The Lewis House 77 страница

~*~

The Leaping Fish tavern in Stornoway was small and dark, and smelled like its name. Ginny tried breathing through her mouth, but felt she could taste the odor, and went back to using her nose. She spotted the back of Draco's head across the pub and knew he'd be peevish about sitting in a place like this. It simply wasn't done. She wasn't sure how many times she'd been told, in the past several weeks, that such and such a thing "simply wasn't done," but she was getting tired of hearing it. A lot of things that Draco believed "weren't done" were things Ginny considered normal and good - it was sad, in a way.

Strangely, she had begun to think of him as Draco. She wasn't sure when it had happened. Perhaps it was simply that she couldn't stay impersonal when she was inside a person's aura. It was, she realized, something worth practicing; professional distance was a skill she would need to sharpen. And Draco - no, Malfoy - would be the perfect target. There were many reasons that she wanted to work on him. She hadn't been entirely honest with Harry; it was true that she needed to clear a space for herself, but it was equally as true that she was compelled to help Draco, no matter how little she liked him. She had read about Healers who had been as drawn to their enemies as they were to their friends, and it made sense to her, but she knew that it wouldn't to Harry.

There was one other reason that she wanted to do this - a reason Harry would have despised more than any of the others. Draco's aura was more like Harry's than either of them would have cared to know. He was overwhelming, like Harry. Dark and troubled, like Harry. But where Harry's heart was open, Draco's was walled and hard. While Harry had a hold on her, Draco had none. And so, while it hurt Ginny to open up to Harry, it was almost painless to open up to Draco - exhausting and uncomfortable, but not excruciating. Good practice, really.

Ginny weaved her way through the little tables, put her cloak over the chair across from Draco, and sat down facing him. In his hand he had a short, empty glass.

"Are you going to drink?" she asked. There was nothing in her books about working on people who were under the influence, and she wondered if it was entirely ethical. She had begun to rethink her ethics after Bill had given her a few pointed words about working on children.

"Well I'm not doing this sober, am I?" Draco snorted. "Who in their right mind would sit in this hell hole with you?"

"Fine." You ignorant arse. Ginny sat up straight and placed her hands palms-down on the table. She began to raise them, but Draco interrupted.

"Why do you want to do this?" he barked. "Is it to irritate Potter? Are you having a lovebird spat? I refuse to be part of it, if that's all it is."

Ginny put her hands down. "Irritate him? What, on purpose? He's my friend."

"Friend?" Draco laughed. "Not trying to make him jealous, are you, Weasley?"

She took a deep breath and looked up at the ceiling. This was going to be horrible. Every day with him was horrible. But she had to try. "No. I asked you because I knew you'd be… a challenge."

He smirked. "Yes. After spending all day working on your simpleton friends, I'm sure I am. But won't your family be ever so concerned about your spending time with me in private? Who knows what might happen."

Ginny felt sick to her stomach. "Nothing's going to happen. We can just... talk, if you like."

"I don't like, Weasley. You asked me for this favor. Don't forget that." Draco gestured to the bar with his empty glass. It disappeared and another materialized in its place, full of something so powerful that Ginny could smell it, even through the fish. "So." He knocked back half the drink in one gulp. "What exactly is your deal then?"

Ginny hardly knew what to tell him. She wanted him to open up a bit, but she could hardly tell him that. From across the table she felt his energy flow toward her, a bit bigger than usual - perhaps it was the alcohol. Perhaps it would be easier if he got drunk. She allowed it to soak into her, and hoped it would build up her tolerance. He knew things. There was something distinctly secretive in his energy - a current colder than the others - and it blocked her from fully absorbing his aura. There were so many things he must have known. Things about the Grangers. Things about the Death Eaters. Perhaps working on Draco would be more beneficial to everyone than she had originally realized. She had to loosen him up. She had to act casual.

"How long have you had that dragon, anyway?" she asked.

Draco jumped, and Ginny could feel that he was more guarded now than he had been all day. "Why? What about him?"

Ginny was surprised by his reaction. It was obvious to her, and probably to everyone, that Draco had a serious affinity for dragons, and that his own was of great importance to him. He might have been a bastard in all other ways, but he cared about his pet. "It was just a question," she said.

Draco scowled. "I've had him long enough. Don't make small talk with me, Weasley, I'm not here to socialize - and get your hands down. What are you going to do?"

Ginny sighed. "Well, I don't know how much you know about Healing, but -"

"Plenty."

"All right. Well, it's different with everyone."

"And better with some than others, I'm sure."

The lewd suggestion in his tone rankled Ginny. She was used to being teased, but not like that, and Draco found the most personal ways to taunt her about Harry. "Some people," she retorted, "are harder to work on, because they're damaged - and you're one of the worst I've seen."

Draco bristled. "Damaged?" His voice dropped. "You presume a great deal, Weasley."

"I don't presume anything. I feel all of it."

Draco pounded the second half of his second drink and beckoned for another. When it appeared, he wrapped both his pale hands around it so tightly that Ginny wondered if the glass would break.

"Go on, then." He glared at her. "Tell me what I should be feeling."

Ginny hesitated. "I don't think you want to know what I can feel."

"Don't tell me what I do or do not want."

"I just…" But it was useless. Ginny knew it was useless, he was so defensive that even two potent shots hadn't done much to open him up. "I think it would be better if you talked," she attempted.

"Really?" he drawled. "And just what do you want me to talk about?"

"Whatever comes to mind."

Draco raised a white eyebrow. "Let me see, what comes to mind… Perhaps you'd like me to talk about seeing my father murdered? Oh. Wait." He lifted his glass in a mocking half-salute. "Your father did that, didn't he?" He pounded the drink and smacked the empty glass onto the table.

Ginny didn't mean to cry out, but his anguish hit her like a wall. And what he'd said was terrible; she never thought about it if she didn't have to. He was getting the better of her, and she hadn't done any work at all. Concentrating as hard as she could, she bowed her head slightly, turned up her hands on her knees, and tried to stay open.

"But you didn't want to hear about that, I'm sure," Draco said softly. "Just thought you might try a little experiment." Ginny didn't see him order another drink, but she heard the soft 'pop' of materialization, and heard the glass scrape against the wooden table as he picked it up. "You think because you're the Minister's daughter you can do whatever you'd like... but you can't. You're nothing. Your whole family, all of you, thinking you can rise above your station."

Ginny hardly heard the insulting words. There was real pain beneath the anger, and it was louder, in all her senses, than anything he could say. She could tell that he was coming unhinged. She dared a look up and saw that his face was unusually red from drink and emotion. And though he was ranting and bitter, his expression was more open than she had ever dreamed it could be.

"He isn't the Minister," Draco went on, clutching his drink in both hands. "He's nothing. He's a murderer usurping the position of his betters."

"Do you hate us?" Ginny asked. She could feel the hatred pulsating between them. She knew it was there, and she wanted him to name it.

Draco laughed horribly. "Hate you? Hate you? What do you think, Weasley, you idiot?" He leaned forward across the table, narrowing his eyes at her. "Do you hate me? Do tell me, little Ginny."

He spoke her name like something poisonous, and Ginny tensed, thrown off course. She sat back and stared at him as he polished off his fourth drink. Did she hate him? She thought of the way Draco had treated her family. Harry. She thought of how cruel he was to Hermione, and she thought of the Grangers, lying tortured in their hospital room - though his father had done that. She thought of Tom Riddle - though that had been his father's fault, too. Nothing Draco had done to them seemed as horrible, as painful, as what he radiated right now. She felt his father's death consume him all over again, and it didn't matter that Lucius Malfoy had been a Death Eater, or that he had tried to kill them. Draco's grief was acute.

"I can't hate you," she said. And it was the truth.

He made a noise of disgust. "And why can't you? Do you even know what it means? Do you even know what it means to really hate someone? Do you know what it does? Or are you just too weak to understand..." His voice tailed off, and he was clearly beyond his own control. His eyes were glassy and Ginny could feel the tears behind them - he had reached his emotional threshold and was about to cry. He seemed to know it, too; he gazed away at the wall, shaking.

"I can't hate you, because we fought in the same war." Ginny paused. "I don't know much about your side of it, but it couldn't have been any nicer than mine."

"Nicer?" he mumbled, and looked up. His eyes swam. "Nicer?" he repeated viciously.

Ginny didn't look away. "And yes, if you really want to know. I know about hating someone."

He snorted wetly. It was a vulnerable, inelegant sound, and it shocked Ginny. "I doubt that," he said, but his usual cutting tone was dull and sad.

It had never struck her, not even while sitting near him day after day, that this level of emotion existed in Draco Malfoy. He was human. More than anyone knew. And he hated himself for it. It was the saddest thing that Ginny had ever felt or seen, and she reached out her hand on instinct, to help him, but came up against his aura instead. It was as dark and twisted as ever, but so open that it flooded into Ginny, making her shudder. The light in the room seemed to flash, and the feelings that washed over her were nightmarish. He was lost. He had never lived up to certain expectations, and now it was too late. He despised his present self, and he despised his past, and he despised the world for being less than he had expected. He hated his father. He missed his father. He had never known his father. He resented his mother, who could not help him. He had never made any choices of his own and he felt paralyzed to do so now - his world had been shattered and his way of life was beyond his reach, and the one person who could have built it up again was dead. This game against Harry was all he had left. These were the last shreds of his control. He had the dragons. He had the dragons.

Ginny sat with her hand outstretched, stunned by the nuances that she could now interpret. She had never been this good before. She was getting sharp. Really sharp. She shut her eyes and tried to discern what was happening with the dragons. What was his connection to the dragons…?

"Is this what you do for Potter? Sit dutifully at his side and let him unload his poor, troubled little soul?"

Ginny gasped and dropped her hand. Draco's energy had shifted, suddenly and totally, leaving her in the cold. She kept her eyes shut, unwilling to look at his face.

"Does he tell you all about how hard it was for him?" He paused. "I'm sure he does. And what do you do to comfort him?" His voice was full of scorn. "What do you do to make him feel better?"

Shaken by the personal interrogation, Ginny opened her eyes, and she saw something in Draco's wet gaze that unsettled her deeply. He was drunk. And he was not himself. But he wanted her to make him feel better, even if he did not know how to ask.

"Are you finished?" she asked faintly.

"Finished?" He pulled back, smiling cruelly. "Hardly, Weasley. It's never finished. Haven't you learned that by now?" Apparently lost in the bitterness of his own world, Draco Malfoy dropped his gaze into his empty glass.

"Well I'm finished." Ginny pushed her chair back. "I'm too tired to keep going today."

Draco smirked into his glass, which was suddenly full again. But his smirk was not the same as it had always been. It had lost its easy arrogance, and looked quite painful. "Too much for you, of course." He glanced up at her, eyes full of contempt. "I should have known."

"I said it would be a challenge." Ginny tried to get her bearings, to remember why she was here. It had all been more than she'd anticipated, and she knew that she had only scratched the surface. There was more work to do, here. And for reasons that weren't entirely logical, she wanted another chance. But she could not imagine that he would ever submit to this again - it would take the most subtle maneuvering to get him to agree. "I could… try again. If you'd do me that favor." The last words were hard to say, but she knew it was the only chance she had. He required flattery. It was how he operated.

For a minute, he actually seemed to consider it, and then - "I have a life, Weasley," he sneered. But he was lying. He had nothing, and Ginny knew it. "You'll have to find someone else to be at your beck and call."

She nodded. She hadn't expected automatic agreement. "Well. I'll be back tomorrow in any case, to work with the dragons. So if you change your mind..."

Draco shot her a venomous look, then turned away and drank. But this time, he held his glass as if he were holding a crystal goblet, and his posture suggested that he was somewhere altogether finer than this dark little pub. He was poised and silent, and Ginny knew that he had shut her out. For now.

Without another word she rose from the table, put on her cloak, and left the Leaping Fish.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Breakthroughs

~*~

A/N: Harry, Harry, Harry.

Patronus Prodigy, Quidditch Ace, Defeater of Dark Lords.

How much you have to learn.

(Thanks to Cap'n Kathy, Firelox and Joe for beta-reading.)

~*~

Zsuzsa Zabini was guilty, Ron decided, after reading through her ninth file. The files were stuffed with eyewitness accounts; there was an official record of the most recent spells performed by Zabini's wand, many of which had been Unforgivable Curses, and there was plenty of written correspondence between Zabini and Malfoy… Zabini and Pettigrew… Zabini and Rookwood… Most of the letters had been sent from Moscow, where Mrs. Zabini had served as Ambassador to the Russian Ministry. And unless someone had been controlling her quill from there, Zsusza Zabini was going to spend a very long time in Culparrat. Ron almost felt sorry for her, seeing as her son was dead and she must've had a very hard year. Almost. But not quite.

"Ron, take a look at this." Sirius raced into the room and nearly threw the Daily Prophet onto Ron's desk. "Another Dementor - it escaped Azkaban yesterday and made it to shore before anyone saw it -"

"Oh, right." Ron glanced up at Sirius. "Harry told me last night."

"What about Arthur - does your dad know about it now?"

"Probably."

"Does everyone in the Ministry know about this but me?" Sirius demanded.

Ron felt a bit uncomfortable. "I don't think it was a big deal."

"Not a big deal?"

"It just got to shore, they turned it around, it's not like it hurt anyone -"

"And when it comes to problems at Azkaban, no one wants to keep me informed." Sirius's face was dark. "That's it, is it?"

Ron looked down at his files. "I've found some great stuff on Zabini," he began, but it was no good.

"Of everyone you know, Ron, I have the most right to know what's happening with the Dementors."

Ron really didn't want to look up, but he did, right into Sirius's very angry eyes. "I know."

"I want to hear about things like this. Harry should have come to me."

"Tell Harry that, then."

"I will." Sirius left the paper on Ron's desk and strode out of the room.

Ron blew out a breath. His mum had always told him that he was volatile, but he had a feeling that Sirius had him beat in that department, and he didn't envy Harry, who was riding one dragon and was about to face another one. He picked up the paper and looked at the picture on the front, of a dragon keeper driving a Patronus toward a dark, hooded figure.

Oblivious P.A.P. Allows Dementor to Escape

"That's bollocks!" he said aloud, but, as Flummery had written the article and Peltier had taken the photograph, Ron wasn't surprised. Quickly, he skimmed the rest of the page.

At 3pm yesterday, an unrestrained Dementor terrorized the shoreline, not ten minutes' broom flight from Stornoway (where Kitty Douglas, late wife and mother, lost her soul to another rogue Dementor, last July). It is believed that the Dementor escaped from Azkaban while Lisa Sergenev, Harry Potter, and Mick O'Mullet were on patrol. Mr. O'Mullet, who serves as Associate Director of the Permanent Azkaban Patrol (P.A.P.) was unavailable for comment.

"He was probably out doing his bloody job!" Ron shouted at the paper.

The dragon riding team who were in the air at the time of the escape seemed unaware that a Dementor had gone soul hunting on shore until they were informed by a dragon keeper. No alert had reached the Ministry. When the Daily Prophet requested any new Azkaban-related news at 3:15pm, the uninformed Minister declared: "There is no new information to report."

This second escape begs two questions: how responsible is a Minister who is unaware of a potentially fatal breach of security in a major Ministry department? How effective is a Minister who creates a faulty P.A.P.?

"Well, perhaps if you weren't such a stupid waste of life, you'd remember that there was no P.A.P., when the first one escaped!" Ron yelled. "Not one problem in months, but all you'll print is this irresponsible rubbish -"

He couldn't read any more. He crumpled the front page in his fist and threw it against the wall.

"It's not as bad as it might have been," came a soft voice from the door. "Flummery's done far worse. I kept waiting for her to say something much nastier, but I suppose the Prophet is keeping a closer eye on her now."

Ron looked up, relieved to see Hermione there, watching him with her hands behind her back. "That article's crap!" he said. "She might've been worse before, but her insinuations are bad enough - and how does she know all that stuff? What is she doing? Hiding in the bushes? How's she getting into the dragon camp, and how is she always on the spot for these articles? Who's tipping her off? I'll tell you who - it's Malfoy." Ron brought his fist down on his desk. "He did it in school and he's doing it now. He's probably got them on salary, the dirty great -"

"Ron." Hermione came to his desk, tilted her head and looked at him. "You didn't eat any breakfast."

"I was late getting up, wasn't I?"

"Yes." She pulled a little white paper bag from behind her back and set it on his desk. "Brain food," she said, and leaned across the desk to kiss him. "Don't let Flummery put you off your work," she murmured, tapping his files. "You're better than she is. Forget her. Forget Malfoy. Concentrate on what's important." She tried to pull away. "No, I've got to go, Penny's expecting me in ten minutes -"

But Ron put his hands on either side of her face and kept her there for a good, long kiss that took the anger right out of him. "You're the best," he said, when he finally let her straighten up. "Thanks, Hermione."

"No problem. Oh - and I'm going to get lunch at the Lighthouse at one, with Penelope and Fleur," she said, raising an eyebrow. "If you want to meet us."

Ron snorted casually and hoped that his ears weren't red. "Nah. Why not invite Bill? He's upstairs with Dad, sitting in on some meeting."

"No, he's not starting work with us for a couple of weeks. We're hoping to have the charm ready for testing by the twenty-fourth, but I have a feeling Fleur's going to try and get it finished earlier than that." Hermione giggled a bit, then sobered. "But it's a completely professional environment, of course. Extremely serious."

"Don't I know it." Ron grinned and reached out his hand, and Hermione squeezed it.

"See you at dinner," she said.

"See you." Ron watched her as she left the office, throwing a smile over her shoulder at him as she went, and he felt like the luckiest man on earth. She was brilliant. She was even letting him take her to the Cannons match, on Valentine's Day. He dug into the little paper bag she'd left and munched happily on a bacon sandwich, and decided that he wouldn't let Flummery put him off his work. Nothing that stupid reporter could say would come between him and putting Zabini where she belonged. He opened the tenth file, and found yet another letter she had written to Lucius Malfoy. Ron was grateful that the Russian Ministry had been nosy enough about the mail to file away copies of all correspondence without their employees' knowledge. If only the employees hadn't been so suspiciously curt in their writing, he thought, disappointed at a glance by the length of the letter.

7 Jun 98

M,

It is finished. My son knows what to do. Inform yours that things are in place. I believe you still mean for him to arrange for our entry. The date remains the same. Tell him eleven o'clock.

Z

Ron dropped his sandwich and his heart pounded painfully in his throat. Malfoy. Draco Malfoy. Responsible for something. Right here in black and white. With shaking hands, Ron picked up the letter and read it again. And again. And by the twentieth read, he knew exactly what it meant.

The final battle had begun on the thirtieth of June, at the leaving feast. They'd been listening to McGonagall give a farewell speech in the Great Hall when it had started.

And Malfoy hadn't been in the Hall.

Ron remembered it with perfect accuracy. It hadn't bothered him to see Malfoy's usual seat empty. He had assumed - they all had - that Malfoy's absence was meant to insult McGonagall and the rest of them. He had not been there when half the students had stood and turned on the rest of them. Most of the Slytherins had stood, along with several of the Ravenclaws, a good number of the Hufflepuffs, a few of the teachers and even, to Ron's horror, a handful of Gryffindors. All had leveled their wands at the unsuspecting students, trapping them. Blaise Zabini had been there, leading his Slytherin classmates - Zabini would have been convicted straight away if he hadn't been crushed when the ceiling had begun to fall.

But Malfoy… Ron realized it now. He supposed he should have realized it before, but it had all happened so fast, and the fight had been so brutal, that he had never questioned, after that moment, just what had happened to Draco Malfoy.

He had gone to the gates and tricked the wards down. He had let his father onto Hogwarts grounds. Along with all the Death Eaters.

And Voldemort.

Ron realized that he was hyperventilating, but he didn't care. If it was all true, if he was right, then he was going to put Malfoy in prison forever. Forever. He couldn't wait.

Still trembling, he rifled haphazardly through the rest of Zabini's tenth file, but there was nothing. He proceeded to the eleventh and final stack of papers, praying that there would be something else, something even more condemning, among these wonderful, wonderful letters. And even when there was nothing else to read, Ron remained undaunted. Malfoy Manor, he realized slowly, had never been properly searched. Fudge had forbidden a seizure of the Malfoy possessions, and after Lucius's death, it had no longer seemed a priority.

But Ron knew where the Malfoys' hidden trap door was. And the current Minister was bound to let him open it.

"Find something good?"

Sirius was back. "Good?" Ron said, a little hysterically. "Good? Malfoy's a criminal. Look at this letter." He shoved it into Sirius's hands and explained its significance.

"Yes… you may be on to something," Sirius said. He handed the letter back, looking distracted.

"I'll tell you what I'm on to. I'm going to put him away and he's going to pay for every sick thing he's ever done to Hermione, and to Harry, and to Ginny, and to me - no wonder he dropped those charges against me, last autumn. He didn't want us doing any more digging. Oh, but he's in for it now -"

But Sirius seemed unmoved. "Something has to be done," he muttered. "And soon. This can't happen again - it could have killed someone. It could have worse than killed someone…"

Ron realized that Sirius was lost in his own thoughts. It was always a while before Sirius's attention came back to law - once he had started thinking about the Dementors, he was usually a lost cause. But Ron had never felt he had the right to interfere in Sirius's tirades where the Dementors were concerned. It seemed criminal to ask him to concentrate on anything else, and so Ron had spent a lot of time listening to furious, frightening rants that seemed to come out of the blue. Sirius often stopped in the middle of work to brainstorm possible means of Dementor destruction. At this point, Ron knew more about what the Azkaban guards had done to Sirius than he was comfortable knowing, but he had never interrupted. This was the first time he'd ever wanted to.

Дата добавления: 2015-11-04