Roses In December

Disclaimer: All things recognizable belong to JK Rowling.

Notes: This chapter serves more of a prologue than anything. I was aiming for a deadly kind of feel to it, where anything could happen in a matter of a moment—a very dangerous, suspenseful situation, and I hope the feelings came across the right way. Get ready for moodswings!Draco and Ginny, constant dreams and revelations, stealth, motives, and a very different sort of Christmas.

In other words, I hope you enjoy.

Roses In December

Part I

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A murderer, she thought frantically as she ran down the empty hallways. He’s a murderer. Hot tears filled her vision, spilling over the edges to scald her cheeks.

Murderer, murderer, murderer….

The words seemed to echo in her mind, repeating over and over again, as if they meant to permanently engrave themselves there. Shivering uncontrollably, her books fell to the ground, a result of her clumsy fingers fumbling with the clasp of her book bag. Startled by the noise, she nervously bent down to retrieve it. She could not feel anything but raw fear; an immediate fear—the kind of fear that made all the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, all of your muscles tensed, waiting for your nightmare to come alive right behind you.

Looking down past the hallways she had come from, there were no signs of anyone coming its way. Anyone else would have said it was completely deserted. But like a stealthy mirage, the edges of her vision blurred as if the hall was bustling with shuffling movement every few seconds.

Relax, she told herself firmly. He probably hasn’t even noticed. Her heart did not stop pounding.

Her mouth ran dry, and her throat terribly parched as she thought of what she had witnessed only minutes ago. Her mind rewound despite not wanting to relive it, back to the dark, inky blood spilling out like tiny streams onto the floor. A fresh wave of nausea washed over her vision, remembering his filmy glass eyes staring at absolutely nothing; the cold look of death. And the tears would not stop coming. More and more in number, they fell rapidly, each one faster than the last. She struggled to keep silent as her chest quivered like a wounded bird.

Tell a professor. The voice came swiftly and suddenly. Her breath caught at the thought. Tell a professor? Could she?

You have to, the voice answered forcefully. You owe it to him. You owe it to everyone else. You can’t pretend it hasn’t happened.

Yes, she had to. Professor would take care of it. She took a hesitant step towards Professor McGonagall’s office. That’s what teachers were for. To console distressed students, and to help.

You can’t! She gasped and drew back at the new voice of protest. If you tell her, he’ll know.

The words sent chills down the entire length of her petite body, imagining the kind of fury he would be in if he indeed knew. Still, the tears came in barrages, and she hiccupped in fright.

But…surely, she could not just leave the boy for dead? Surely, she could not remain silent. How could she carry the guilt?

Nonetheless, fear had already marked its place deep within her as she weighed her options. The truth bore over her like a dark, ominous shadow.

If you tell him, it reminded her softly, like the gentlest of breezes, he would kill you too.

Ginny shrank away from the direction of Professor McGonagall’s office. No. She could not tell her. She trembled once more as she crumpled to the ground, wrapping her arms around her knees.

She could tell no one.

------------------------

By the third day, she began losing hope that anyone would ever find out. She wondered where the body was now, where his blood dried—where his body slowly rotted, the stench of his consumed flesh rising in the air. What kinds of walls did his empty eyes stare at?

When she stopped in front of the classroom, she hesitated.

Perhaps, if she did not tell anyone—no one would ever find out…. She would be left to take the blame for leaving the murderer on the loose.

She had to spill. She simply had to inform someone—anyone—before she rotted away herself. A fierce determination grasped at her, compelling her away from her class.

Turning back on her heels sharply, she drove her way to Professor Dumbledore’s office.

She would tell him, and he would comfort her. And who knew? She might be perfectly safe. Professor Dumbledore was a powerful wizard. He could give her protection, if the occasion arose. The murderer would be brought to justice, and wasn’t that what really counted? She might be considered someone special, then. A hero, even.

With perhaps a little more confidence in her strides, she realized with a start of her heart that she was nearly to the gargoyles now. Her palms were coated with sweat as she approached the statues apprehensively. She was drilling over what she would say to him, exactly what she had seen, who it had been. He would ask her if she had been scared. She would say yes, she had been. He would smile and tell her she was a brave girl for coming here, and that everything was all right, and true to his word, they would be.

But a sudden billowing of black robes halted her fantasy.

Ginny cried out as a tall, dark figure faced her, bright gray eyes practically luminous in the dim light.

“Going somewhere?” Ginny’s mind raced with thoughts. Make up a lie. Tell him anything other than the truth. You still have a chance—he may not know what you have seen….

But she could not lace two proper words together. Every part of her body was frozen with that same primal fear—her heart felt as if it would crack and shatter painfully any moment now.

“I-I was—I wasn’t—“ she stopped, her stutters fading off into the dead still air. He moved to trap her along the wall.

And in the next moment, she felt a distinct stinging sensation, before her eyes closed to submit to darkness, and relief.

--------------

She woke up dripping with cold sweat. Feeling disoriented, she swiveled her eyes around, waiting for the surroundings to become clearer. Where was she? The gray décor was one she did not recognize.

“Nice of you to join the conscious world again.”

Ginny jumped at the intrusion of words, turning to her left to find the source.

There stood Draco Malfoy, looking cold and indifferent—and indefinitely proud. Ginny’s face slackened in horror.

“Bastard,” was the first word she spat at him. “Where have you taken me?”

“My dormitory,” he said simply, motioning to the room. She saw his thin lips tug into a nasty smirk. “All alone with me, Ginny. Does that scare you?”

It did, more than he could ever know. Ginny clumsily sprang up from the bed.

“I’m going,” she declared. “This is insane.” She shot a glare at Draco. “You are mad.”

“You’re not going anywhere, Weasley.”

He stepped in front of her, before pushing her back onto the bed. “Not until we get a few things straight.”

He loomed over her with a scrutinizing stare.

“You see? There’s no one else here, Ginny. They’re all off at dinner. And you know, I would let you go too, if you did not know my little secret.” He shook his head slowly. “You must be hungry. I bet you’d agree to anything if I let you go.”

Ginny’s sniffles were her only answers.

“Why are you crying, Ginny?” he asked softly, his eyes narrowing at the strange flood of tears streaming down her freckled cheeks. She wished he wouldn’t say her name. She could not answer at all, nor could she help crying. She was being held captive in Malfoy’s dorm—it was surreal and so very real at the same time.

“Shame, perhaps?” he suggested smoothly. “Because that’s what you should be feeling, Ginny.” He was reprimanding her. “Shame, that you would even think about tattling on an old friend.”

“You’re nothing to me! Why shouldn’t I tell everyone what you’ve done?” she burst out. Her hands shot out to push against him. He did not budge, and his own hands flew out to roughly grab her wrists.

“Let go!” she cried. “Let go of me!” His eyes narrowed into thin slits, with specks of gray peeking out. Ginny felt the hate radiating from his hateful eyes as he held her in place.

“I know what you saw, Ginny,” he hissed. “You shouldn’t have seen them.”

Ginny took in a deep breath and struggled to look away from him. He answered by slamming her body against the wall behind the bed, her skull knocking against the hard stone. Dizzying colors appeared in front of her.

“Listen when I’m trying to tell you something important, Weasley,” he whispered icily. “ You better listen well.” Ginny reluctantly turned to meet his cold, cold eyes again.

“If you ever even think about babbling our little secret,” he breathed, cupping her chin. “I think I shall feel compelled to hurt you,” he said languidly. “I’ll rip every part of your little body with my bare hands, and watch you writhe in the excruciating pain. Who knows? Perhaps I will even laugh. Imagine what your mother would say when she sees you. Just imagine.” He stopped, his eyes fluttering for a moment as if he himself were flustered. He was sweating profusely, his grip on her slipping as he shook.

Ginny’s stomach heaved at the violent imagery. Her head leaned down, refusing to look at him.

“I don’t care,” she said bravely. “You’re still a murderer. Nothing changes that.” He seemed to panic slightly at the words. His grip tightened again.

“No, I’m not,” he grit his teeth and slammed her against the wall. “Listen to me! I am not a murderer. You may have seen something, but you certainly don't understand it, you silly girl.” Then, his voice was nearly beseeching. “Just don’t tell a single soul.”

“Understand?” he demanded, forcing her chin up again. She nodded quickly. Never tell. She would never tell. He would kill her, after all. As long as she knew, it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter, as long as he didn’t hurt her.

“Never tell,” she said obediently. His lips crooked up, and he reached up to wipe a tear away.

“Good girl.” He seemed to have calmed down immediately at her compliance. His shoulders relaxed, and he even stepped away.

“I think,” he said after a moment or two. “That it would be wise for you to stay with me during the holidays. No one will miss you, and coincidentally, all of my dorm mates have decided to go away for break.”

Ginny glanced up, horrified. He wouldn’t—he couldn’t!

“Just in case you start getting any more ideas,” he said with a grave face. “Just in case you think you can go play hero, like your little idol, Potter.” Ginny glared and wriggled as far away from him as she could.

“I gave you my word! I told you I wouldn’t tell anyone! Let me go!” she yelled. “I won’t let you hold me captive; I’ve done nothing!” Draco gave a very nasty smile.

“Won’t let me?” he repeated incredulously. “What gives you the authority to do that?”

“What gives you the authority to control me? I know something about you that could ruin you. I could ruin you. And, what? Going to hex me, are you?” Ginny said daringly, knowing better. Draco did not seem to regard her as a threat whatsoever.

“I don’t need silly little spells, Ginny,” Draco said softly. “But then, I’ve already told you what would happen to you if you told. I mean it.”

Ginny gasped out in pain and drew back immediately, wondering at the small trickle of blood forming along her wrist. She had not seen Draco with the small blade. But this time, she saw from the corner of his eye, that he quietly snuck the knife back into a nearly invisible pocket of his cloak.

“Do I need to make myself clearer?” he asked, but his voice shook, nonetheless. Ginny mutely shook her head.

“No,” she said quietly, with a touch of bitterness. She was rapidly beginning to realize just what she had gotten herself into. She gazed upon his bristling figure and answered again.

“No, you don’t.”

Note: Thank you to all that have reviewed. As always, your comments are appreciated.

Roses In December

Part II

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There were no windows in his room. She shivered as she noted this, watching the walls that kept her captive warily. She did not know how she could have fallen asleep, how she could have relaxed enough to let her mind drift into a state of peace.

She did not bother wondering where Draco was. His roommates were gone, that meant it was late morning.

Her fingers were pressed against the cut he had given her the night before, and she now saw the dried blood gathered at her finger tips. She thought only of escape, but even that was not a satisfying thought, for escape seemed such a fruitless attempt.

It turned out that in fact, he did need spells to get what he wanted, for the door to his dorm was ridden with countless charms to prevent her leaving.

Her eyes drifted towards the pocketknife still on the table next to her. Staring at its glinting silver blade, she wondered whom it had been that he had murdered. His face had registered familiar, but not distinct. And for what had he been murdered? How could no one know yet? All questions, but no answers. She cruelly imagined him lashing out violently because the poor boy had merely bumped into him. It seemed perfectly plausible now, as she cursed Draco Malfoy in every way she knew. If thoughts could kill, he would have dropped dead long ago. Too bad they did not.

More anger flooded through her at this thought. Anger that someone so inhuman should be unpunished, undiscovered of crime he had committed. She hung her head, feeling like a coward, and for a moment, she thought about gripping the miniscule knife tightly in her hand. She entertained the thought of behind able to strike him with it as he entered the room.

She did not have long to wait before he returned, looking deathly pale and perspiring slightly. Her fingers retracted from the direction of the knife altogether. He did not notice.

“Come with me,” he ordered, and said nothing more.

-----------

By the time they reached the door, the stench was unmistakable.

“What are you doing?” she asked, gagging from the smell. He stood in front of the door, one hand holding a wand to shine light. She noticed a long coil of rope stuffed messily inside the pockets of his loose robes.

“Where are we?” He answered neither of the questions however, and simply muttered under his breath. The door swung open to reveal a broom closet. Ginny blinked at the anticlimax. She had been awaiting some dark, grand room to hold all of Malfoy’s sinister secrets; not a silly broom closet.

The closet itself was not what made Ginny cry out, after realizing what was contained inside the closet. Covering her mouth, for bile was quickly rising to her throat, she ducked and turned away. There it was—the body of the dead boy himself. His face was covered lightly in crusting blood and though she racked her memory to match the familiarity with a name, she could not. His eyes still stared unblinkingly. Someone should close them, she thought with pity. Just not me. She couldn’t bear the thought of touching his body.

“Stop crying, Weasley. I can’t have anyone hearing,” Draco said as firmly as he could manage, but even still she caught a slight tremble in his own voice.

“I thought you would have gotten rid of it by now.” It was all she could currently say on the matter. There was not much else you could say about a dead and rotting body; she could not bother being sympathetic to the boy at the moment, and merely wished it out of her sight. When he answered, his voice was tense.

“Well, obviously I haven’t,” he ground out through clenched teeth. “But I didn’t bring you with me for company, Ginny.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?” Her voice turned slightly shrill at his implications. She would not have anything to do with a corpse.

“You’re going to help me hide the body,” he said wryly, giving it a soft kick so that it rolled over on its back. Ginny’s face paled. She was silent for a minute.

“No,” she then decided vehemently, as she thought of what his request meant. “I won’t, Malfoy.” She looked up at him with a tight jaw. “You can save your arse yourself. This is going too far.”

She made to walk away, her heels clicking loudly on the ground.

She half expected he would catch up to her, and he did.

“You’re in no position to deny me anything, “ he said nastily, but she could see the desperation in his eyes. “You’re going to reopen the Chamber of Secrets for me, Weasley. We’re going to hide my secret deep beneath the school, as you had once hid yours.”

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She had cried the whole way there, as she let herself be dragged to the location of the Chamber. She didn’t know how he knew about her first year at Hogwarts, she didn’t know how he knew about the Chamber of Secrets, except deep inside, she thought she did know.

Think of what his Father is. Think of what he’ll soon become, if not already. Of course he would have found out about the whole ordeal.

The thought that she was under control of a Death Eater no less made her all the more exhausted with the entire predicament. Why did she seem to attract these dark men? She wished nothing more than the cool and soothing touch of her mother’s hand, or the cheerful humor of her brothers, and the enthusiasm of her father.

With swollen eyes and a blurry vision, she found herself once more in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom, a place she had avoided for all her years at Hogwarts since the first--something she would never admit to anyone. The bathroom was deathly quiet. Ginny frowned through her tears.

“I thought I told you to stop crying,” he said to her, his voice wound up like a spring ready to pounce. She did not shrink back. How dare he drag her into this like this? Who did he think he was, to do this to her? She began to wish more than anything in the world that she had not been right then and there, been there at the perfect time to watch his murder…Anything, for the bliss of ignorance.

“I won’t have you telling me what to do, Malfoy,” she shouted hoarsely, before her yell morphed into a cough. “Don’t tell me to be like you; unfeeling and completely detached from emotion,” she paused. “I’m sorry I can’t be heartless, and I’m sorry that you are.”

“Shut your mouth now, Weasley, it’s something I highly advise,” he warned her softly, and his quick strides brought him near to her. He held her wrist tightly to prevent her from backing away. “Don’t talk about me like you’ve known me all your life.”

“I have known you all my life,” she corrected him. “I’ve hated you all my life.”

“If you think that’s getting to know a person, you’re stupider than I imagined,” he said heatedly, and she could see his eyes were burning with anger. Before she could ask what he meant, he turned around.

“Stop wasting time,” he said. “Open it.”

“I’m not a parselmouth, I told you I can’t—“

“How do you know that?” he challenged, whirling around to face her with a strangely sure expression on his face. He seemed to be on the brink of insanity, ready to plunge into its depths with one push. She gazed at the thin sheen of sweat that covered his face. “How do you know you can’t?”

She was about to speak, them clamped her mouth shut. She liked to think she was not justifying his immaturity with an answer, but truth be told, she did not have a single retort. Was it possible that she could be a parselmouth? She had heard from whispered, overheard conversations about marks that the dark lord tended to leave upon someone.

“Dumbledore has probably destroyed it,” she reasoned, although her voice did not have the convincing tone to it.

“How could Dumbledore do that?” Draco rebuked. “Only parselmouths can open it—and the only people who know where it is is you, Potter, and his group of friends. The monster within has been destroyed, so what’s the point?” he asked her, unblinkingly. “It’s probably indestructible. Salazar Slytherin was no idiot.”

When Ginny stood like a statue, facing the sinks, his shoulders slooped and he sighed.

“Just open it,” he said again, but this time, his voice sounded more coaxing than demanding. Ginny gave another half sob, before giving a mirthless laugh.

“Well,” she said. “It seems like you’re not giving me a choice.”

“I never gave you a choice in anything,” he said irately. “And I never will, Weasley. Do as I say now, before I lose my patience.” She narrowed her eyes and glowered at him with as much intensity as she could muster.

“What if I don’t remember how?” she gave a last half hearted attempt. She knew she was kidding herself, and perhaps he did too. She knew exactly which sink it was, like she had only opened it yesterday. Though she had very little memory while she was possessed by Tom Riddle, she did remember this clearly enough. Sighing desolately, he turned towards the sink with the intricate miniscule snake etched underneath it, and opened her mouth. Please don’t let it open, please don’t let it work, please, please…. She closed her eyes and her hands clenched shut.

“Open up,” she whispered softly. Her voice came out like a quiet steam of air. She opened her eyes again, and her heart immediately sank, as a slow rumble began to take place. She watched Malfoy’s expression of delight.

Ginny felt her body shake as she watched the sink slowly open up to reveal the pipe leading down to the chamber, a deep chasm that lead only to more darkness.

So she did have a bit of Tom Riddle in her.

“See?” he said softly, a strange look upon his face. “You do underestimate yourself.”

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The hiding of the body was messy and nothing she wanted to go through again. The feel of the boy’s ice-cold skin made her wonder if, in life, he had perhaps had ice water run through his veins instead of blood. As they dragged him down the pipe, the deed made her feel faint and contaminated, and she felt as though death itself had rubbed off on her.

“What if they find it here?” she asked, not bothering to mask her hope.

“Then they find it,” he said simply. “But I highly doubt they will. Stop asking stupid questions.” He was nervous, however. In the dim light filtering in through the opening at the top, sweat was freely rolling down his temples. They quickly reached the bottom, where the pipe gave out to a small opening.

“Stuff it here,” he grunted. Ginny raised an eyebrow at him. Didn’t he want to be more discreet, and hide it in a deeper section of the chamber? Or perhaps it could be that he was perturbed by the act, just as much as she was, if not more. She quickly brushed the thought away. It was already established that he was clearly not feeling the slightest guilty about any of this. He has probably never felt guilty for anything. With one last freeing push, she took a large step back.

“Get me out of here,” she sucked in a breath, not wanting to breathe any more of the foul air down in the chamber. He nodded mutely, kicking the body roughly aside and working clumsily to cover it up the best he could with the bones and garbage lying around. Then, he reached for the rope that he had secured up on the other side.

“ We’re climbing up?” Ginny asked incredulously. She gulped nervously.

“The stupid questions once again,” he growled. “How else do you propose we get out? Unless you have a broomstick hidden somewhere down here? And even then, how do you mean to maneuver us out?”

Ginny said nothing as he swiftly disappeared into darkness. A few minutes later, she heard his voice calling down.

“Damn it, Weasley, hurry up!” Wiping her sweaty hands on her robes, she gingerly grabbed onto the rough rope, before hoisting her feet up onto the big knot at the end. Wrapping her legs around the rope, she began to move her hands, pushing upwards at a slow pace.

No sooner had she moved, that her hands began to burn and her arms tired.

“Weasley, if you don’t come out of there—“

She halted to a stop, feeling all the last strength drain out of her. She looked down. She was only about halfway up.

“I can’t,” she said faintly, but her voice carried through to him. “I can’t.”

“What the hell do you mean, you can’t?”

“What do you think I mean?” she groaned. Her hands were much too slippery. She was slowly falling down already. Oh, it was going to take forever to get out! “I can’t climb anymore, that’s what I mean! Oh, God—I’m going to fall, Malfoy. Help me!”

For a good moment or two, Ginny thought he had left her. She could not hear his angry remarks, or his footsteps, or anything else for that matter.

She let out a barely audible sigh of relief as she saw him coming back down, slowly, for she was still too far down for him to reach down and grab her hand. Giving her a look of utmost contempt, he grabbed her arm and pulled her up slightly to his level, before grabbing around her waist so as not to lose her. Face tense and slightly pink, he slowly made his way back up and out of the hole. Ginny felt disgusted at herself even as she clung to his shirt for dear life. She, asking help from Draco Malfoy, and he—he gave it to her. She wondered for a moment why he had not really left her down there. It would have gotten rid of her, certainly.

Ulterior motives, she murmured to herself tiredly.

When they reached the top and climbed onto the bathroom tile, he instantly let go of her.

“Can’t even climb a bloody piece of rope, can you?”

“A little gratuity never hurt anyone, Malfoy,” Ginny said bitterly, feeling filthy at the dirt and grime that clung to her stubbornly. “I only helped you hide the body of the person you’ve killed.” Her face was beet red; she could tell by the way heat radiated from the general area of her cheeks.

“You only helped me because you had to, Weasley,” he said with a silent fury. “Don’t think I don’t know that.”

“This isn’t at all about justice and fairness and owing people.” Ginny shook her head at the revelation. “So, I don’t even know why I’m arguing with you.”

“I don’t either,” he agreed for once. “But you Gryffindors seem to like keeping score.”

“Well,” she scowled at him. “We’re even.”

But as she began to turn away, she thought she saw his expression slightly soften, before muttering, “Hardly.”

She pretended not to hear.

Roses In December

Part III

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The walk back to Draco’s dormitory lasted a century; perhaps even an era or two. Ginny tiptoed behind him, tired and feeling suddenly incredibly old.

The corridors seemed to purposely stretch into infinity, tauntingly so, but at long last the slightly moldy smell of the stone dungeons came in sight. Draco uttered the password and they stepped inside.

“Thanks,” he muttered gruffly, barely audibly. Ginny, instead of finding herself surprised and softening at his words of gratitude, on the contrary--she felt angry.

“They’ll catch you soon enough, anyway,” she said quietly. It gave her some satisfaction to see his pale face reddening. “They’ll find whoever it was you killed. So thanks, but no thanks needed. They’ll find him, and they’ll find you.”

“They won’t.” Ginny ignored him. He was reassuring himself, as he threw his hands up in the air. His hands shook. “They won’t ever fucking know. Don’t tell me things you don’t know anything about.”

“And you--don’t tell me what to do!” Ginny retorted hotly.

There was a steely silence that moved to fill the space between them. Then, Draco turned sharply on his heels and walked briskly to his room.

The hall echoed painfully with his furious footsteps.

--

She had been out here for three hours, twenty-four minutes and 5, 6, 7, 8 seconds, in constant fear that a Slytherin might enter and inquire what the hell she was doing here. Well, she wondered the same; what was she doing here?

No use, a sensible voice said coaxingly. No use in going over that again. What has happened has happened.

But she couldn’t go back to Draco’s room and sleep, like she so desperately wanted to. She was raised to have more dignity than that.

That’s not dignity, the voice returned again, sleepily. That’s being foolhardy. Being unnecessary stubborn. Now, doesn’t a nice, soft bed sound nice?

Reason always won with her.

Tiptoeing back to the third door to the right, Draco’s, she pressed her ear against the wooden door.

Nothing.

How was it that a usually rambunctious (well, that was the nice way of putting it) boy remained so silent? Ginny bit her lip. What if he was sleeping already? Didn’t he even snore? She’d be stuck out here all night, and then surely someone would catch her.

Turning around and pressing her back against the door, she sighed. Perhaps she would let herself be caught. That way, maybe she could get away from Malfoy and whatever he had planned for her.

Ginny gasped mid-breath and lost her balance as the doors suddenly sprang open. Falling ungracefully to the cold floor inside the dormitory, she glared to cover up her embarrassment.

“Get in,” Draco said emotionlessly, before closing the door and climbing back into his own bed.

“And where am I supposed to sleep?” she asked haughtily. She wouldn’t let herself seem frightened by him—especially since he would have a field day with that kind of knowledge. “It’s not break yet, so no one has gone home, have they?”

Malfoy sat up against the headboard of his bed and gave a wicked smirk.

“Well, I guess that leaves you with no choice, then,” he said softly, looking at his bed sheets and continuing to rearrange them. Ginny dreaded the words that he would surely say next; that she would be fated to sleep next to him.

“You can sleep on the floor next to my bed,” he said instead. Ginny heard the words, and blinked steadily, taking a moment to realize what he meant. Initially, relief spread throughout her entire body. And then, she felt a burst of outrage.

“On the floor? It’s freezing!” she protested. Draco narrowed his eyes.

“Then what? You think I would give up my own bed for you? I’m not that hospitable, Weasley.”

“That would be the gentlemanly thing to do.”

Draco merely laughed as if the statement were a hearty joke.

“What if someone sees me?” Ginny added. Draco rolled his eyes.

“My bed is on the edge, right next to the wall, Weasley. No one is going to crawl over here in the middle of the night to check if there’s someone lying next to my bed,” he glanced at her. “And, you know how to be discreet, don’t you?”

Ginny stood still, focusing all her hatred on the horrible little monster in front of her. Oh, how much easier things would be if he would just go away, or better yet, drop down dead.

Don’t think like that. If you do, that makes you no better than him.

Ginny composed herself, and then gave him the smallest of nods, enough to signify that she had given up on the matter. It looked like there was no other choice.

“Good,” Draco said. He threw over a blanket and a pillow. “Then go to bed before the others get here.”

Ginny walked over to the small space between the wall and Draco’s bed and saw what he meant. There was barely enough room for one body—she would probably have to sleep on her side the whole night. No one in the world would suspect anyone was sleeping there. Just like no one in the world would suspect Draco had murdered someone.

In fact, it seemed about right to say that when it came to secrets, Draco Malfoy had plenty.

As Ginny tried to rest her body upon the cold, textured tile, she wondered how she would survive for the next few days until break began. The icy stonewall nearly pressed against her cheek, and the thin blanket did nothing to keep the cold from melting into every part of her skin.

--

By early next day, Ginny was beginning to learn that no one got up as early as Draco Malfoy. Twice, she had gotten up in the middle of the night. The first time, it must have been around two o’clock in the morning—looking up she saw that Draco was still laying rigidly on his bed. But the second time, around five o’clock in the morning, the bed was empty, and already immaculate, as if no one had ever slept in it at all. Too tired to further examine the situation, Ginny’s eyelids quickly drooped close and she fell asleep again.

In the late morning, half an hour before breakfast, Ginny finally gave a yawn and lazily opened her eyes. The dormitory was completely empty. Getting up, she peered at the note left on Draco’s bed.

Meet me by the corridor leading to the library during breakfast.

Ginny frowned as her stomach growled. Biting her lip, and wondering as she dressed if perhaps her skirt had grown looser, she knew that if this constant dread did not relent, she would not make it to Christmas.

--

“I hate you,” Ginny spat as she listened to what he was telling her. Draco looked at her blandly, clearly impatient to go on and not at all listening to her.

“How that knowledge scars me,” he said dryly. “Just do as I say.”

“Of course,” Ginny replied bitterly. “What am I now, your bloody servant?”

“I guess you could say that. You obey because you have to, don’t you? That’s what servants are.”

Ginny took a step back.

“Well, I refuse.”

“I thought we discussed this already, Ginny,” he said slowly and with patience. “I really don’t want to hurt you. Don’t make me.”

Ginny threw her head back and laughed.

“You don’t want to hurt me?” she asked incredulously. “It’s in your nature to want to make everyone’s lives miserable,” Ginny snapped. “Don’t even try lying to me.”

Draco hung his head for a moment, before looking up at her with a calm expression that did not match his angry eyes.

“What do you know about me, Weasley? How do you go around acting like you’ve got me all figured out?” he yelled, obviously not caring whether or not anyone heard. “If you hadn’t been snooping around, I would never have to do this—“

“I wasn’t snooping around!” she yelled, her volume matching his. “I was in the wrong place at the wrong time!”

“No, you were curious,” Draco shook his head. “You should have run when you heard voices.”

“You’re wrong,” Ginny said. “You don’t have to do any of this. You’re doing it because you’re a coward. You’re too scared of what would happen to you if anyone found out, so you’re doing whatever it takes to save your own neck. It doesn’t matter how low you have to stoop, do you? In fact, I bet it never did, as long as you were alright.”

Draco didn’t answer, but Ginny doubted he was rendered speechless.

“You’re right,” he said finally. Ginny felt a small dose of surprise. “I am a coward.”

He seemed to be contemplating something, the look on his face thoughtful. And then, he leaned forward slightly, as if to whisper in her ear a secret.

“But you’ll do as I say anyway.”

--

Classes. They had once been the priority, but now, she could not bring herself to properly listen, no matter what the subject. How could anyone concentrate, anyway, if they had such a colossal problem resting on their shoulders? How could anyone remember the right ingredients, in what order, if their mind was far, far away on a boy who’s mere presence made a deep fury churn in the pit of her stomach?

“Another failing grade, Miss Weasley?” Snape advanced on her silently, there beside her before she even noticed. These days, it was always Ginny he picked on. Perhaps he noticed her lack of enthusiasm, after all.

“But perhaps a little detention would amend matters,” he droned on. Ginny barely listened. Instead, she nearly felt happy. Detention would mean less time spent with Malfoy.

“Yes sir,” Ginny said absentmindedly, not even bothering him a scathing glance.

Professor Snape gave the hazy eyed girl an odd look, but said no more.

--

“Now,” he mouthed silently from across the Great Hall. Ginny’s hands felt sweaty. She wished she hadn’t been watching him. Why had she been watching him? Scolding herself for her stupidity, she looked down at her dinnerplate.

His gaze never left her, even as she tried desperately to avert her own gaze and casually act as if she had not noticed him.

Finally, seeing no choice, and no more time for stalling, Ginny stood up. Draco was looking disgustingly satisfied. Striding towards the long list of students going home for break, she searched for her own name.

Taking a quill from her bag, she clenched it tightly in her fist, nearly willing it to break. Examining the list and locating her name, her hands trembled above it, before the ink spilled over the words Ginny Weasley, successfully scratching herself off of the list of students going home for the holidays. There was something incredibly monumental about a simple, thick line across her name that made her feel suddenly homesick—as well as simply sick of everything else. Ginny wiped at her eyes before anyone could see and turned around to head back to her table. She froze when she saw a familiar figure draw near her. Ron.

“What are you doing, Gin?” he asked, mildly concerned. Ginny gulped, her mouth feeling inexplicably dry.

“Crossing my name off,” she said firmly, even managing to plant a small smile on her face.

“What?” Ron asked, frowning. “Gin—I thought we were all going home this year?”

Ginny shrugged. She couldn’t think of a reason fast enough.

“I don’t now—I just—I just decided--“

“Because of me, Weasley,” a sardonic voice invaded the conversation.

Ginny closed her eyes. Why did he have to interfere? Why did he always have to ruin everything?

“And what the bloody hell does that mean, Malfoy?” Ron asked heatedly, his voice rising significantly.

“The silly thing’s completely besotted with me,” he said smoothly, placing a hand gently on her shoulder. “But I'm glad at least one person in your family was born with taste.” Ginny turned red, cursing him and wondering how he could lie so well, all at once.

“What?” Ron asked, his voice suddenly small and faint. He turned to Ginny, shaking his head slowly. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about, does he, Gin? Shall I tell him to bugger off? Just give me the word.”

Both eyes were fixed on Ginny. She shrunk away, feeling exposed. She looked from Ron’s befuddled face, his freckles blending in against his crimson cheeks. She felt a pang of guilt—what had Ron done to deserve this, anyway?

She turned to the right, and Draco’s cold gray eyes reminded her of the consequences if she gave the wrong answer.

The frozen moment passed, as she shrugged indifferently.

“I want to spend Christmas with Draco.”

Ron let go.

“Have you lost your mind?” he bellowed, face red, so very, very red. “If this is your idea of humor; you’re not very funny. I’d rather you stick to Fred and George’s style, in fact.” His voice was strained and void of any mirth himself.

But Ginny kept her stance, slanting her eyes slightly to glance at Draco. The corners of his lips were lifting, encouraging her, if it could be called that.

“It’s my choice, Ron, “ she said with force.

“I’m staying here.”