Elemental

Penthesilea

Rating: PG13
Genres: Romance, Action & Adventure
Relationships: Draco & Ginny
Book: Draco & Ginny, Books 1 - 4
Published: 02/02/2004
Last Updated: 02/02/2004
Status: in_progress

Ginny’s been given gifts in her life that people can never take away, some curses, some blessings. Her world spins in her fifth year when she is forced to come to grips with her new powers and control them before they control her. Eventual R and NC-17. D/G

Chapters

1. Prelude: Infusion

2. The Setting of the Stage

1. Prelude: Infusion

PRELUDE: Infusion

She was too far along for this. Six childbirths gave her enough experience to tell her that much. In her second trimester, traipsing about the forest wasn’t ideal. Not only was she feeling rather hot, but she was barefooted, and she’d left her children at home with only Arthur to look over them. Molly loved Arthur very much indeed, but she was realistic. Arthur couldn’t even change diapers. So when her three-year-old twin sons went gallivanting about the countryside on a magically powered wheelbarrow, she had reason to fear.

Though it was late, the sun was just sinking down for the night. Fred and George were in for it when she caught them. They were by far the most mischievous of her children; Percy would never do something like this. But at the same time, she felt a great swell of pride in her brood. Fred and George were going to be master charmers when they grew up; the way they charmed the wheelbarrow into moving with no wand proved enough.

Unfortunately (but in a good way), Arthur’s side of the family was cursed with multiple Showings, the wizarding term for when a child first showed signs of talent. These multiple Showings had started for Bill when he was only one, Charlie when he was sixteen months, Percy when he was ten months, Fred and George when they were thirteen months, and Ron had Shown when he was ten months as well. All had Shown surprisingly early (a good sign that all would be rather powerful) and often (a good sign that they would be an annoyance for long after their first Showing). But pride swelled in her all the same.

Now with her last (“No more, Arthur!” “But Molly...” “I said no!” “I wanted a girl too.”) child in her womb, she trudged up the slope of the slow incline. The wheelbarrow tracks led that way. She sighed, rolling her eyes and wishing Arthur had volunteered for baby chasing. This was the fifth time this week, and though it was her turn, she really didn’t want to.

Grumbling irritably, she thanked whoever was listening that Bill, Charlie, and Percy had come to Control (the wizarding term used for those who had begun to gain command over their powers) rather soon. She had a feeling Fred and George would hang onto their last bits of Showing until the very end. Maybe Ron would be well-behaved. Then she snorted. Since when were her children ‘well-behaved?’ Percy was, despite his age, bossy and cynical, and he was the best behaved of the bunch. Bill and Charlie were very close but troublemakers in their own right. They were leading Fred and George down the wrong path right quickly.

Molly stopped as she felt a kicking. She smiled, rubbing her belly. She always got a thrill out of this; it would be what she missed most about children. It made her feel whole to have children, knowing they would continue the Weasley legacy. All the things her great family would do... And this one especially, the one she was carrying. She was a girl, this much Molly knew. There was no test to see if children were boys or girls in the wizarding world, only that feeling a witch would get when she carried a child in her womb.

She had successfully predicted her first six children, knowing almost automatically they would be strong, healthy, little boys. She didn’t fool herself; she was no diviner. In fact, Divination had probably been her worst subject, until it came to dreams, that is. She had a special gift in that particular field.

It had manifested when she turned sixteen, near the end of her sixth year. She had begun dreaming more frequently, sleeping less often, then more often, and seeing through a gauze-like film during the day, as though she was half-asleep. She had learned from her mother that summer that she, as her mother and her mother’s mother before her, was a Dreamweaver.

“A Dreamweaver,” her mother had explained, “is just that. You have the ability to create dreams, enter other people’s dreams, change their dreams, and interpret what they mean. It’s a very special gift, Molly, and I expect you to respect it and use it well.”

And she did. Molly had always kept her power in check; though sometimes when she was stressed it would become unmanageable, and she would intercept other people’s dreams on accident. It was something that happened when she was young, something that terrified her very much, mostly because she never had any control over whose dreams she invaded, however accidental it was. Arthur’s dreams were always very simple, full of love and hope and invention and so many other wonderful things. But it was when she captured the dreams of scary people, people like Lucius Malfoy, that she regretted her ability.

It had happened her seventh year; she had been tutoring a group of first years in Potions, a class she was surprisingly good at. A skinny, blonde boy with sharp gray eyes and a wicked tongue was ordered into the group by the Potions professor, Marian Glamis. Truth be told, Lucius at age eleven was wretched and painfully insulting.

She had been stressed one day because of him and accidentally captured a dream of his. It was a nightmare; it had to have been. There was blood and terror everywhere. There were visions, very quick, of an older, blonde-haired man looking to be Lucius’ father, beating him with a cane and cursing him, using Unforgivables even.

Molly shivered at the memory, hoping her child would never have to experience dreams like that. She rubbed her belly again, trying to calm her child with good dreams. That was the thing that had given her baby away as a potential Dreamweaver; she was very susceptive to early dream manipulation. She remembered her mother explaining it to her a few years ago, before she died. Her mother would have liked a granddaughter.

Smiling as her child settled, she took off once again, looking ahead of her at the setting sun and checking the path for signs of wheelbarrow. It seemed Fred and George had veered off to the left.

Then a chill ran down her back, and she stiffened. She knew that feeling. Her eyes flashed to the right, opposite the way of her boys. In the distance something was happening, something deeply magical. She felt it in her bones, her blood, her very cells. It was everywhere, a humming, deep, elemental sensation. Molly realized there could only be one thing happening. She had to run.

It would be a Meeting; there was no doubt about it. But there should have been a warning; there should have been reports. Couldn’t they predict this stuff now? And her children were out when it happened! She had to get to them and fast. So she began to run. It was slow moving; she couldn’t let the Meeting reach her. It meant saving four lives, the lives of Fred and George, her unborn daughter’s and her own. Moving as fast as she could away from the charging Meeting, she let out a grunt of pain as she tripped and just barely landed on her back, shielding her daughter.

She clutched her stomach, hoping the Meeting would pass right over her. It was doubtful, but maybe. The humming feeling came closer, closer and closer until her whole body vibrated with it. The heat had become immense, too much for her baby to handle, she knew. It was almost too much for her; she felt like passing out. The fiery waves of heat whipped around her body, a scorching tornado.

She realized it was a meeting of Fire and Wind, and she forgot to tell herself how lucky she was. If it was Fire and Water or Earth and Wind, she would have been dead by now. The Meeting of polar opposites usually ended in catastrophe, death, and destruction. As it was, Meetings could kill tens to tens of thousands, but getting caught in a Meeting of, say, Fire and Water was lethal.

But just as she was sure that all would end, giving out one wish and prayer that at least her children were safe, everything stopped. She figured it was the eye of the Meeting, the central point where no activity occurred. Straining with the heat still, she opened her eyes cautiously.

It was bright, almost too bright. A red color was mixing with a clear, almost silvery color. It was vibrating all around her, the pure magic of the elements almost too much for her. It was like radiation, penetrating her soul and, she feared, the soul of her unborn child.

Then a deep, booming voice fell upon her ears. “Human of the Earth! You have been chosen as a vessel! Accept or die, it is your choice. Choose death, and you choose the death of your children as well.”

Molly was stunned into silence. She had been chosen as a vessel for what exactly?

And as though the voice had heard her, it answered. “You will be a vessel for the Child; the Meeting of Fire and Wind has been completed successfully, and offspring has occurred. Accept your charge or die; it is your choice.”

A moment of belligerence came over Molly, and she forced herself to stand, physically spiting the pressure caused by the magic around her. “And what of my child!? Should I sacrifice my daughter for the Powers?”

To her surprise, there was a silence. She wondered for a moment if she had gone too far and the Meeting was going to kill her. A few moments later, the voice returned. “A pact can be made with you, Human of the Earth. Your daughter will be a hybrid, a living, breathing combination of fire, wind, and flesh.”

Molly’s mouth fell. They would make her daughter elemental? How? Why? Oh, why did she have to be caught up in this? A sigh escaped her, and she felt like waving her hands in defeat. Oh, the life her daughter would live. And she would live, no matter what Molly had to do.

“And you will not harm my boys?” she asked carefully.

“Their safety will be ensured,” came the answer.

Hanging her head, Molly agreed to the terms.

She didn’t clearly remember what happened next. She remembered feeling very light, and a bright glow everywhere. It was like a metallic red, and it was everywhere. She remembered fire and wind, lots of wind and even more fire, and then spinning.

When she woke, she was on the ground, her head pounding and her belly aching. Two high-pitched voices were crying at her, red-headed children. It dawned on her; they were Fred and George.

“Mummy! Mummy!” Fred wailed.

“We want to go home, Mummy!” George reiterated.

They were on the ground next to her, both with tears rolling down their cheeks and blotchy red spots on their faces. Smiling, but with tears in her eyes, Molly hugged both of her boys close to her. She began to stand, feeling the ache in her belly and deciding to check on her baby. Her dreams were soft and content, a child’s dreams. It seemed as though the Meeting had no lasting impression on her. Molly smiled wanly; she was going to have a lot to explain to her baby girl.

Her hands went to her belly, and she rubbed it absently. Then she stopped and looked down. Her belly was a lot larger. And she meant a lot. She looked like she was ready to burst! While Fred and George had been big for twins, they were nothing like this. Molly felt as though an anvil were in her stomach, not a baby. She groaned as she walked, taking the hands of Fred and George.

“Mummy?” Fred asked, looking up with big, blue eyes. He appeared to be over his fear now; being with his mother soothed his worries. “You’re big, Mummy.”

“Bigger than this morning,” George added.

“Mummy feels big,” Molly said labouredly, going down the hill at a steady, but slow, pace. She saw the Burrow and wanted to cry. Home at last! The first thing she was going to do was sleep, that was, if the aching in her belly ever stopped.

Fred and George ran to the house, calling loudly to their father, something Molly was happy for. But when Arthur came out, his jaw dropped at what he saw. Molly couldn’t blame him; she would have done the same thing. She knew she looked like a balloon, and she certainly felt like one.

“Molly?” he said to her, obviously confused. He said it slowly, the voice he used when he didn’t understand. “Molly, what happened?”

“I got caught, Arthur,” she said tiredly, falling into his open arms. He held her soundly, kissing her forehead, his strong arms wrapping around her, comforting her. “The Meeting came upon me too fast.”

Arthur stiffened. “It should have been me, Molly. I don’t even know how you survived. Oh gods, what have I done? What happened to you?”

“I...”

Then Molly stopped. It had happened. She looked up at Arthur with her big, brown eyes, face telling all. “Arthur...my water broke. We have to go...NOW!”

“We’re not ready! Oh Merlin! Okay, Molly, can you Apparate?” he asked, looking frantic.

“Not this time,” she ground out. This was magically induced; she knew it! Damn interfering Elements! Merlin! The contractions weren’t supposed to come yet! “Get me to Mungo’s now, Arthur!”

“All right! All right! The Floo, the Floo! We’ll take the Floo!” he said excitedly.

Molly wanted desperately to punch him, but knew he was just excited about the baby. Why did men get like this? And her husband, of all people? Six childbirths! “Call Meredith Diggory to take care of the boys,” Molly said as calmly as she could.

“Yes! Yes, of course!” Arthur said frantically, going inside to use the Floo.

Bill, Charlie, and Percy, who had come out of the house by then, looked up at her. Well, Bill, who was twelve, could almost look down on her. “Charlie and I can take care of Percy, Fred, George, and Ron, Mum,” Bill volunteered.

Molly smiled in spite of her condition. “I’m sure you can, Bill,” she said gently.

“I don’t need to be taken care of!” Percy pouted, standing closer to Molly as he said it, his bottom lip puffing out. “I’m old enough.”

“I’m sure you are, Percy,” Molly said, another, magically induced contraction coming and passing. At least they weren’t that bad...yet.

“Oh, Molly!” a blonde, blue-eyed woman said in a matronly voice. Molly sighed in relief. It was Meredith. “I just came; I’d be happy to take care of the boys for a few days. Go now! And good lord, Molly, you’re huge!”

Molly gritted her teeth. Meredith smiled knowingly, the swell of a second child in her already. “All right, Meredith,” Molly said in a strained voice.

Arthur came up behind her, leading her to the fireplace, and they took the Floo to Mungo’s. Almost immediately, she was on a bed, the contractions wracking her body. She found herself wishing adamantly that she had never been caught in the Meeting and that she wasn’t so pregnant. She felt slightly stretched, like all the nutrients had been taken from her body and given to her new child. She figured that was what had happened and wanted to wreak havoc on any person who said childbirth was easy.

It wasn’t long after that the nurses told her they were going to have to put her under; the childbirth would have been too hard on her otherwise. Having gone through six childbirths already, she wasn’t happy about this. But having no other choice when they actually did put her under, her opinions weren’t voiced.

It was hours and hours later that Molly woke. The familiar soreness of her back, legs, stomach, and vaginal path, combined with her feeling of tired contentment, reminded her that she had, of course, just given birth and wanted to see her baby, her baby girl. Asleep in the chair next to her was Arthur, his glasses pushed on top of his head and a Muggle mechanics book on his lap. He looked rather wretched, his hair a mess, the collar of his shirt unbuttoned, and his robes tossed over him like a thin blanket. Molly sighed, reaching over and putting a hand on her husband’s to wake him.

Arthur jumped lightly, snorting and looking around. Molly smiled at him, suddenly feeling rather dirty; dried sweat perforating her nose. But Arthur’s big, blue eyes smiled, and he got up, kissing her on the forehead and clasping her hand with his.

“She’s a girl, Mol,” he said quietly, his eyes looking shiny with tears. “I named her Virginia – Virginia Anne Weasley.”

“It’s a beautiful name, Arthur,” Molly replied. “But I think I’d like to see her as well.”

Arthur smiled and stood, but when he reached the door, he stopped and turned, an uncertain look on his face. “Molly, will you be ready to receive visitors in the next hour or so?”

Molly turned to him, her eyes frowning. “Yes. But...but why? Who?”

Arthur nodded. “Albus Dumbledore and Alastor Moody...and,” at this, Arthur licked his lips and ran his hand through his hair nervously, “Duncan.”

Molly gasped. “Duncan? Are you sure? Are you quite sure, Arthur?”

Arthur nodded, closing the door behind him. In a few minutes, he returned with their daughter Virginia. Molly temporarily forgot all her questions as she caught first sight of her daughter. Arthur placed Virginia in Molly’s hands, smoothing the white birthing towel down so Virginia’s face was showing. Molly took Virginia, astonished at how heavy she was, but smiled anyway.

“Five and a half kilograms, Mol,” Arthur said, recognizing her dismay. “Bigger than Fred and George combined. I’m so proud of you, Molly.”

Molly nodded dumbly, placing her hand on the forehead of Virginia and marveling at her hair. It wasn’t like the rest of her family’s hair, more orange than deep red. Virginia’s hair was red like roses, red like blood. Then she noticed something, a strange mark on the back of Virginia’s head where her hair was still very light.

“The doctors don’t know what it is,” Arthur said, sitting on the edge of the bed lightly. “They think it is in the shape of some ancient rune, one we don’t have records for. But given the Meeting you were caught in, it’s probably Fire and Wind.”

Molly looked up at Arthur. “Why is Duncan coming, Arthur? We haven’t seen him in...in years. Not since I was twenty at least.”

Arthur ran his hand through his hair again, looking to the door. “He is the head of the Department of Mysteries, Molly. This is what he does.”

Molly frowned. The last time she’d seen Duncan he had wanted her to participate in some research, genetic-altering, scientific thing. He wanted her to be a guinea pig of some sort. He wanted to do something to her children; in Molly’s book, that made him mad.

It had all started in school; he had been in her and Arthur’s year, a Ravenclaw so smart he made most of the teachers look like fools. He had deduced her secret, her Dreamweaver’s secret, and had questioned her mercilessly. She thought if she gave him a glimpse, inserted a dream here and there, changed one here and there, he’d leave her alone. But he’d become obsessed, and she’d told Arthur to keep him away from her. She and Arthur had been dating since they were fourth years and had liked each other since they were children living in the same neighborhood. But back then, Arthur was much more territorial of her and was known to beat up people on sight.

All that combined with the fact that she really didn’t trust Duncan Welsh made her uneasy about seeing him again.

“Mol,” Arthur said quietly.

He was looking at Virginia, and Molly turned to look into her daughter’s eyes for the first time. Molly smiled. They were brown, but not any brown, a metal, bronze color with gold flecks. Her red eyelashes fluttered delicately, and her pink lips opened slightly to breathe. Molly felt her eyes tearing. She had never seen a more beautiful baby in her life. She smiled and wiped away her tears.

“She’s beautiful, Molly,” Arthur said. “She’s so beautiful.”

“I know,” Molly whispered. Molly let her mind reach Virginia’s, delving lightly into her daughter’s young mind, sending happy feelings and dreams her way. Virginia fell asleep, a content look on her face. “I know,” Molly repeated, holding Virginia closely.

She looked up at Arthur, who was taking off his fogging glasses and cleaning them, tears rolling down his cheeks. “Her eyes are so beautiful. They’re like magnets. She’ll be a real looker when she grows up.”

Molly smiled, and would have said more, but there were loud voices coming from outside her room. A frown touched Arthur’s lips, and he stood, reaching the door as it flew open. A man about his own height burst in, two other men following.

Molly recognized the first as Duncan Welsh. He hadn’t changed much since she’d seen him nearly a decade ago. His black eyes and black hair still dark, but his hair had a few grays about the edges. He was broad, broader than Arthur, but a bit shorter. The next man Molly recognized as Alastor Moody, his black eyes flying about the scene wearily and taking a quick drink from his flask. After Alastor Moody was Albus Dumbledore. Molly smiled at him only, for his grandfatherly face and cheerful eyes went first to her and then her daughter.

“Arthur, Molly,” Dumbledore said mildly. “How glorious to see you both. I see you have a new addition to your growing family; she’s a beautiful little girl.”

“Thank you, Headmaster,” Arthur said; Molly could tell he felt a little uncomfortable.

“Weasley,” Moody barked. “Good to see you, boy.” He extended a hand, something he did for very few people, and shook Arthur’s soundly. Arthur had been one of Moody’s main Aurors when Moody still trained Aurors. They had remained good friends, and Arthur, the head of the Department of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts, had gotten him off in a few accounts of enchanting a Muggle item for wizarding use.

“Arthur, Molly, pleasant to see you again,” Duncan Welsh said, his voice the same as Molly remembered. It was deep and almost terrifying. She wanted to shiver, but she didn’t. “A new bundle of joy to take home, I see.”

“Duncan,” Arthur said stiffly, being a man and extending a hand.

Duncan looked at it and sneered. “Charmed, Arthur, charmed.”

Molly clutched Virginia closer to her, and an uncomfortable silence occurred, broken by Dumbledore. “Molly,” Dumbledore said kindly, extending his arms, “do you mind?”

Molly shook her head, and Dumbledore took Virginia, holding her paternally in his arms. She cooed lightly, grabbing at Dumbledore’s silvery beard in her tiny, pudgy fingers. Dumbledore smiled at this, the whole sight making Molly and Arthur smile. Dumbledore put a hand on Virginia’s forehead, closing his eyes for a moment.

Then a smile appeared on his lined face. “You have a very beautiful daughter, Molly and Arthur, and a very powerful witch I think. I’d watch out for this one; she’ll Show very early.”

Moody snorted. “What else is new? Are you done, Albus?”

“Ahem!” a deep voice barked. “I’m not done.” It was Duncan. “I would like to perform an experiment of my own.”

“I’m sure you would,” Arthur spat. “Too bad you won’t come within three feet of Virginia. I want you to leave, Duncan. I don’t ever want to see you near her, not ever. That goes for all my children.”

This earned a slow, evil smile from Duncan. “Well, if that’s how you feel, I’m sorry, Arthur...”

“Don’t worry,” Arthur growled. “It is.”

Dumbledore gave Molly back a happily, gurgling Virginia, smiling at her and seemingly taking no interest in the words between Arthur and Duncan. Moody, however, took a keen interest in it, his eyes gauging and judging speculatively.

“Congratulations, Molly and Arthur,” Dumbledore said. “I cannot wait for the day when young Virginia attends Hogwarts.”

“Thank you, Headmaster,” Arthur said. “But we’ve had a long day, and Molly is very tired. If there’s anything else, I’d love for you to come over for tea if you’re not too busy. It would be our pleasure. And Alastor, I still have some paperwork I need to give you, so I’ll see you on Monday.”

Moody grunted, nodding and moving Duncan out of the room with his eyes, following quietly. Dumbledore smiled kindly and nodded to Molly and Arthur.

“Congratulations again, and I think I will stop by for some tea, next Wednesday perhaps?”

“That would be wonderful, Headmaster,” Molly said, cradling Virginia gently, Virginia’s little hands reaching up. “Goodbye.”

Dumbledore closed the door, leaving Molly and Arthur to look over a very complacent Virginia.

“Ginny,” Arthur said softly, sitting on the bed again. “Ginny...”

Molly smiled. “Yes, we’ll call her Ginny.”

“What are you thinking, Alastor?”

A sigh. “She’s powerful all right. Weasley and Molly probably couldn’t feel it because they’d become accustomed to it. But the elemental power in that room went off the Benson’s Scale.”

“We’ve been having problems with that scale though. It should have picked up the Meeting days and days before it did, especially one that powerful. It’s a wonder indeed that Molly lived, Molly and the baby.”

“Albus, we didn’t know that one was coming. There was no way; it was completely spontaneous. It happens sometimes.”

“I know, Alastor, I know.”

“What did you feel in her? Does she have the gift?”

“Does she have the gift? Yes, she has the gift. It is stronger than Molly’s, stronger than Eva’s even. She will cause problems in Hogwarts; I can feel it already.”

“An Elemental at Hogwarts. An Elemental and Dreamweaver. Has that ever happened before, Albus?”

“We’ve had a few Elementals. Minerva, if you remember, is a child of Fire. Her mother was raped by a Fire Spirit. And Narcissa Black – well, Malfoy now – she is a pure Wind Elemental.”

“I thought she was just part Veela.”

“No, Wind Elemental.”

“I wondered why that bastard Lucius Malfoy would choose a Ravenclaw as a wife. The Malfoys were always so Slytherin based. I wonder how he found out.”

“She saved his life, Alastor. She saved his life using her gift. But in answer to your other question, no, we’ve never had an Elemental Dreamweaver, though we’ve had Dreamweavers, most of them Tuckers, Molly’s mother’s line.”

A silence.

“Then how will you deal with her, Albus?”

Another silence.

“When the time comes, I think I will know.”

A snort. “Well, isn’t that handy? What are we going to do about Duncan Welsh then? You saw the way he looked at the girl. She’ll be in danger of him for the rest of her life.”

A sigh. “We will put up very powerful charms and barriers, Alastor. Flitwick will help. We will protect her as best we can. But I fear she is not only in danger from Duncan Welsh. I fear the worst of her dangers are not yet realized.”

“Voldemort.”

“Yes.”

“But he’s dead.”

“You should know better than that, Alastor.”

“The Potter boy did a rather convincing job then. We couldn’t find a trace of the bastard.”

A nod. “I rather suspected you wouldn’t.”

“So now what?”

A lemon drop plucked from a bowl. “We’ll wait.”

NEXT TIME ON ELEMENTAL:

“N – n – no, My Lord,” came the nervous reply of Wormtail.

“This, Wormtail, is how I know.”

Slowly, as though he were moving though water, the dark master of Wormtail reached into his black robe and fingered his wand with care.

“This, my dear Wormtail, is how I know.

“CRUCIO!”

Ginny woke with a start, her sweat plastering her crimson hair on her forehead and making her bed seem like a sauna. How did it get so hot in here? She rolled out of bed, her thin shirt and short pajama shorts clinging to her like a second skin in the moist air. It was summer; it was to be expected. She wished she could take a quick dip in the waterhole round the back of her house.

2. The Setting of the Stage

Author’s Note: Just a quickie here. Thank you guys so much who reviewed. Here it is, the much awaited (by like thirteen people) first chapter of Elemental. I think it’s good. My sister The Basher thinks it’s good. Thanks again to you lovely reviewers, I love you all like my own sons...but you’re not. Yeah. This story was begun pre-OotP. As such, there will be no spoilers, and this is officially an alternate universe. Oh, and I’ve decided to put those annoying little chapter teasers at the end of my chapters. But not this one, because it is the “first” chapter. This is really long, I need to shut up.

LAST TIME ON ELEMENTAL:

“What are you thinking, Alastor?”

A sigh. “She’s powerful all right. Weasley and Molly probably couldn’t feel it because they’d become accustomed to it. But the elemental power in that room went off the Benson’s Scale.”

“We’ve been having problems with that scale though. It should have picked up the Meeting days and days before it did, especially one that powerful. It’s a wonder indeed that Molly lived, Molly and the baby.”

“Albus, we didn’t know that one was coming. There was no way; it was completely spontaneous. It happens sometimes.”

“I know, Alastor, I know.”

“What did you feel in her? Does she have the gift?”

“Does she have the gift? Yes, she has the gift. It is stronger than Molly’s, stronger than Eva’s even. She will cause problems in Hogwarts; I can feel it already.”

CHAPTER 1: The Setting of the Stage

A man stood with his black cloak flying behind him. Clouds behind him were dark, dark and evil, as though they themselves were plotting. A streak of tinted lightning flashed across the sky, the light illuminating the cliffs, wind and water beating the weatherworn precipice.

The man turned, his face shadowed by this black hood, and he began walking straight ahead. His hands could be seen, spindly and weak, but dangerous and refined. They were pale, nails long and neat, but all in all, evil in appearance. In one there was a black wand, bright, polished lovingly. Behind him the weather roared, and it seemed as though he had caused it, and it made him happy.

“M – master,” a stuttering voice said. A squat, short man whimpered and crawled to the dark man on his knees. “What now, Master?”

“Have you found her?” The voice of the man was high, not effeminate, just high. It held indifference and disdain, but at the same time it carried an air of power and control. It was the voice of villains that educated men grudgingly respected, but most men feared.

“Yes, Master,” the short man said, reaching for the dark man’s gown and kissing it reverently.

“Well?”

“She is an Elemental; Welsh has confirmed it.”

“Welsh...” the dark man said musingly, one cruel hand going to his chin. “And Welsh – Duncan Welsh, is he loyal.”

“He has always been loyal,” simpered the smaller man.

“As loyal as you, Wormtail?”

“No one is more loyal than I, Master!” It came in a fearful squeal. Wormtail cowered and kissed the booted feet of his master as a servant would.

“I know,” the man replied. “I know, Wormtail. And you would never lie to me.”

“Never!”

“Then tell me, can we retrieve her? I need her soon.” The voice of the man sounded reasonable.

But the servant, Wormtail, stopped. “She goes to Hogwarts, Master. The eye of Dumbledore reaches as long as his arm.”

A pause. “She is a student there, or a teacher?”

“A – a student, Master,” cowered Wormtail. “A fifth year. She is – is the s – same one that carried your soul three years ago.”

The man seemed to smile. “Is that so? Well then she truly is worthy to bear my heir. Wormtail,” the man said, looking out at the approaching storm, “I want you to bring me a picture of this girl and tell me everything you know about her. She is too young yet, but in another year she will be the perfect age. She will bear my child, my heir. Go now, Wormtail, and don’t disappoint me.”

“I would never, Master!” whined the servant.

“I know,” replied the man’s master. “And do you know how I know, Wormtail?”

“N – n – no, My Lord,” came the nervous reply of Wormtail.

“This, Wormtail, is how I know.”

Slowly, as though he were moving though water, the dark master of Wormtail reached into his black robe and fingered his wand with care.

“This, my dear Wormtail, is how I know.

“CRUCIO!”

Ginny woke with a start, her sweat plastering her crimson hair on her forehead and making her bed seem like a sauna. How did it get so hot in here? She rolled out of bed, her thin shirt and short pajama shorts clinging to her like a second skin in the moist air. It was summer; it was to be expected. She wished she could take a quick dip in the waterhole round the back of her house.

Sighing, she stood and cracked her back. She’d slept oddly again, her dreams, as always, troubled. She couldn’t clearly remember the dream this time, only that it was bad, really bad. It was the same two people she was dreaming about. One was tall and dark, radiating a black aura. The other was short and sort of graying around the edges, as though his will to live was in the other, darker one. It always ended with the graying one tortured.

Ginny shivered in spite of the heat, opening her door and cursing the floorboards for creaking so loudly. She made her way down the stairs. She looked out the window once she got to the kitchen, finding it was still the dead of night. The moon had set, and the stars were bright in the sky; it would be a clear morning, she could tell.

She was cooled a little by the glass of water she got for herself, but she had to walk around a little to stop sweating so heavily. She sighed again, finally settling on the couch and throwing a light blanket over her feet. She stared into the fireplace, dark and sooty, though an ember appeared when she looked at it again.

Soon, she heard the creaking of the stairs, signaling her mother, an early riser herself, was up. Ginny frowned. Her mother didn’t rise at three thirty in the morning though. To her surprise, it was Charlie, her older brother. He was staying at the Burrow for the weekend, taking a bit of time off work in the Hebrides Mountains. He smiled at her, yawning and stretching out his Gryffindor Quidditch shirt as he did so.

“Hi, Gin, what are you doing up?” he said in a groggy voice.

“I was having dreams again,” Ginny replied, patting a place right next to her.

Charlie plopped down, started a fire in the fireplace, and turned to her. “Dreams, eh? You should go to Mum; she always made my bad dreams go away.”

“She usually makes mine go away as well. But I don’t like asking her anymore; I haven’t since after first year...”

Ginny trailed off, shifting uncomfortably. Charlie understood though and changed the topic. “So when are you going to come to the Hebrides with me. I want someone’s approval on Jillian before I tell Mum I’m going to marry her.”

“Oh, you got up the courage then?” Ginny said, smiling and setting down her water on the table.

Charlie cringed. “Oh, yeah. I’ll have to do that, won’t I?”

Ginny gave him the ‘duh’ look, and one eyebrow rose. “I think that would be a good idea, Charlie.”

“Are you looking forward to school then?” he said, changing the conversation again.

Ginny shrugged. “Not really. I mean, every year is the same. This fourth year was like third year, and I suppose fifth year will be like forth year.”

“At least you have fun O.W.L.s to look forward to,” Charlie said comfortingly.

“Fun and O.W.L.s should never be used in the same sentence, Charlie,” Ginny said seriously. “But if you must know, I was thinking about joining the school newspaper this year. I was going to do a dream interpretation section on account of my good marks in Divination...or at least in that part of Divination.”

“Well, you like writing, and dream interpretation seems to be your thing. Go for it,” Charlie said. “But right now, I’m hungry, so fix me something.”

Ginny rolled her eyes, throwing the blanket at Charlie as she got up and went to the kitchen.

Ginny sat next to her school trunk. It was full of her clothes and books, quills and papers, and of course, her new diary. She sighed. It was a secret from her parents; they wouldn’t like it if they knew she had one. She hadn’t been allowed ever since her first year. But as it turned out, she really did need to keep a diary, so in her third year, she started writing in one again. It made her feel calm and helped her deal with her feelings. Plus, it organized her day for her, something she desperately needed.

Sighing again, she closed the trunk, putting her wand in the back pocket of her jeans as she stood. Straightening her plain, black shirt, she stood in front of her mirror, brushing back her crimson hair into a ponytail, then putting it down again. She needed to cut it, at least a little. It had grown rather long, reaching her bellybutton. Performing a simple charm, she curled the ends. Then she pointed her wand at her trunk, levitating it down stairs behind her.

“Gin! Hurry up!”

It was her brother, anxious to get to the train station. He hadn’t been able to see Hermione, his girlfriend, or Harry, his best friend, all summer, on account of being with Bill in Egypt most of the time. Ginny was glad she didn’t have to go to Egypt; she hated it there. They didn’t even let her see the haunted tombs.

So Ron, toast stuffed in his mouth, pushed her ahead of him to the fireplace, leaving her to get his trunk from his room.

“You heard what Charlie said, Molly. You have to tell her soon.”

It was her father.

“I know, Arthur. I’m just saying, if she needed help, if she even assumed something, then it would be the time,” her mother replied in an exasperated voice.

“Well I’m just saying it’s about the time for her to be told. You’re going to need to and soon. Otherwise she’ll have a lot of problems in the next few months.”

“I know what I’m doing, Arthur,” snapped her mother.

“And you do have a lot to explain...”

“I KNOW, Arthur!”

The voices were coming closer, and Ginny’s mother entered the room with her father right behind her. Ginny’s mother didn’t look too happy, her arms crossed and jaw clenched. But as soon as she saw Ginny, her expression changed. Ginny’s father ran a hand through his hair before flashing a smile Ginny’s way.

“Ginny,” her mother said in a false cheery voice. “Are you ready to go?”

“Yes, Mum,” Ginny replied simply.

Her mother looked at her oddly for a moment then turned to Ginny’s father. “I’ll see you when I get back home, Arthur. Now where is that boy? Ron! We’re leaving!”

As Ron took the stairs three at a time (Ginny could tell because of the huge clunking noise), she kissed her father goodbye. He looked rather pale that day, worried perhaps. Ginny wished she knew what her parents were talking about. She was almost sure it was about her.

But before she could ask, her brother came down the stairs, and they were all Flooed to Diagon Alley. Her mother walked briskly, talking only when she was asked something. Ron kept jabbering about something or other; Ginny wasn’t really listening.

“Okay,” her mother said, once they reached the station. “I’ve got a few Sickles for your lunch; I didn’t have time to make one this year. I want a letter when you get settled in. I love you both; now get going, or you’ll be late.”

Ron hugged his mother quickly, planting a kiss in her cheek before dashing off to a beaconing Hermione and Harry. Just as Ginny was about to do the same, for she’d seen Colin, her mother grabbed her hand, placing an odd, circular object in it. Ginny looked down at it. It was a wooden circle, leathery strings creating a sort of spider’s web in the middle. A bright, reddish jewel was in the center, apparently suspended by a few strings.

“It’s called a dream catcher, Ginny,” her mother said quietly. Ginny’s eyes went to her mother’s serious ones, and her mother continued. “The Native American witches and wizards made them. They capture the bad dreams, letting only the good ones through. But this dream catcher is special; your Grandma Eva made this one. It captures all dreams. When you put your wand on that center ruby, you can see any dream it has captured.”

“How’d you know I’d been having dreams?” Ginny asked quietly. The train whistled, signaling the end of boarding.

Her mother only smiled. “Run now, or you’re going to miss the Express. I love you, Ginny!”

Ginny kissed her mother, hanging onto the hug a moment longer than needed, and rushed off to the train. She got on just as it began to leave; she was the last before the Hufflepuff prefect closed the door. She clutched a stitch in her side and opened an empty compartment. Smiling, she took her diary out of her bag and selected a quill from her collection.

“Ginny?”

It was Colin Creevey, her boyfriend since fourth year. He poked his head in the compartment, shooing his brother Dennis away, and flopped down next to her. Ginny kissed him and took hold of his hand. Then he pulled away, scooting back a few inches.

“Ginny,” he said, his brown eyes serious. “I wanted to talk to you, before anyone else did.”

“Okay,” Ginny said, smiling and looking at him doubtfully. “What about?”

He took a deep breath, exhaled, and said very quickly, “Iwannabreakup.”

Ginny flinched and frowned. “Huh?”

“I want to break up,” he swallowed, “with you.”

Ginny crossed her arms. “Well, that’s an opener for you.”

“Ginny, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but –”

“No.” Ginny looked out the window. “I understand.”

Colin fell silent. He looked contemplative, almost. Then he turned to her. “Don’t you even want to know why?”

Still gazing out the window, “Not particularly,” she said in an uninterested voice.

Colin was silent again. “You see! That’s –” He cut off, looking at her with angry eyes and standing in the compartment. “That’s the exact reason I’m breaking up with you! You don’t even care.”

Ginny looked at him harshly. “I do too! Sorry if I’m not sleeping well, I’m a little tired, and listening to you whine like a baby doesn’t inspire much hope in the relationship anyway.”

Colin’s eyes became a bit more sympathetic, and he sat opposite from her. He was one of the few people Ginny had actually told about her dreams. Besides her mother and Charlie, Colin was the only one who knew. He knew every grisly detail, all the way to the puking in the morning and the days and days without sleep.

“How bad is it?” he asked sympathetically. “When was the last time you slept?”

Ginny sighed. “Last week Monday. I woke up from one of the dreams with the two men, and I haven’t been able to sleep since.”

“Gods, Gin,” Colin said quietly, looking slightly ashamed of himself. “If I’d known that I’d’ve never...I wouldn’t’ve...I’m so sorry.”

Ginny smiled slightly. “You know what? Don’t be. I don’t think it was working out. Besides, I think I’d rather have you for a friend for now.”

Colin looked at her. “Really? Is that how you feel, Gin?”

Ginny looked at him sadly. “Colin, you’re a great guy, and you’re going to be a great boyfriend to some lucky girl and a husband to an even luckier one. But I really don’t think it’s going to be me. I have too many problems; my life is messed up. I don’t want to drag you with me. Because you know what? You’re that type of great guy that would go down with me, and I don’t want that for you. You don’t want that for you, Colin.”

Colin was quiet for a little while. “Ginny, I feel bad about this, you know. I feel like I’m deserting you.”

“No, Colin, no. You’re not deserting me. I still want you to be my friend. I mean, who will pose for your pictures if not me?” She gave him a killer smile, winking at him.

“You will still? I was going to ask...well, I was going to ask Lavender or Parvati, but they don’t have as good bodies as you,” Colin said, blushing.

Ginny understood. Colin had asked her at the end of last year, as a favor, if he could take a few pictures of her, nude, for his art. He was becoming a good artist, Dean Thomas helping him along. They were pretty good friends, despite the age difference, and Dean helped Colin a lot. But Dean had said that for him to progress correctly with his paintings and photograph sketches, he needed to have a better idea how the human body looked. That was why Colin had asked Ginny. On top of being his girlfriend, she was also rather developed for her age, her puberty ending at the end of fourth year. Ginny figured it was her family genes, for she’d always matured quickly.

“I mean,” he continued nervously, “you wouldn’t feel uncomfortable? I’m not your boyfriend anymore, just your friend.”

Ginny looked at him with a cocked head. “Colin, it’s for art. And plus, what are friends for?”

“Thanks, Gin,” Colin said, leaning over and kissing her on the cheek briefly. “I have to go and tell Dean. He didn’t really want to use Lavender or Parvati either, and I’m afraid he’s going to ask them, thoroughly humiliating himself.”

“All right, Colin,” Ginny said. He left the compartment, saluting as he left.

Ginny smiled, turning to the window. It was nearly lunch; the sun was high in the sky. Taking out her diary, still clean from all words, she looked at the empty page apprehensively. It had been a long time...

It had been since first year. All that time ago. All those memories that resurfaced in her dreams. All those moments she never could eradicate from her memory, all those days of torture.

Ginny sighed, looking at her blank paper. Then she put the quill to the empty parchment and began to scrawl in her elegant hand.

September 1, 1997

Another school year. Another Quidditch season. Another year of Potions. Another eternity of solidarity where I find myself writing my worries away. Another year of prickling sensations that migrate down my back when he looks too long. Another series of painful emotions and long nights crying. Another year in which all I want is summer from the first day to the last train ride home.

It’s all just another year. So fifth year, like forth and third and all the years that came prior, should all be the same.

Start of term can’t come soon enough. I feel like I just got off the train, and my family greeted me lovingly. I feel like I just spread my wings, waiting for the summer to hang thickly over my head and sunburn my nose. I didn’t go out much...

Ginny sat at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall. The Sorting had just ended, and food was served. Colin sat next to her, talking to Dean adamantly about their art class the next day, and it reminded Ginny of a class of her own. She was already taking the writing class the school provided as an extra-curricular activity; sometimes even Dumbledore came and looked in on the work. She would have to talk to McGonagall about joining the newspaper, promoting her idea of a dream interpretation column.

Ginny poked her peas around her plate slowly, not wanting to eat; it was all too starchy or gross. She didn’t care; she wasn’t hungry. Colin elbowed her accidentally, apologizing quickly before going back to talking to Dean. Ginny sighed, deciding she should at least return to writing in her diary. Standing, she left the Hall, unconscious of the eyes that followed her.

Only about ten meters from the doors, a voice stopped her, and stop her, it did.

“Ginny!”

It was Harry; she could tell already. She’d avoided him, successfully, for the past few years. Her crush (unfortunate and unfounded as it was) had eventually dissipated, returning to its natural state as a respect for the boy who had defeated Voldemort so many times. But sometimes, sometimes when she felt really lonely, she remembered him and smiled, thinking how nice it was to have a crush on some boy, however cute he was. Upon reflection, Harry was probably what drove her to Colin. Her obsession with getting over her obsession had made her throw herself at Colin. She was glad Colin was her friend now, not her boyfriend. They made much better friends.

So Ginny stopped, turning around with question in her eyes. “Hullo, Harry.”

“Hullo, Ginny,” Harry said, panting a bit as he came to a halt in front of her. “Where are you going?”

Ginny smiled mildly. “Just back to the common room. The noise was getting to me, and I didn’t feel much like eating.”

“Oh,” Harry said. “Well, I was wondering...” He trailed off, running his fingers though his hair, looking slightly nervous. “I was wondering if you wanted to come to Hogsmeade with me...I mean, if you wanted. And I understand if you don’t, I mean, I heard you and Colin broke up...and I’d been wanting to ask you out for a while...”

Ginny froze temporarily, only semi-conscious that her mouth was open. She closed it quickly and shook her head. “Oh,” she said dumbly. “I, ah, Harry, I mean...are you sure?”

He smiled awkwardly. “Well, I wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t sure,” he said.

“That’s not what I mean,” Ginny said quickly. Damn but this was awkward. She didn’t like Harry, not really anyway. And though he was nice, she didn’t really want to go out with him. He didn’t inspire her like that anymore. “I mean, maybe in a little while. Colin and I were serious, and I’m still a little hurt that he ended the relationship.”

Harry’s face darkened. “Was he – was he inappropriate with you, Ginny?”

Ginny’s eyes widened, and she shook her head adamantly. “No! Not ever, Harry! I just meant, we were close, and it’s going to take a while for me to deal with us being friends again.”

“Oh,” Harry said simply. Then, running his fingers though his hair again, “I’ll see you around, okay, Ginny?”

Ginny nodded, smiling encouragingly, and turned around, walking blindly around a corner and straight down a deserted hall. She crossed her arms, walking, but not really caring where, letting her feet carry her. Somewhere along the road, she began mumbling to herself.

“Why now? I mean, I haven’t done anything. Why me? He never liked me, or even showed any interest. Maybe it is because Cho is going out with Terry Boot. That has to be it. I mean, she’s in seventh year, and she still doesn’t like Harry back.

“Oh, gods, why now?” She stuck her hands in her pockets. Her fingers found something, and she pulled it out. It was the dream catcher. “And what am I supposed to do with this thing? Sleep with it? How does Mum know I’m dreaming again? Besides the fact that she knows everything, I mean.

“She gave me this...she said Grandma Eva made it. That’s her mum. I remember hearing about her. She was the one that went to America and had all the talks with the Indians that lived there.

“I suppose I just don’t understand it all. I could try it out, I suppose. She said to put my wand on the ruby. I have to dream first; that means sleep. I’ll ask for some potion from Pomfrey tomorrow.

“Ick, classes start tomorrow. I don’t want to...” but she trailed off as she hit a dead end.

Ginny frowned. The castle didn’t have dead ends. The castle had so many secrets she doubted Dumbledore the All-knowing, Omniscient Deity knew them all. But then again, maybe he did. Ginny put her hand on the wall experimentally. It didn’t feel like it had any special charms on it. But as soon as her hand left the stone, in shiny reddish letters, the words “Inverted Tower” appeared on the wall.

“Inverted Tower?” Ginny questioned quietly.

The metallic red letters had a life of their own it seemed, for as soon as she asked, a step by step process of getting in appeared. Ginny laughed. Trust this castle to have something so stupid...

“Step one: Take out wand.” Ginny took out her wand.

“Step two: Touch wand to highlighted brick.” Ginny touched her wand to the highlighted brick.

“Step three: Say the password clearly. Note: Password is ‘solitary,’ unless changed.” So Ginny said “solitary,” and the bricks re-arranged themselves to permit her by.

“Thank you for visiting Inverted Tower, please come back soon.”

Ginny started at the words written on the opposite wall, frowning and looking back at the wall as it closed silently. She glanced around. It was a rather plain room. There were four large windows, one pointing to the North, one South, etc. At each window there was a seat, padded and colored differently. One was green, one blue, one red, and one yellow. It dawned on Ginny that those were the house colors. She sat on the red one, Ginny not being the one to break tradition and sit in the green seat, per se.

Ginny gazed out the window, seeing the lake in all its moonlit glory. She frowned; the lake wasn’t to the north. Shaking her head, Ginny stood, dusting off her robes, though the room was clean. She would have to write about this place. If she could ever get back, she would have to explore it more thoroughly.

Going back to the wall between the South and East Windows, she tapped her wand on the wall, hoping it was how she could get out. To her surprise, more red writing appeared on the wall.

“Do you wish to return to Inverted Tower?

“YES or NO.

“Note: Touch tip of wand on the answer you wish to select.”

Ginny giggled a little, touching her wand to “YES.”

“Select correct house.

“GRYFFINDOR or HUFFLEPUFF or RAVENCLAW or SLYTHERIN.

“Note: If house is not selected properly, you will not be able to enter tower from your private passageway.”

Ginny selected “GRYFFINDOR” dutifully.

The questions proceeded to ask what year she was, what bed in her room she slept in, what her favorite class was, what her least favorite class was, who was favored to win the house cup that year, what her favorite food and color were, who she would never like to see in the tower, who she wouldn’t mind meeting, if she had a preference of seeing night or day when she entered the tower, and several other almost frivolous questions such as temperature, weather conditions, etc. for the next fifteen minutes until she just wanted to get out. Then it asked her to rate the service of the tower, and she was forced to give it an eight because of the length the questions had taken. The tower thanked her, and the door opened to her dorm room, a fact which surprised her at first, but then she remembered she had supplied her room and bed.

Sighing, Ginny flung herself on the bed, very happy she was the only person in her dorm. Her previous dorm mate, Jessica Forrester, had been made a prefect early because she was so smart. Hermione had been made a prefect in her fifth year because she was smart too. Ginny took her diary out and began to write.

September 1, 1997

Another school year. Another Quidditch season. Another year of Potions. Another eternity of solidarity where if find myself writing my worries away. Another year prickling sensations that migrate down my back when he looks too long. Another series of painful emotions and long nights crying. Another year in which all I want is summer from the first day to the last train ride home.

Start of term can’t come soon enough. I feel like I just got off the train, and my family greeted me lovingly. I feel like I just spread my wings, waiting for the summer to hang thickly over my head and sunburn my nose. I didn’t go out much. No family vacation, I didn’t feel like it. Usually my family does something, but I wasn’t up to it this year; I faked sick. I felt bad, but my parents left me for France anyway, telling the babysitter to make sure I drank plenty of liquids and got a lot of rest. My brother went to Egypt.

I suppose it’s nice to know they worry. Of course, it could be the fact that Death Eater attacks are growing rare, and the house is quadruple charmed and protected. Upon reflection, it probably is that. Their little girl’s growing up. Can’t imagine what my mum will do without me.

Though my cousins on my mother’s side visited, some sort of family reunion thing. It wasn’t too exciting. My perverted cousin hit on my brother’s friend. He’s so sick. I really hate him. He’s the type of boy that would touch you weird when you were a little kid and always try to kiss you. He goes to Eton...or went there until he was kicked out for inappropriate student behavior. He’s a real arse.

Then I got my cheeks pinched by my aunt, an uncomfortable reminder I’m still just fifteen. Get this, my aunt comes up to me, tells me how much I’ve grown, and then proceeds to get me to tell her who my boyfriend is.

Oh, and for my birthday, I got a doll. A doll. Yes, a doll. Were I to look at it five minutes, days, or years from now, it would still be a doll. Who gives a fifteen-year-old a doll? Oh, well, my mother. Merlin, Mab, and Circe! A doll.

Bah! Got to go; no sense in staying up all night obsessing over how I’m still a child and will be so until I’m on my deathbed.

September 3, 1997

First day I had Potions was today. I swear Snape hates me more than any one person on this planet, perhaps with the exception of Harry Potter, that is. He gave me detention already. It’s not my fault if my ditzy tablemate spills Sterilizing Solution all over the floor and then steps in it, tracking it halfway across the classroom and then passing out from the noxious fumes, taking half the class with her. To give me detention, okay. But to accuse me of trying to sabotage my own classmates, not so much. Why would I try to sabotage my own house? I think he may have a genetic disposition to hate me. It’s as if he lives to torment me. I think a lot of people believe that.

At least practices are starting again. I watched the opening practice. I think our team has a good chance to win this year, really I do. After Slytherin won last year, I think we have a chance, especially because those beastly seventh years are gone. Really, I think they were on the drug Muggles call steroids. They enhance strength, agility, and speed. Why it’s done, I’ll never know, but it is.

I didn’t make the team this year; I never do. I’ve tried out ever since I’ve been in fourth year. I suppose it’s never happening. At least I have my class every Friday; I don’t know what I’d do with out it. Now that Caitlin Macduff is gone, I can finally relax. She really got on my nerves, always complaining and whining, and I never want to read anything from her ever again. I want to kill myself even more than usual when I do. The headmaster still asks for my work. I always tell him it’s not finished, or not ready, or really rotten. I don’t really think it’s rotten; I just don’t want anyone to read it.

There’s something very intimate about poetry, something very primal, romantic. Like did you know in ancient Japanese society, men would write poetry to women they admired and had feelings for? If the woman responded, it meant she liked him. Throughout the relationship, they would send each other poems. It became a contest to see who could be the most original or creative. I think that’s terribly romantic. I rather don’t think, however, that anyone would send me a poem...not that I want their bloody poetry anyway...

Oh, for the love of Merlin, I digress again.

I read this wonderful book the other day. It was Muggle, but it touched me on a level wizard books never have. It was called The Catcher in the Rye by J. D. Salinger. There was just something human about it. It reminded me about all the phonies and fakes in the world. Really everyone is a fake and a phony if you think about it. Everyone puts on a front; everyone masks themselves when they go out in public, even me...especially me. It made me think; it really did. Do people even know themselves? I mean, are they just the mask, or is there something behind them? I can name about thirty people off the top of my mind who are fake. Hermione Granger, Hannah Abbott, Parvati Patil, Pansy Parkinson...the list can go on.

I think I’d like to meet a real person. I mean a REAL person, the type that doesn’t need to wear a mask. Or at least a person who won’t wear one around me. Maybe I won’t need to wear one either.

September 6, 1997

Finally! The weekend. Not like I’ll have a life, I’ve already got a fecking ton of homework! I’ll never get out of the common room. McGonagall threw a three scroll essay at us about changing large animals into complex, inanimate objects. Three bloody scrolls. I suppose I can’t complain. Transfiguration really isn’t my class. I’m rather partial to...come to think of it, I’m not really good at any class. I pretty much just have my notebook.

Writing is my only true passion, I think. I would rather spend my life in a small, unkempt cottage with dust on the surfaces and bills a meter high and write than be rich and famous and live in an outrageously expensive home, having people wait on me hand and foot. I wouldn’t want people waiting on me hand and foot anyway; it’s demeaning and only for the weak.

Merlin! My life is so pathetic! I would jump off this tower right now if I wasn’t too chicken. Yeah, I’m scared of dying. But truthfully, who isn’t? Who would want to die? It sounds rather painful and useless to me to kill yourself. Slitting my wrists would cause me to look at blood, something I’m not fond of, and jumping would, while I do like heights, cause me to hit the ground at some time, causing me to become rather ugly.

I like the Astronomy Tower because it is high. I like to stand on the edge and let the wind whip around me. I can’t explain it; I’ve always loved heights. I especially like the tower at night, when the stars are out, and the wind almost smells different.

I really like the stars. At home, I stay up really late and wait for the moon to set. After that happens, the stars become clearer, and the Milky Way is bright and beautiful. All my worries just fly away and drown in the dark of night, and everything feels right. Then my mother comes, tells me I’m up too late, I’ve got chores in the morning, and my moment of nostalgia is ruined for the chance to perform slave labor for a woman without a creative bone in her body, much less sympathy for it. I go in my room and write until the sun comes up. A few hours later, my mother comes to wake me up, and I find I’ve drooled embarrassingly on my journal and clean it up with a quick (but illegal) spell and de-gnome the garden or something.

That’s another thing I like, gardens. I don’t know why. I think it is because they have something I never do, life and a will to grow and live. I mean, I’m alive and everything, but half the time, I wonder if it’s not all some dream and I’ll wake up to the horrifying reality that no one cares or wants to care and all we have to look forward to in life is death and even that is disappointing. I wonder if I’ll just stop one day, lay down my wand and rebel, running away to some deserted forest lodge with a guy named Spike, a bottle of vodka in my left hand and some Ritz crackers in my right.

I won’t though. I’m too scared to do anything that radical. What would Mum and Dad think? Who cares?

Draco put down the book. He hadn’t meant to read it; it was just sort of there. But he figured when someone left a plain-covered brown book with inconspicuous ink stains on the cover and “Diary” written in the dead center, they deserved to have it read. He honestly didn’t care that much, but he’d been drawn in. No, he’d been captivated, and those were only the few first entries. There were only two more for that year. He rushed to read them, a spell over his mind, making him read the tome greedily.

It had all started when he’d gotten lost. Yes, Slytherin prefect lost. He figured if he had the authority, he might as well use and abuse it; otherwise it would go to waste. So he pinned on his badge, sneered at a couple of passing second year Hufflepuffs, and went exploring, though its formal name was “monitoring.” Filch didn’t even bother him in the dead of night, not even at two in the morning when every living and sane creature was asleep and dreaming sweet dreams of whatever the common folk dreamed of. He could wander freely, claiming to be hunting for rule breaking Gryffindors or sneaky Ravenclaws sliding away to the library for a bit of extra study. He didn’t usually catch the Ravenclaws, but the Gryffindors made enough noise to wake the dead.

That had been when he’d found the tower. Coincidentally, he’d been in the dungeons, just coming back from deducting twenty points from a fifth year Gryffindor with thoughts about the kitchens when he got...misplaced. He wasn’t lost. He had not become lost. He was merely...taking the scenic route. The route which led him down seventeen flights of stairs, up five, down two more, then around ten lefts and a right, through a suspicious looking portrait, and over a bridge with water running under it and fish jumping playfully in the current.

But he found the view from the tower was a stunning one, especially through the South Window which showcased the Forbidden Forest in all its ungodliness. The North Window showed him the lake, which was odd because the lake should have been by the forest, and through the East Window, he could see the school from about five kilometers away. Draco had no doubt that this was a magic room. How anyone could find it more than once to keep a diary in there was beyond him.

But once he thought about it, it was probably one of the safest places to keep one. In a dormitory, it could be read my nosy classmates (though he’d not have that problem), and in a locked book, it just had to be charmed open. In a nearly impossible to find tower underground was the best option for it. Unless you wanted to keep it with the headmaster, though that would be silly.

What Draco didn’t understand was the need for all the privacy. The diary didn’t have any particularly juicy parts in it, yet at least. It didn’t even have any names in it. It wasn’t signed, and it wasn’t salutated. It just had a date at the top of each page, scrolled in a different color than the text.

Even the handwriting wasn’t original. It appeared to be off a dictating quill, like something a reporter would carry. Completely utilitarian handwriting. All in black. All perfectly spaced, spelled, and punctuated. All the same.

It was the actual context that jumped at him. Whoever it was, and it was a girl, was brutally honest about life. She was harsh and truthful with realistic commentary and insightful quotes. It spoke to him, even if his life wasn’t like hers. She had a way with words, a way with the meaning of them, and a way of looking at the world. He didn’t know where she was going to go next, or what she was going to say.

Immediately after he read the first sentence or so, he was hooked, addicted. He wanted more, but after the next few entries, it was blank, all of it. She must have her other diary somewhere else, hidden most likely, somewhere no one would find it. He figured she was a very secretive person, probably quiet.

Then it hit him. Who was she?

Her text left little clues, she wrote about no specific events, and the way she described herself was pretty mainstream. She had a family, was probably pureblood, or at least she used Muggle, not “we,” when she spoke. He couldn’t tell her house, though it couldn’t possibly be Slytherin because she said Snape hated her. She could be a Ravenclaw; she claimed to not be an expert at school, but Ravenclaws were probably good writers, and she was a fantastic one. It was possible she was a Hufflepuff, but she had a bit too much spark in her for that, and Hufflepuffs weren’t nearly as honest. A Gryffindor probably; she was outspoken but claimed to be afraid of a lot of things, and she didn’t sound particularly brave or rash. She was definitely introverted, but not on paper.

That left about a dozen or so fifth years to pick from, and she was a fifth year, she said so.

But then it came to Draco, did he really want to know?

Hypothetically speaking, what would he do if he found out who the author of the diary was? “Hi, I’m Draco Malfoy, you know, the really evil one. Really liked your diary; have a nice day!”

No, he couldn’t go around like that. But that didn’t mean he would stop reading the diary, not ever. He felt truth in her words, and truth was something he valued very much. Living in Slytherin had taught him there were three important parts of life: living, truth, and success. And this woman, whoever she was, spoke the unadulterated truth. Just in those few pages, he had realized that.

So did he want to know her?

No.

Placing the book where he found it, on the seat by the North window, he left.

Continuing the six year tradition, Draco Malfoy glared across the Great Hall at Harry Potter and the Dream Team. They were so blithely unaware of everything going on around them it was disgusting. How could four people be so blissfully oblivious to everything? But the view wasn’t bad. Truth be told, he was fascinated. Emotion in general fascinated him. Just that fact that they lived such a multifaceted lifestyle of happiness, sadness, joy, depression, and honor captured his attention. It was hard not to see their flamboyant tendencies.

Take Weasley for instance. Wild red hair and quick to anger, he was the best friend one minute and a raging volcano the next. And the brilliant Hermione Granger, the Mudblood that was quite possibly the most powerful witch in a century. After winding down a bit, she had become practically wild. Well, wild compared to what she was like. She was a prefect and had become beautiful in her own merit. She had the tendency to act like a younger and prettier McGonagall at times, but on occasion you could catch her snogging her longtime boyfriend Weasley like a normal girl.

“Draco,” a voice said, calling him back to reality. “Draco, doll? Is anyone in there?”

Sneering, he turned to the voice. Great...Pansy.

Pansy. Parkinson. His long-time girlfriend. Gods, how he loathed that woman. The slut and he were the things Slytherin families were made of. Pretty and ditzy mother, evil and influential father, then of course bratty, awful Spawns of Satan for children.

“Yes, Pansy?”

“Draco, doll, you look ill. Is there anything wrong?” Pansy said in her ‘would-you-like-to-come-up-in-my-room-later-this-evening-and-screw’ voice. He hated that voice, sticky sweet with promise of pleasure. Sure Pansy was pretty…pretty slutty. In Draco’s opinion, she was too short, too curvy, too top-heavy, too blonde, and too stupid to be a decent fuck. Draco needed a bit more substance than that if he was really going to enjoy himself. That was why he didn’t like his father’s whores. They were just that...whores.

“There’s nothing wrong at all, Pansy,” Draco replied dryly. “What would make you think that?”

“You look like you need to be distracted. You’re too serious, Draco, dear,” she said in her honey voice.

Draco had to force himself not to roll his eyes in disgust. “I’ve just remembered a prior commitment,” he said in a transparent voice. Not even acknowledging them, Draco left, and Crabbe and Goyle followed him out of the Great Hall.

Bloody shadows, he thought to himself as he trudged down the halls, students fleeing before him. Not only was he a Malfoy with a superiority complex, he was a prefect, something he was very proud of.

Gathering his bag from his room (Thank Merlin and All That’s Holy I don’t have to share with those idiots and that bloody poof Zabini), Draco made his way to Transfiguration, unhappy he had to spend a whole class period with the Merlin awful Gryffindors and Professor McGonagall. She really hated him, not that she would ever show it. Gryffindors were fair and honest, not partial like Slytherin. Draco asserted his dominance by walking purposefully down the hall, people dashing around him like mad so as to not get in his way. He smirked at their fetal behavior; they were just like mice, scampering out of his say, out of the way of the snake.

A flash of red and something bumped into him hard. Whoever it was fell on the ground, and all their papers flew everywhere. Looking up, he came face to face with a red-haired, pale-skinned, full-lipped Weasley. There was no doubt; the hair and eyes gave it away.

“Watch where you’re going!” she said angrily, not even looking up. Then she tilted her head to the side and looked at him angrily, whipping out her wand as she glared. At first he thought she might hex him, but with a flick of her wrist, all her papers were in her arms. Stuffing them in her bags, she rolled her eyes at his smirk and walked off.

Draco stood there, dumbfounded. No one talked to him like that. He was a prefect. He could deduct points for that. Straightening his robes, he looked around and saw the disbelieving looks on his peers. Sneering, Draco headed off in the other direction. Respect, that is what they are lacking, he thought darkly.

He entered Transfiguration just as McGonagall stood up. She frowned at him of course then turned to beam at Hermione. Draco frowned. It was bad enough he had to have classes with the filthy Mudblood, but to have to meet with her once a week, that was real torture. She was a real wench in every meaning of the word. Who cared if she’d quote unquote “grown into her body”? So far Weasley was the only one reaping the benefits. Draco would kill himself before even thinking about another witch who wasn’t pureblooded. The only problem with that was there weren’t many left.

Sure there were the Zabinis, Parkinsons, Dolohovs, Macnairs, the Lestranges had been, the Changs, the Boots, Thomases, Livingstons, and, of course, lest he forget, the Weasleys. They had been some of the originals, if the legends and family creeds read correctly. They were older than even the Malfoys, something which cheesed his father off no end. They had lived in Britain for centuries, practicing magic with even the earliest Vikings and settling in Ireland before migrating across to England. And why, might you ask, did he know all this? His father made it Draco’s business to know.

“Two rules, Draco,” his father had explained. “One, keep your friends close, but your enemies closer.”

“And the second, Father?”

“Don’t make friends.”

Draco counted the amount of times those words had saved his reputation, maybe even his life. Smirking, he flipped the page in his Transfiguration book as everyone else did, eager to get away from his classmates and back up to the Inverted Tower. It wasn’t that he wasn’t a good Transfiguration student; he just chose not to apply himself to the particular class, so he passed, but with average marks. Same with Charms, he just didn’t care enough. Now Potions, that was a class. And Astronomy and Arithmacy, those were classes.

As McGonagall droned on, Draco’s mind turned to the diary again. He wondered if it would still be there, if someone had written in it again. Half of him just wanted to wait around until the person came, but half of him wanted it to stay a secret, not even one he knew. He wanted to guess who the person was, a sort of game.

That, in his opinion, was a Slytherin’s greatest weakness. The tendency to make everything a game caused them to not take things seriously enough, impairing them when they came up against a foe who wasn’t “only kidding” or “playing along.” The ability to make things a game was an asset too. When you grew up, you learned what and what not to say and who to say it to. You were articulate and well spoken, keeping things to yourself until the victor of the game was named.

McGonagall looked sharply in his direction, and Draco quickly turned his kettle into something resembling a mouse. It still steamed at the mouth. No matter, I’ll get a tutor over the break, he thought. Either that or Daddy can pay someone off.

Break was coming up soon...well, if three months was soon. It was to him. A lot of things could happen in three months. Staring blearily at the chalkboard, Draco did his best to keep up his façade. It was hard when the damn class was so bloody dull! He just wanted to go to his room and go to bed.

Just as he was about to give up and go to sleep, McGonagall dismissed them. Draco packed up and got out as quickly as he could.

NEXT TIME ON ELEMENTAL:

“Draco,” he said formally. “What are you doing in this neck of the woods? And without your whore no less?”

Ginny’s crimson hair flashed metallic in the sunlight as she turned to him, her bronze eyes alight with something. She frowned slightly and closed her book. “I’ll leave you two.”

“No, Virginia,” Zabini said, putting a soft yet strong hand on her knee. “You can stay; Draco was just leaving.”

So with no other alternative left, Draco decided to be a smart ass. “Zabini, I’m surprised! I thought your tastes ran a bit more on the masculine side. Either that or Weasley over here is really confused.”

The Weasley’s eyes flashed with anger. “Well, I suppose the concept of friends would be foreign to you, Malfoy. But then, what can you expect from a Slytherin? No offense, Blaise.”

Zabini immediately cracked up, his dark eyes watering. “Oh, gods, Virginia! That was perhaps the greatest thing I’ve ever heard! Go on now, Draco, I think you’ve been outclassed, and by a Weasley no less.”

Author’s Ramblings: You really needn’t read the “Author’s Ramblings.” Just the “Author’s Notes.” But I’m lonely and lack social involvement. That was cool, huh? You liked it, right? Tell me how it’s going, PLEASE! I need reviews to keep my pitifully low self-esteem up so I can write better.

REVIEW ME, PLEASE! I BEG OF YOU!

........umm........I’m never gonna do that again.......okay? .......So just forget it ever happened.