letting her do whatever she wanted. Then he buried his hands in her hair, and Ginny sighed into his mouth. This was even better.

She felt a bit disappointed when his hands went away, but the thrill shot through her again, even deeper this time, when he slid her cloak off of her shoulders and began unbuttoning her shirt.

He opened her shirt and slid his hands down to lightly cup her breasts. He tested the weight and texture of each one before moving up to push gently on her collarbones.

"I want to see you," he said shortly.

Ginny smiled with a coyness she hadn't known she possessed and sat up straight. Draco followed, removing her shirt in record-breaking time, largely because Ginny helped him along the way. He ran his hands down her arms, leaning in to kiss her again.

Their tongues mated as Draco expertly unhooked her bra and slid it off. He looked down at her now naked breasts and she nearly went over the edge right then and there. She'd never been topless in front of a boy before, but it felt great. Powerful. A pair of breasts and she could make him do anything she wanted.

"Very nice," he breathed as his hands whispered down to stroke them. His mouth followed soon after, and she could only close her eyes and surf over the waves of sensation. As he continued, the waves grew larger and larger and began to vibrate through her womb as if plucking the strings of a musical instrument. She needed something, but she didn't have the words to tell him what.

Instead, she removed his cloak and started unbuttoning his shirt. Her fingers were shaky, less sure than his had been, and he had to help her. Finally, through a joint effort that would have ended the Goblin Rebellions in a day, they managed to remove his shirt, which he carefully folded before placing it beside him.

Ginny stared at him, puzzled.

"It's linen," he explained.

Struck by the absurdity of his comment, Ginny laughed. Even Draco managed something that resembled an actual smile, and she had to kiss him for being so unfailingly Draco-like. Any uncertainty or shyness she had felt was long gone as she slid her hands down his chest. It was lithely muscled under very pale and surprisingly soft skin. Pushing him back down onto the pillow, Ginny explored him with her hands and her mouth, marveling at the hard biceps so unlike her own. She was amused by the fact that he jumped every time she kissed the skin at the notch of his sternum.

Still sucking on Draco Malfoy's secret spot, Ginny slowly moved one hand down his belly. She almost drew her hand away when she finally touched him. He was hard as a rock and - it seemed to her - far too big to fit when the time came. Nevertheless, she clumsily unzipped his trousers, eager to see the true legend of Draco Malfoy.

Once teamwork managed to slide his trousers and pants off, Ginny blinked.

"Wow." That was really the only word for it. No wonder he was so arrogant.

Lying back once more, Draco grinned. "A man can't ask for a better reaction than that."

Growing up in a house full of boys, Ginny had unwittingly bore witness to more penises than she could ever want to. But she had never seen one like this.

Unfortunately, seeing a great many didn't mean that she knew what to do with one.

Sensing her conundrum, Draco drew her in. "Come here. I'll walk you through it." Eager once more, Ginny cackled as she dove on top of him, drawing a muffled 'oof.' Draco took her hand and drew it down to his member. "Here, just follow me, okay?"

"Okay," Ginny answered, watching in fascination as Draco wrapped her fingers around him. She gripped him tightly and he grunted in response.

Snatching her hand away, Ginny looked up, mortified. "I'm sorry. Did I hurt you?"

Draco's face was tight. "No, it's fine. It's perfect. Feels wonderful." A bit urgently, his hand wrapped her fingers once again. He grunted once more, relaxing back into the pillows. His hand fell limp at his side, but there was a faint smile on his face.

"Stroke it a bit," he instructed her.

With that invitation, Ginny explored what he had to offer, trying to be gentle. Glancing up at Draco's face once more, she couldn't see how he was enjoying this. In fact, he looked...constipated, actually. His pale face shone with perspiration and his jaw was clenched tightly.

"Are you sure you're okay?" she asked him dubiously.

"Absolutely brilliant. Try using your mouth." His voice sounded strained, as if he were lifting a heavy burden while trying to carry on a conversation.

Ah, the blowjob. In description, it was so easy: put it in your mouth and suck on it. Ginny had never really given a great deal of thought to the finer points of the act. She suddenly wished she'd eavesdropped on Lavender and Parvati more often. When did one lick and when did one suck? And why the hell weren't there courses for this sort of thing in school? How could Divination possibly be more important than this?

Well, at least he didn't expect her to know what she was doing. Ginny gave a tentative lick, snapping her head up to see if there was any response.

Draco opened one eye and seemed to be glaring at her. Complete sentences had now gone beyond him. "Tongue. Head. Lick. Suck. No teeth!" With that, he gave her an awkward sort of pat on the shoulder, as if to galvanize her.

Still shooting looks at him to see how she was doing, Ginny went a little further. That seemed to go over well. She put him in her mouth, careful to keep her teeth out of the way. She received another seemingly positive response. Taking a deep breath, Ginny opened her mouth and slid it in as far as she could, promptly gagging herself.

Scooting away from him, she apologized, coughing. "Sorry, I shouldn't have done that."

Draco waved her apology away. "It's okay. I wouldn't want to come that way, anyway."

Ginny tilted her head to the side. "Would you, if I'd have known what I was doing?"

"Possibly." He sat up weakly. "You may have to carry me over to the bed."

Giddy with power, Ginny wrapped her arms around him, letting them both stand up together. With an instantly renewed vigor, Draco lifted her up.

"What are you doing?" she squealed as she wrapped her arms around his neck.

"Being romantic," he wheezed, waddling over to the bed and unceremoniously dropping her on it.

"How was that romantic?" she asked as Draco rubbed furiously at the small of his back.

"Well, it was intended to be." Finishing with his ministrations, Draco gazed down at her sprawled topless on the bed. "You won't be needing these," he said, slowly unbuttoning her skirt and sliding it down her legs, followed by her knickers.

*******

Red was a redhead everywhere.

That discovery forced Draco to dig his nails into his palms. He was really trying his very best not to rush this. He'd gotten this far with noble intentions. He'd be damned if he was going to follow it up with a couple of thrusts on a satin-sheeted bed. White satin? Definitely her idea.

He took both of her wrists in his hands and laid her arms out straight to the sides.

"You are a beautiful girl, Red," he told her, and he meant it. Red had her moments. Draco fingers were drawn irrevocably towards the newly revealed red curls. He propped himself on his elbow and fumbled around a bit. It was nice to figure out a girl who didn't shout directions at him or smack him on the head when he strayed off course.

Her eyelids fluttered closed and her hips shifted to help him out, and Draco found himself learning a lot more about how to do this than he ever had with Thera. Her features grew slack and he mentally patted himself on the back. He could have sworn she was close, but apparently she wasn't, because she suddenly stilled his hand.

"Do it," she whispered.

"But I'm not done yet," he protested.

"Do it now," she ordered him, trying to pull him over her.

Little Draco thought that was a fantastic idea, and against his better judgment, Big Draco found himself on top of her, his hand reaching down to lead the way.

Knowing she was a virgin, he closed his eyes, gritted his teeth and forced himself to go slowly. This brave and noble venture became a hundred times more difficult as Red dug her fingernails into his shoulders and wriggled her hips, urging him forward. But when he reached the barrier inside her, Draco stopped, letting out the breath he'd been holding.

Red moved her sharp fingernails to his ass - where did girls get those? - urging him on.

"Wait," he gasped. "Just wait." Unfortunately, Red was - to put it mildly - not particularly interested in anything he had to say at the moment.

"Draco," she said urgently, "Come on."

His body was more or less sending him the same message, but Draco had decided to play the romantic lead, and he was bloody well going to play the bloody romantic lead. Drawing deep, slow breaths, Draco thought of cold showers and snowy winters and McGonagall naked and counted to thirty before officially deflowering Ginny Weasley.

Because that's what stinking romantic heroes did.

Ginny flinched when he moved forward, but Draco fought his body once more, forcing it to remain still as she accustomed herself to him. More to distract himself than for any other reason, Draco began placing kisses on her tightly closed eyes and across her cheekbones. After a respectable amount of time, Draco shifted his weight, testing her.

She tensed, as if waiting to form a response until she was absolutely sure. Moving again, Draco saw the familiar feral glint in her eyes. He picked up the rhythm a bit.

Red settled into looking thoughtful, neither truly into what they were doing or truly against it. Swearing, Draco blinked the sweat out of his eyes and picked up the rhythm a little more. She began rubbing her hands up and down his back, now looking patient. Draco had a feeling she was waiting for something that wasn't going to come, literally.

Not having the faintest idea what a romantic hero would do in this situation, Draco simply finished up, coming hard and collapsing on top of her.

As the blood made its slow return to his brain, Draco's thoughts began running around in circles. People respected him, or feared him, or hated him, but Red was the only person he knew who genuinely seemed to like him, at least most of the time. And if he were to be completely honest with himself, she was probably the only person he knew that he genuinely liked. And he got to have sex with her, too. Life didn't get much better.

"Draco," she whispered.

He hummed in response.

"That was really nice," she said politely.

With difficulty, Draco propped himself up on his elbows.

"Red, I realize you don't know any better, but that was pretty mediocre sex."

"So it gets better?" she asked hopefully.

"It certainly does," he promised.

"Let's see, then," she answered, moving her hips a bit.

Draco groaned gutturally as her movements reignited a spark of interest down below. "Don't do that."

"Come on," she urged. "Don't you want to try out the swing?" She shifted again. Considering she'd been non-virginal for all of five minutes, Draco had no idea where she'd learned that little move.

"Don't, Red," he said in a slightly harder voice, sliding out of her.

"Why not?"

Draco rolled to the side, sprawling out on his back and closing his eyes. "Because you're going to be plenty sore enough without another go at it, I imagine. Right now we need a towel," he said, as one appeared in his hand. "Because if I look down right now and see what I think I'm going to see, then I'm going to need a toilet." One appeared in the corner immediately. Draco took the towel and rubbed himself vigorously, never opening his eyes. When he was done, he tossed it off the bed and it thankfully disappeared.

"Fine, then," Red grumbled, curling up beside him and wrapping one arm around his chest. "What do we do now?"

"We bloody well recover, that's what we do now." Sure, she was ready for another go. She hadn't just jumped through about ten million different gooey, mushy, romantic, nice-guy hoops to make this a pleasant experience for her. He needed a few moments to change back into Draco Malfoy before he walked out of this room and faced the world.

"Can we try out the swing next time?" she asked eagerly.

He couldn't hold back a chuckle. "Merlin, I've created a slut."

*******

Vivian's grand brave resistance wasn't going as planned. Since arriving at the Ministry with Balder, she'd given her name and announced that she would speak only with Albus Dumbledore. She had then been stripped of her wand and seated in a chair.

That was about four hours ago. Nobody had approached her or tried to question her since then. In fact, they all seemed intent on ignoring her. The inattention was almost insulting. She could probably just stroll right out of the Ministry without anybody even noticing. Shouldn't she be considered slightly more of a threat?

The chair she was sitting in was like a slab of granite, and she was beginning to feel a rather urgent need for the loo. Vivian knew that speed and efficacy were alien concepts to the Ministry in general, but this was getting ridiculous.

Another half-hour slipped by slowly and tortuously. Finally, Vivian stood up. Nobody seemed to notice. Striding over to the reception desk, she inquired about the nearest restroom. Nobody stopped her as she walked off to do her business, and Vivian thought briefly about just leaving. If the Ministry really wanted her, they knew where to find her.

She just couldn't bear the thought of sitting on that bloody hard chair any longer.

Feeling mutinous, Vivian chose instead to go back to the general vicinity of the chair and pace. It seemed funny to her suddenly, this inability to openly revolt, even when the opportunity was handed to her so carelessly. She was rather shocked by her own desire to follow the rules, to do what she'd been ordered to do, even if the purpose of both the rule and the order were to screw her over.

How many times had she told her students to fight against this conditioned, sheep-like response? How many times had she instructed them to take the high road, to cling to their own opinions and thoughts and writings in the face of authority? And yet here she was, unable to bring herself to leave the fucking chair they'd told her to sit in.

Her hand went to the knut in her pocket for the thousandth time, practically itching to call Dumbledore, but she refrained. Dragging the Headmaster into this wouldn't do her any good, and could possibly nudge the Ministry's mistrust of him into open antipathy again. She'd only call him if he needed to hire a new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.

Vivian's big mouth had gotten her into this mess. It was going to have to get her out of it, too. Returning to the reception desk, she asked to speak to Balder Astragand.

"Sorry, luv, he's in with the Minister right now," the blindingly orange-haired older woman answered with that false sickly-sweet politeness that must be taught in receptionist school. "Why don't you have a seat while you're waiting?"

Vivian glared at the evil chair, then at the woman in front of her. "Listen, luv, I've been here for nearly five hours. Now, either I'm under arrest or I'm leaving. Which is it?"

The receptionist kept the smile firmly plastered on her face. "Well, that depends. Last name, please?"

"Wellbourne," Vivian said impatiently.

The woman flipped through a stack of parchments in front of her. "Says here you're in for questioning. According to British Magical Law, the Ministry is allowed to detain individuals for questioning for up to forty-eight hours," she chirped robotically.

"Don't I get one owl or something?"

"If you were arrested, you would. As it is, you're only in for questioning. You're not allowed an owl and you're not allowed to leave. Would you like to sit down now?"

"No, thank you," Vivian said coolly. "I'll stand right here. I'd hate to miss Balder when he returns from his meeting with the Minister."

"Suit yourself," the receptionist shrugged, turning away to ignore her.

It was a pretty sorry rebellion. It was also short-lived. She'd barely slapped the proper indignant look on her face when Balder showed up. He looked as if the past five hours hadn't exactly been a picnic for him, either. His sky blue eyes were bloodshot, his hair was a wreck and his robes were wrinkled across his perfectly crafted deltoids.

For some reason, it made him even more yummy-looking, less boyish and more grizzled. Asshole, Vivian reminded herself. Fascist Fudge-goon who wants to put you in Azkaban.

"Come with me," he said, not bothering to apologize.

"Is this how quickly you deal with all of your notorious traitors? I could have spread my treasonous anarchic political ideals to everyone in the Ministry by now."

His jaw tightened, but he didn't answer. He led her into what was obviously an interrogation room, complete with one of those completely obvious fake mirrors. Vivian got her first major attack of nerves. So this was real. This was really going to happen. It seemed like she should do something wacky and obscene to make it less real, like pressing her face up to the mirror and giving the boys on the other side her best blowfish.

Instead, she sat at the table and clenched her hands in her lap.

"This conversation is going to be recorded," Balder said in a humorless police interrogator voice. "Any statements made are legally binding and admissible, if relevant, as evidence in any domestic court." He pulled out a metal disc and tapped it with his wand. "Do you understand these terms?"

Vivian glared at him, then nodded.

Balder looked at the ceiling, then back at her. "It's only records audio, Vivian."

"I told you I'd speak only to Dumbledore."

"Just say 'yes,' please."

"Yes," Vivian bit out, wondering why he was bothering with all of this. In her mind, the interrogation couldn't possibly consist of more than one question and a long silence.

From his briefcase, Balder withdrew a bottle of Trustworthy Trent's Veritaserum and a stack of parchment, placing them both on the table. Vivian eyed the veritaserum warily. You had to sign a waiver before the Ministry could make you drink veritaserum; freedom of expression and the right to a fair trial could be tossed out the window, but the Ministry would never do away with this right. The big potions corporations were just too rich and had too much experience litigating the misuse of their products.

"Feel free to read through it," he said briskly, gesturing to the stack of parchment, "but I'd be happy to sum it up for you." He was doing such a good job of treating her like any other detainee that she was finding it a lot easier not to think of him as Balder.

"Go right ahead," Vivian said, sitting back and crossing her arms.

"If you agree to be deposed under veritaserum and give us the information we desire, you'll be a free woman. If you don't agree, you'll be charged with obstructing a national security investigation and conspiracy to commit treason..."

"Treason?!" Vivian cried. "You've got to be kidding me."

"More than ten days have passed since Remus Lupin received his summons. He has not reported within the required amount of time, and is therefore suspected of treason. It was stated quite clearly on the arrest warrant. You refuse to disclose his location and are therefore harboring him. That's the very definition of conspiracy."

"I know the definition of conspiracy," she said frigidly. "Apparently you don't understand the definition of treason, though."

"As I said, it was stated very clearly..."

"Refusing to be arrested because a werewolf bit you as a child isn't treason. I have no idea how you got into Ravenclaw. Not to mention the fact that I've already told you that I have no idea where he is. So what's the point of all of this?" For someone who just a few moments ago had refused to speak, she seemed to have quite a lot to say.

Well, as she'd thought before, her big mouth had gotten her into this...

Balder ignored her. "Obstruction carries with it a five-year sentence in Azkaban Prison. Conspiracy is twenty-five years. As you have not read the actual text, could you please state for the record that you understand this agreement as it has been described to you?"

"That depends on what you mean by 'understand.' I understood the words that came out of your mouth. However - and no offense to the Ministry or you, of course - because you've used such subjective and politically-motivated definitions for the various words and charges, I'm afraid I can't say that I necessarily understand the agreement as it is. I teach first years with a better understanding of the English language."

Balder opened his mouth to respond, then froze.

And stayed frozen.

For several seconds.

"Balder?" Vivian finally asked, wondering if he were having some sort of fit. He didn't move. He wasn't blinking, and he didn't seem to be breathing, either. She called his name again, and again there was no response. Finally Vivian got up from her chair and walked over to study him. No, he wasn't breathing, or moving at all.

Great. Now they'll probably charge me with murder, too.

Worried, Vivian reached out to feel for a pulse, but the second her fingers made contact with his skin, something exploded. She was thrown backward across the room. The back of her head made painful contact with the wall and everything suddenly went black.

*******

Fox had tried to argue Dumbledore out of it. She had told him The Cardinal wouldn't agree. She had said that the effort involved in the job wasn't worth the reward. Sure, the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor had a knowledge of ancient languages and spells and all of that, but Fox didn't think it was worth the money they'd put up for it.

Nobody had agreed with her. Fox was getting a good five million galleons in her account and an extra month of vacation when all of this was over for a ridiculously simply bag and tag job she could do in her sleep. Once she had the Ministry in frozen time, she manipulated the elevator down, then erased herself from its memory and sent it back up.

Knowing there was no hurry, she stopped for a few amused moments at the fountain in the atrium. Voldemort had been here, she felt. Either he or Dumbledore had destroyed this fountain. The air still crackled with their battle. In Fox's mind, they shouldn't have rebuilt the fountain. What a silly wizard view of the world. Any of the other entities represented in the fountain would gladly do away with them all, including the witch.

Looking down Kingsley Shacklebolt's list of detainee logs she needed to alter and documents she needed to steal, Fox set about her work. If Amina had half the talent Fox gave her credit for, Kingsley was right now sucking her colleague's toes.

Fox burned the required documents and changed the required logs. She obliviated Fudge before searching out Balder Astragand's office to collect Vivian Wellbourne.

The professor wasn't in the office, or in the general reception area. Just for the hell of it, Fox undid a few of the buttons on the receptionist's blouse and dropped the trousers on a smarmy-looking guy coming off one of the elevator. Fucking law-and-order types, fooling themselves into believing they had any control over the world just because they put together some words and called it a law and then forced people to follow it.

"I'm the real law," she informed the smarmy guy, adding his tightie-whities to the piled-up pants around his ankles.

Fox had left Professor Wellbourne out of the spell, so she should be able to sense the woman. Closing her eyes, she sent out feelers for the only living, breathing human in the place. She came back with a weak presence in one of the rooms off to her left.

Puzzled, Fox entered the room. A Swedish body-builder man who could only be Balder Astragand sat at a table. There was one of those ridiculously obvious fake mirrors on the wall at his right. Vivian Wellbourne lay crumpled in the corner, a pool of blood collecting around her head.

"Oh, for Pete's sake," Fox said, walking to the corner of the room to turn the professor over. When something out of the ordinary happened, why did mortals always feel the need to mess around with it? Had the woman touched him full-on, the amount of magic keeping Balder Astragand frozen in time would have been more than enough to kill her.

"Stupid woman," Fox muttered, mending together the pieces of the crushed skull, putting the apparently invaluable fucking Defense Against the Dark Arts professor back into working order. She was definitely going to demand a bonus for this. Nobody had required that she bring the woman back alive, but considering how much whining there had been when they'd found out about the woman's arrest, Fox could only imagine what sort of shit she'd be in for if she brought back a corpse.

The woman blinked her eyes opened, confused. She turned over on her back, wincing as the newly-healed boned of her skull made contact with the hard stone floor.

"You shouldn't do that," Fox said, hauling the woman into a sitting position. "Merlin knows what'll happen to your invaluable intellect. You might lisp or something."

"What happened?" the woman asked, touching tender fingers to the back of her head.

"Your friends eventually pooled enough money together to save you," Fox explained.

"Oh." The woman glanced at Balder Astragand. "Is he okay?"

"He's frozen in time. They all are."

"They? Everybody?"

"Everybody in the Ministry. Don't worry. Government workers never notice the lapse."

"That's powerful magic," the woman said slowly. Whether it was her normal way or her recent brush with extreme brain damage, Fox didn't know. "Shouldn't it wear off soon?"

"Sure," Fox said to cover, even though she could keep up the spell as long as she wanted to. "We should probably hurry." She helped the woman up, making sure to grab the papers off of the table and the recording disk. Supporting the professor with one arm, she heaved Balder Astragand out of his chair with the other and deposited him behind his desk with the other, paging through his memories to obliviate him effectively.

Leaving Professor Wellbourne in a chair by the elevators, Fox moved quickly, clearing out the inhabitants of the secret room that everybody knew about behind the obvious mirror in the interrogation room. She placed a bent-over sound technician with his head in the receptionist's lap, one of the steely-eyed interrogators in the women's bathroom and put the last one knee-deep in the atrium fountain.

Let them all figure that one out.

Fox lugged the half-conscious professor out the Ministry, took of the time-freezing spell and apparated them back to the front door of Hogwarts. She knew there was a crowd in Dumbledore's office, so she couldn't apparate directly there. She had to drag the professor up anyway. The morals wouldn't be satisfied until they saw her in the flesh.

She deposited the professor and exited quickly, not wanting to be a part of their pointless victory celebration. The werewolf fell upon her immediately, and the rest closed in shortly thereafter, and Fox was simply glad that she didn't have to grin through a cheesy mortal reunion. Heading back to her room, she sensed that Gautham was rather involved with himself, and that Amina was still rather involved with Kingsley Shacklebolt.

Taking out a light rapier, Fox stripped down to a t-shirt and panties, and attacked, retreated, parried and feinted until the sun signaled a new morning for the mortal world.

*******

"Malfoy smirked at me again at supper today," Ron said heatedly, dropping his books and throwing himself onto the sofa between Harry and Hermione.

"Ron, please," Hermione groaned. "Not this again."

"Come on, Harry. You know what I'm talking about. He gets that superior look on his face, like he knows something we don't. He walked around all last year with that look."

"I dunno, Ron," Harry mumbled. In the week since he'd gotten the note from Malfoy and Thera had told him about Ginny's role in the spell, Harry had distanced himself from the whole situation, largely because he hadn't the faintest clue what he was supposed to do about it. He hadn't seen Thera again, he'd been studiously avoiding Ginny and Malfoy, and he was finding it very difficult to look Ron in the eye.

He knew that Ginny knew about the spell, but Thera had told him that Ginny didn't know that he knew, and it was all becoming terribly confusing for him. Should he tell Ginny that he knew, and that Malfoy had written him a note about her? Should he keep quiet? Should he tell Ron and Hermione about the spell, and if so, about Ginny's part in it?

Just thinking about the myriad of possibilities and the possible consequences of each possibility made him want to go upstairs and take a very long nap.

"I'm telling you, that little ferret's up to something," Ron continued forcefully. "And I'm going to find out what it is if it's the last thing I do. And then I'm going to keep punching him until I can't move my arms anymore. Then I'll starting kicking..."

"Yes, Ron, that's a perfectly reasonable course of action," Hermione said sarcastically. "Malfoy's looking at you funny, so you're going to beat him up."

"I wouldn't beat him up until after I found out what he was up to," Ron clarified.

"You don't even know that he's up to anything!" Hermione shot back, her voice gaining in volume and taking on the shrill edge that seemed to be reserved specifically for Ron.

That was Harry's cue to change the subject before a row started.

"So how are the plans coming for the Valentine's Day dance?" he asked, solely because there was a large poster advertising it directly in front of him. He immediately regretted broaching the subject.

Ron had returned from the Christmas holidays entirely certain of three things: that he and Hermione were now officially together, that he was an expert on Muggles, and that Harry and Ginny were destined for each other. In Ron's mind, he was probably being very subtle about shoving the two of them together. In reality, he wasn't. Not in the least.

"Yeah, mate, you don't have a date yet, do you?" Ron asked with false casualness. "You'd better hurry or there won't be anyone left. Oh, wait!" he said, snapping his fingers as if he'd suddenly gotten a brilliant idea. "You know what? Ginny doesn't have a date, either. You could ask her. I mean, you already know each other and everything."

"Ron," Harry sighed, glancing at Hermione for help. She just shrugged and sent him a sympathetic look as Ron continued babbling. Harry leaned his head back on the sofa and tuned his friend out. He had nothing against Ginny Weasley. He liked her very much. She was a stand-up girl. And he wasn't blind. He knew she was pretty. He just had no romantic interest in her whatsoever, and he knew for a fact that the feeling was mutual.

"...don't you think?" Ron finished.

"Er...uh, sure," Harry said, trying to cover up his inattention.

Ron's face split into a grin, and Harry's stomach dropped. "Great," Ron said happily.

Oh, shit.

"Hey, Ginny!" Ron called out across the room. "Come over here!"

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

"Ron, I didn't mean..." Harry tried, but Ron was busy grinning and waving at his sister. Ginny walked over with an apprehensive look on her face.

"What?" she asked suspiciously.

"Ron," Harry said urgently. He was once again ignored.

"Harry wanted to ask you something," Ron announced, prodding Harry in the arm. Ginny turned to look at him expectantly and Harry felt heat creep up his face.

"Let's...uh...let's go somewhere else," he said quickly, shooting up from the sofa, taking Ginny by the elbow and leading her out through the portrait hole.

"Harry? What's going on?"

He stopped halfway down the hallway, glancing around to make sure they were alone. "First of all, Ron thinks I'm asking you to the Valentine's dance right now."

"Oh," she said. There was a pause. "Are you? Asking me, I mean."

Well, he'd certainly look like an ass if he didn't now, wouldn't he? "Um, sure."

She crossed her arms. "You really are bad at this, aren't you? Ask me properly."

"Will you go to the dance with me?"

"Yes," she said, a wicked grin spreading across her face. "We're going to have fun."

The grin made him uneasy. "Okay, then," he said lamely. They stood there in silence for a few awkward moments.

"Was that all?" Ginny asked finally.

"No," Harry said, wondering where to begin with everything else.

"What is it, then?"

"I know about the spell," he said quietly, looking away.

Ginny didn't answer, and he forced his eyes back to her. She was staring at the floor in front of her, her face utterly white.

"Ginny?" he asked worriedly, reaching a hand out to touch her shoulder.

Her head flew up suddenly, and Harry's hand stopped in mid-air. "Ron doesn't know, does he?" she asked, looking terrified. Then she shook her head as if clearing it. "Of course he doesn't," she said to herself. "I'd be locked in my room if he did."

"I wasn't sure whether I should tell him or not."

"Don't," she said in a firm, cold voice that he'd never heard from her before.

"He'll need to know eventually," he said as gently as he could.

"Yes, but it won't do any good for him to know now, will it?" she said in that same voice.

Harry had seen many times how overprotective the Weasley boys were towards Ginny. It had never really occurred to him that she might be just as overprotective towards them. Of course, he wasn't exactly in a hurry to tell Ron, either, probably for the same reasons.

He suddenly and very clearly understood why Dumbledore had waited five years to tell him about the prophecy. Excuses were very easy to find.

"No, it won't," Harry said slowly. "But we're going to have to tell him soon. We'll do it together. Believe me, Ron will be far too busy killing me for keeping it from him to lock you in your room."

That drew a thin, short-lived smile from her. "How did you find out, anyway?"

Oh, yes. The other, much trickier part of the discussion. "Well, Remus told me about the other four, and then I got a note last week telling me about you."

Ginny looked blank. "A note? From who?"

It was more difficult to say the name than he would have thought. "Draco Malfoy."

"Draco Malfoy?" Ginny asked faintly. Then, in the space of about five seconds, she went from a huge grin to a mortified bright pink blush to a sudden bout of laughter.

Harry wasn't sure what to make of that reaction.

"What did the note say?" she asked between giggles.

"It said the Death Eaters wanted you and that I should keep you away from them."

"I can only imagine you're paraphrasing, but at least the thought was there."

"Ginny?" Harry asked, not wanting to know or even believe such a thing were true, but feeling as if he should ask nonetheless. "Is there something between you and Malfoy?"

She froze in shock, then looked at him as if he were crazy. "Me? And Malfoy?" She started laughing again.

"I'm sorry," he said quickly, feeling stupid. "I didn't mean to imply anything."

"Oh, Harry," she said, drawing him into a hug and kissing him on the cheek. Harry was surprised by this sudden physical contact. He still wasn't entirely used to the non-blushing, non-stammering Ginny. "You just can't stop yourself from looking out for everybody, can you?" She hugged him harder, and Harry belatedly returned it.

It was like hugging Hermione, only Ginny smelled different. Hermione hadn't hugged him since he'd kissed her, and Harry hadn't realized until now how much he missed it.

She kissed him again on the cheek, then drew back. "I always know I can rely on you."

"Of course," Harry said, feeling a surge of primordial masculinity. He suddenly felt the desire to beat his fists against his chest.

He walked Ginny back to the common room, sprinting up the stairs to get his invisibility cloak out of his trunk. Dodging students, Harry made his way back through the common room in search of a cavewoman outlet for his caveman instincts.

*******

Stepping out of Snape's office, Thera walked quickly. She was going to make it to her room before she threw up. Goyle's initiation had gone as planned, and Thera was tired, sore and nauseous. She wanted nothing more than to get the nasty part over with so she could snuggle into nice, soft, cool blankets and sleep forever.

She was nearly to her door when invisible hands grabbed her. Even knowing it was Harry, Thera struggled, largely because she didn't want to puke all over him.

The hands tightened. "Stop it, Thera. It's Harry. What happened? You look awful," his voice said from underneath the cloak.

Growing desperate and thinking it might not be a good idea to open her mouth and tell him to fuck off, Thera slid away from him and dove for her door. She tried to slam it shut behind her, but Harry got a foot in, still stupidly asking questions as she ran across the room, fell down in front of the toilet and emptied the contents of her stomach.

If nothing else, it certainly killed any sex ideas he had.

In between heaves, Thera kicked the bathroom door shut, vomiting being unpleasant enough without an audience. When it was over, she flushed the toilet, then stared at the pure, clean water trying to think pure, clean thoughts as her stomach settled down.

Obviously not knowing when a person wanted to be alone, Harry knocked on the door.

"Are you okay?"

"Go away," she moaned, more annoyed with him than she'd ever been annoyed with anyone before. She was at the end of her rope and he was holding a pair of scissors.

She heard him sigh and walk away, but she didn't hear him leave. Thera didn't feel up to the task of dealing with him. She hadn't even seen him since a week ago, when she'd spent an hour talking him out of killing Draco. Spending an hour trying to make a Gryffindor see reason was like spending an hour trying to teach a cat to fetch the paper for you. It simply went against the very nature of the beast.

She'd tried to make it sound like Draco had just written the note to try and stop the spell and had no interest in Ginny Weasley in particular, but Harry had drawn his own conclusions, which were probably right. Thera had watched Draco chase after the girl in Dumbledore's office, and she had a feeling he was being a very stupid boy where Ginny Weasley was concerned.

Thera rinsed her mouth out and brushed her teeth, then splashed some cold water on her face. She felt slightly more human, but dead on her feet. It had been a very long night.

And it showed no signs of ending anytime soon.

Well, fuck Harry Potter. She didn't owe him anything. Opening the door, Thera strode past him without a word. She took off her robes, tossed them on the floor, kicked off her shoes and crawled into bed, pulling the comforter over her head.

Predictably, Harry didn't take the hint. She felt his weight sink onto the bed. "Thera? What happened? Was it Goyle?"

"Yes, it was Goyle," she said irritably. "The Dark Lord has him. Now leave."

"Do you always throw up afterwards?"

"Yes. It's tradition. Leave."

"Why do you always throw up?"

Thera pulled the blanket from her head and glared at him, her rage building. "Have you ever seen a Muggle beaten to death with his own arm?"

Harry sat back, looking green. "Is that what happened?"

"Well, in actuality, it's impossible to beat someone to death with an arm. There's just not enough mass to it. I think the Muggle bled to death, but then I'm not exactly an expert on these things. It took hours and it was the most disgusting thing I've ever witnessed. Does that answer your question?"

He nodded, still watching her. "Is that what you did at your initiation?"

"Hardly," Thera scoffed. She was far more sophisticated with torture than Crabbe or Goyle. She was meant to be, after all.

"But you killed someone, didn't you?" He actually had the gall to sound accusatory, and for Thera, it was the last straw. She sat straight up.

"Go fuck yourself, Harry," she said icily. "I didn't ask for this, and if it were up to me, I'd jet off to some lovely tropical locale and forget I ever heard about you or Dumbledore or the sodding Dark Lord. Sit there and judge all you want, but - no offense to the heroic and famous Boy Who Lived - I don't give a shit what you think. The only thing I want is to be left alone by everybody, starting with you. So leave."

Harry's mouth opened and closed. He looked down at the invisibility cloak in his lap, twisting the fabric with his fingers. Then he turned his head back to look at her. "I'm sorry," he said finally.

The wind abruptly left Thera's sails. "What?"

"You're right. I'm in no position to judge you."

Over the years, manipulating people had become second nature to Thera. By watching someone for less than a minute, she could figure out what made them tick, and who she needed to be to get what she wanted out of them. She knew how they would react to what she was going to say before she even said it. Harry Potter had just thrown her a curveball, and Thera felt a moment of panic. She simply didn't know how to play this.

So she lay back down and pulled the covers over her head.

"Thera," he said exasperatedly, "I said I was sorry."

"So you did."

The bed creaked as he crawled up to lie down next to her. "Are you still mad at me?"

"No," she said wearily. "I'm just tired."

"Do you want some firewhisky?"

Well, if it's offered... Thera peeked an eye out. "Okay."

"You're so predictable," Harry said, crawling over her to clear the homework off her desk and reveal the bar. Taking some Old Ogden's, he filled two snifters all the way up. Thera was torn between amusement that Harry Potter was about to drink firewhisky with her and even greater amusement at the fact that he had no concept of alcohol volume.

He handed one of the glasses to her, sinking onto the bed and frowning into his own.

"You're supposed to drink it," she said helpfully.

He sent her a quelling look and took a sip. "That tastes awful," he said, making a face.

"It's not pumpkin juice, Harry."

"I know that," he said defensively, taking a slightly larger sip and coughing.

Thera smirked and started in on her own portion, sighing as the firewhisky burned a path down to her stomach. Forget sleep. She needed this far more than sleep.

"Where did you get this stuff, anyway?"

"I stole it from Cousin Lucius. I figured it was the least he could do."

"What do you mean?" he asked, puzzled.

"Well, he testified against my mother, for one thing. He also kidnapped me, usurped my inheritance and stole all of my house elves. On the other hand, I'm ninety percent sure he's the person who ratted out my father. I've never properly thanked him for that."

"There's just no honor among Death Eaters," Harry said dryly.

"Any of them would slit their best friend's throat if it meant they'd move up another wrung on the ladder. That's why they all became Death Eaters in the first place."

"Yeah," Harry said softly, staring into his drink. He took a long sip - without coughing, no less - then tightened his hands on the glass. "Have you met Wormtail?"

"Yes, I have," Thera answered, watching him carefully. "I take it you know him?"

"He was my parents' friend. Then he betrayed them to Voldemort and framed my godfather, who rotted in Azkaban for twelve years." He said it casually, but his body was rigid. Thera had a feeling the Dark Lord's pudgy sidekick didn't have very long to live.

"That does sound like something somebody named Wormtail would do," she observed.

He half-laughed and took another long sip. "I saved his life once, too. I knew what he did and I saved his cowardly rodent ass and I've regretted it ever since."

"Saved his life?" Thera asked, shocked. "You certainly take this hero thing seriously."

"Believe me, if I had to do it all over again, he'd be a pile of dust."

"As well he should be," Thera agreed. Heroism shouldn't stand in the way of revenge.

He turned to sit cross-legged on the bed. "Would you kill Lucius if you could?"

"Sure, if I could get away with it." The image of doing so was far too enjoyable. Too bad she'd never get to do it. Thera downed half of her glass wistfully.

Harry followed suit, looking as if he were steeling himself for something. "What's it like?" he asked in a low voice.

Thera knew exactly what he meant, and she knew exactly why he was asking. "What's what like?" she stalled, taking their half-full glasses over to the bar and filling them back up to the top. If they managed to drink the amount of firewhisky in the snifters, there would be a lot more puking tonight. Thera was already a bit tipsy and didn't really want to have this conversation, especially with Harry Potter.

"Killing someone," he said to her back.

"I imagine it's different for everyone," she breezily, handing him his glass and sitting back down. Both of them simultaneously returned the firewhisky in the glass to its original level. Apparently the conversation wasn't any easier for Harry.

"What was it like for you?" he asked hoarsely, trying very hard not to cough again.

"I had the Dark Lord trolling around in my head," she said flatly. "He certainly seemed to enjoy it. But you'd be killing someone who deserves it, not some Muggle who walked down the wrong street. It should be fairly gratifying."

"Maybe," Harry said vaguely, closing his eyes and swaying a bit.

"Harry Potter, drunk in my bed," Thera marveled. "The Daily Prophet would have a field day with this one."

"I'm not drunk," he said, taking another sip. "I came here for sex, you know."

"And you ended up with stimulating conversation. Lucky you."

"Stimulating," Harry murmured, eyes still closed. They drank in silence for a few minutes before Harry tossed out the required drunken non-sequitor.

"It'd be nice to have a girlfriend."

"If you want a girlfriend, you should probably stop hanging out here and go get one."

He opened his eyes and shook his head. "S'too complicated."

"It generally is. That's why I'm such a popular girl."

"How many guys've you slept with?"

"Because you're drunk, I'm going to let you have a Mulligan on that," she said coolly.

"I'm not drunk," he insisted, squinting at her. "Whassa Mulligan?"

"A do-over," Thera said, taking a big sip. "Haven't you ever played golf?" There should be more Mulligans in the world. What would I pick if I got to do something over again? Thera thought about it for a moment, fully involved in alcohol-induced pensiveness.

"My cousin Dudley whacked me with a putter once," Harry reminisced. Then he shrugged. "S'okay, though. I don' remember what I asked now anyway."

"Good." Thera couldn't really think of anything she'd do differently. In all honesty, pretty much everything she'd done in her whole life was in reaction to circumstances beyond her control. All of her actions were influenced by survival, the spell, or her father's imaginative use of dark magic. Nothing she'd done was entirely of her own volition. There really was no her to speak of. Thera Castelar was just a mass of controlled behaviors without any real identity. It was a depressing thought.

Thankfully, she was saved from tumbling into the black abyss of half-pissed self-reflection by Harry falling off the bed.

"I'm alright," he assured her from the floor.

Thera watched him climb back onto the bed, suppressing giggles with difficulty. His glass of firewhisky was curiously undisturbed.

"Sorry," she said. "I forgot to warn you that the bed slants to the left."

"Does it?" Harry asked, rocking from side to side. "I thinkyer right. An' I don' think it's sposedta spin like this. You needa getta repairman in here." He snorted with laughter at his own joke. "Bed repairman," he choked out, falling slowly over onto his side and hugging his stomach, laughing harder and harder.

"Ladies and gentlemen, The Boy Who Lived," Thera announced, taking another sip.

This sent Harry into another fit of hilarity.

"You're acting like an idiot," she informed him.

"Idiot," he guffawed. "Thassa funny word."

Realizing that she had Harry Potter in a very vulnerable moment, Thera couldn't stop herself from taking advantage of it.

"What did the prophecy say?"

"Proph'sy?" he asked, his laughter fading.

"What did it say?"

"Proph'sy killed Sirius," he whispered sadly.

"Sirius? You mean Sirius Black?" Thera was entirely confused. Then she began putting it all together. Wormtail betraying his parents, framing his godfather and sending him to Azkaban, Sirius Black. "Sirius Black was in the prophecy?" she asked sharply.

"No," he said, sounding impatient. "Vol'mort used Sirius to get me to the DeparmenofMysteries to get the proph'sy. An' then I got it an' the Deatheaters attacked us an' a buncha shit happened an' then Sirius fell through the veil." Harry slid a thumb and forefinger underneath his glasses and pressed them into his eyes as if fighting off tears. Thera desperately hoped he wouldn't cry. If the savior of the bloody wizarding world was a crybaby, then they were all in a big heap of trouble.

"What did the prophecy say, though? Do you know?"

"Said one of us hadda kill the other one." His voice was even and she breathed a sigh of relief. Harry took his hand out from under his glasses and laid it out in front of him.

"Is that all?"

"Said I hadda power he doesn' know about."

Thera perked up. "Power? What sort of power?"

Harry seemed to have forgotten about her presence. "Dummeldore said it was love, but Fox said tha' was horseshit. She said I can make people do things or somethin'."

"Who's Fox? And what can you make people do?"

"Fox's trainin' me to fight Vol'mort. She's like Dummeldore, y'know."

Thera had no idea what that was supposed to mean, but she was glad that somebody was bothering to train Harry to beat the Dark Lord when the time came. It was, in fact, the only evidence of foresight or planning she'd seen from the good side thus far.

"What is this about making people do things, though?"

"I dunno," Harry said, yawning widely. "I dinnent understand it all. I escaped from'im all'ose times, an' Fox said was 'cause I can make things happen."

Harry sounded nearly asleep. He yawned again, blinked his eyes and shook his head, then sat up with a great deal of difficulty.

"I don' think I was s'posedta tell you all that," he said seriously, his eyebrows drawing together. "Issa secret," he whispered, his eyes darting from side to side.

Thera couldn't hold back a 'look at the drunk kid' smile. "Don't worry. I won't tell."

"S' good," he said, trying clumsily to crawl over to her. "Yer pretty, y'know tha'?"

His face drew close to hers. He stank of firewhisky and his eyes weren't properly focused. He managed to direct his lips to the corner of her mouth and eventually fumbled his way to his target, sliding his tongue in between her lips and moaning drunkenly.

Thera lifted a hand to his chest. "Harry," she said, looking him in the eyes levelly. "I know from experience that you're far too drunk to finish what you're starting here."

He sat back, looking horrified. "Yam drunk, aren' I? I can' believe it. Me. Harry Potter. I never been drunk before. S'not like me. How do I stop it?" he asked fearfully.

"You drink lots of water and thank Merlin you're in a dungeon without any windows."

"Water?" This seemed to be a new concept to him.

Being well schooled in the art of handling drunk people, Thera managed to get his shoes off and arrange him under the covers. She got up and poured him a glass of water, watching like a hawk as he drank the entire thing in three large gulps. Pouring him another glass, she dug into her store of pre-menstrual painkilling potions - doled out to all female Hogwarts students by Madame Pomfrey - and made him drink a vial before he fell back onto a pillow, glasses askew, already snoring like a freight train.

Thera sat down on the edge of the bed and watched him. She had watched plenty of men sleep, and their personalities invariably showed through. Draco, true to form, smirked even in his sleep. For his part, Harry slept guiltily, as if he didn't deserve it, as if having to sleep were just one more thing standing in the way of him saving the world.

Turning out the light, Thera stretched out next to him. Sensing her presence, Harry turned onto his side and threw an arm across her. Thera generally wasn't much of a cuddler, but he was warm and it had been a long day and she was half-drunk, so Thera pulled his arm tighter, sliding in so that they were spooning. It was only a momentary weakness, she assured herself, and Harry wouldn't remember it anyway.