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Elemental	By : AngelaBlythe Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Ginny Views: 3286 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
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Chapter List
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ELEMENTAL

~by The Labris~

CHAPTER THREE:

Illusions of Reality

We All Need

Ginny sighed, burying her face in her hands. The first
week was done. Finally, it was the weekend. After a short visit to Inverted Tower, she had flopped down in her bed
and slept, soundly if that could be expected, for nearly twelve hours, all the
way until noon that Saturday. She must have really been tired.

That had to be it. Because she was exhausted all
week. First Snape had accused her of
�sabotaging her own classmates with a faulty Sanitizing Solution.�
Really, �sabotage�? Wasn�t that a little bit of an exaggeration?
But what could she expect from Snape? He
already hated her whole family and all her friends, why not her?

She had, on encouragement from her brother and Hermione,
come to the first Quidditch practice of the
season. She was rather proud of Ron; though he hadn�t made the team, he
was commentator for the games and did a damn good job, too. Well, he said
all the right things unless you were a Slytherin.
In which case, he railed you endlessly and had to be quieted down by McGonagall
numerous times.

But, Ginny suspected Ron and Hermione knew of Harry�s newfound attraction to her and were trying to
encourage her to like Harry in return. Typical, if she did say so
herself. But Ginny often found herself wondering why. Why did she
need to like Harry? In a word, she didn�t. She didn�t need to like
him. She didn�t even need him, not like she used to. Whenever she saw
him, she just saw him, some boy, some nice-looking, but overall, just nice boy
she might want to be friends with...and that was it. It was like that
with Colin. But, the other part of her said that she barely knew Harry,
that if she did, she might get to like him. What was wrong with giving it
a try?

She decided to ask Colin next time she talked to him.
Then she remembered. The next night was when she was supposed to pose for
some photos or painting or something. She would have forgotten. She
wrote on the top of her hand inconspicuously with a quill before rolling on her
back and sighing.

She really needed to sleep; she
told herself that she would. So Ginny slipped into a shallow slumber.

The Problem with Shallow Slumbers

It was dark, presumably night. Two people were
outlined in the pale light of a first quarter moon. One was tall and
willowy, the second short, rotund, and on his knees. Around them, near
the shadows, there was a group of people. Not really a group, but three
or four. They all wore black; silver masks obscured their faces.

The high pitch of the tall man in black cut the
silence. �My loyal Death Eaters,� he said slowly. �I have called
you for two reasons tonight. One being my heir. A candidate has
been chosen, a very special candidate. She is now a student, fifteen
years of age, and attending Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.�

A few of the Death Eaters mumbled to each other.

�I have deduced, with help from my loyal servant, Wormtail, that she is an Elemental, a very powerful one.�

�My Lord,� a calm voice said. �I mean no insult, but
if you required an Elemental, my wife is an Elemental, a Wind. She would
have borne your child with pleasure.�

�A Wind, Lucius. A lesser
Elemental. I have found a hybrid, an actual Fire and Wind Elemental, part
human, part Fire, part Wind. I have found a soul powerful enough to carry
my heir.�

�Yes, Master. You are right, she is better than my
wife. Forgive my impertinence.�

�You are forgiven,� the dark master said loftily. �That
is my first reason. My second is that I have discovered a traitor among
you here. You four, my most loyal of Death Eaters, are charged with
figuring out who it is and killing him. I will wait and watch.�

Immediately the wands were
out. Accusing voices rose loudly, disturbing the serenity of the
forest. A victim was chosen and killed before the master. His face
was bloodied, his mask distorted, his body beaten, his bones ripped willfully
from his body. Then, at last, his head was severed from his body and
given as a sick gift to the Dark Lord.

Comfortable In Your Other Skin, Part I

Ginny woke, panting and sweating. She tumbled from her
bed, landing heavily on the floor and rolling to her side, sitting against her
bed. She untangled herself from the heavy blankets and threw them
opposite from her. She was sticky and hot, her hair matted against her
head like a second skin.

Groaning, she made her way to the bathrooms, soaking her
head in the cold water. The dreams were back; stronger than ever, it
seemed. She still couldn�t remember the damn things either, just that the
two men were there and a few others, too. And death. Yes, someone
died; that was for sure. A quick image of a severed head entered her
mind, and she shuddered.

Sitting on the cold, tile floor of the bathroom she felt
tears prick in her eyes. Her head hurt so much, it was almost
unbearable. Her body reverberated with something; it wasn�t pleasant,
whatever it was. She felt herself becoming sick, wanting to puke.
She remembered she�d not eaten much the day before.

She stood, smiling painfully, smoothed back her hair and
dried her face. It was going to be a long night. So she went back
to her room, pulled out her diary, and began to write.

It must have been morning when she stopped, for her alarm
went off and she got ready to go. It was Sunday, but she wanted to try to
eat something for breakfast before going to her poetry club meeting.
After pulling on her robes, she frowned, finding the dream catcher in the
pocket. No wonder she�d dreamt that night; she hadn�t had the dream
catcher with her. She threw the spidery web in her bed and walked out the
door, cursing her stupidity.

She reached the Great Hall and sat next to Colin, who was
talking excitedly with Dean and a Hufflepuff boy � Devon
Weekland, she thought his name was. He was a
seventh year, she remembered. He left when she sat down.

�Good morning, Ginny,� Colin said happily. �Are you
going to come help us tonight? I mean, I can understand if you want to
back out, but I hope you won�t.�

�Us?� Ginny asked mildly, taking a bite out of her bread and
cringing. She really didn�t want to eat.

�Um, well, I sort of told Dean he could come. I hope
that�s okay. As I said, if you are uncomfortable, we don�t have to,�
Colin explained hopefully.

Ginny looked into his eyes, brown and sincere, and found she
couldn�t deny him. He needed her help, as odd as it might be of a
request. She smiled, trying to look as careless as possible.

�No, that�s fine, Colin. Just � I mean, any more
people and you should probably start charging admission,� she joked.

Colin and Dean laughed, Colin looking rather relieved.
�I�ll keep that in mind, Gin. So what are you doing today?�

�Well, I have class, you know, poetry. And I have to
see McGonagall. I want to try to get on the school newspaper.�

�Oh, that�s right,� Dean said, a smile lighting his
features. �Colin told me you wanted to do a dream interpretation
column. I think that�s a great idea. I take Divination, and I don�t
know what half my dreams mean. I�m sure lots of students feel the same
way.�

�Thanks, Dean,� Ginny said. Taking a bit of fruit, she
stood, stretching her arms. �I�m going to go now, get in a bit early.�

�Okay, Gin, and thanks again,� Colin called after her.

�Bye, Ginny!� Dean chorused.

Ginny left the hall for her meeting, hoping no one was
there. She wanted to be alone. She was pleasantly surprised when
she was. She took to her notebook, focusing on writing as people filed
into the room, some talking quietly. The group was mostly artistic Ravenclaws, but there was a Hufflepuff
and two Slytherins. Ginny was the only
Gryffindor.

Ginny shifted in her seat as Blaise
Zabini sat next to her. Blaise
was a Slytherin a year ahead of her. He was so
obviously gay it was painful. But he wasn�t mean to Ginny like most Slytherins. Actually, Blaise
was the only Slytherin she could halfway
tolerate. He had an artistic mind and was a good critic of her poetry.

�Good morning, Ginevra,� he said
formally, setting his quill down on the table. He swept his fashionable
black hair back behind his ears, trying desperately to catch the eye of his
fellow Slytherin, a seventh year boy named Dante Graymalkin. Ginny knew of Blaise�s
outrageous crush; it was painfully obvious to everyone in the room, with the
exception of Dante. �How was your summer?�

�Dull,� Ginny answered. �I think I reached an all time
boredom record. Why, how was yours?�

�Well, the family went to Peru for this reunion thing.
My cousin Rosalina found out I was gay when I hit on her boyfriend and he
responded. I�m sure she didn�t know. I�m sure he didn�t even know
until I kissed him. He was a nice boy, but not what I�m looking for.�

�Lucky, you could get any bloke you wanted. Almost, I
mean,� Ginny said, not believing she was actually jealous of a poof.
�Here I am, and I�m so plain I can�t get anyone to look at me like that.
Well, Harry asked me to Hogsmeade, but I don�t even
like him.�

�Yes, I heard you and that Creevey
Mudblood broke up. Cut your losses, that�s what
I always say. But plain, Ginevra?� Blaise looked her up and down with a raised eyebrow.
�Not with your hair and never with your face and body. Girl, you�re hot,
hot like fire. You could have any bloke you wanted. Hell, you�re
the type of girl that convinces men they aren�t gay, and it makes me look
bad. So don�t you go telling me you can�t get a boy; it�s all in your
head.�

Ginny looked at Blaise
speculatively. �Blaise, please stop trying to
make me feel better. But did you know you put on some weight?
You�ve got more muscle than I last saw you.�

Blaise raised an eyebrow.
�Were you looking? I�m flattered. But yes, I did. They�re
quite beautiful. If you want to see them later...�

He left the invitation hanging, but Ginny rolled her eyes,
tossing her head lightly. Ginny knew a comment was bubbling at the Blaise�s lips, but Celeste Sinistra,
the poetry teacher, entered the room. Her long black hair swept behind
her, the silver streaks shining in the dim air.

�Good morning class,� she said in her airy voice.
�Please take out your notebooks; I�d like to see what you wrote during the
summer.�

Ginny smirked at Blaise, pulling out
two notebooks full. Blaise made a face and
pulled out his one. Then class began for real. Ginny was reminded
that Sunday mornings with Blaise really were the only
things she liked about Hogwarts.

Scooting a little closer to Blaise,
Ginny whispered in his ear, �You�ll never guess what happened to me.
Seeing you and Dante reminded me for some reason.�

�What?� Blaise whispered back,
writing something in his notebook.

�I ran into someone, quite literally, the other day,� Ginny
continued. �And the thing is, he didn�t even say anything, he just looked
at me. I think it�s because I�m a Weasley, and
he was too stunned to see I was scared of him. Gods, I was
terrified. But the thing is, and I�m going to go back to this, he just
looked at me.�

�Oh,� Blaise said, obviously
coming to an understanding. �So you�re the one that made Malfoy look like a deer caught in the headlights. I
was wondering what happened to him. He walked into transfiguration with
the oddest look on his face. It was rather cute to tell you the
truth. I�m sorry I don�t share a room with him anymore. Just those
two, stupid sloth...�

�You must be mistaken then, because his look was full of
disgust. I know he hates me, but I was waiting for some sort of verbal
taunt or something,� Ginny clarified, doubtful at the same time.

�As I told you, Ginevra, you are
hot. Boys were going to notice sooner or later. Next year you�re
going to have to beat them off with a stick,� Blaise
teased her. Then he cast a devious look at Dante, who smiled uncertainly,
and went back to his paper. �That man is so stupid...� Blaise mumbled.

�No,� Ginny snorted. �You forget that�s what my older
brother is for.�

Blaise eyes lit with
amusement. �Ah, yes, the Weasleys, you being
the youngest of the brood and the only girl. I hate to say it, but you
hit a spot of bad luck with that one. Six older brothers, two of them
carry clubs, one is a dragon trainer, another a master charmer, one�s going for
Minister of Magic, then Ron, with enough muscle and vigor to impregnate a small
Korean village. Yes, you certainly were rather unlucky in the birthing
order.�

�Don�t remind me,� Ginny grumbled. �I�ll have to date
in another country. Maybe Canada
...or Spain, men are hot in Spain .�

�They certainly are,� Blaise
quipped. �But I think you could snag one under your brothers�
noses. I actually think you could snag Malfoy.�

�Malfoy,� Ginny snorted. �Malfoy, Blaise? You�ve got
to be kidding me if you think I could get him. And that�s even if I
wanted to, which I don�t. He hates me; why would I hit on a boy that
hates me?�

�He�s quite the lover...or so I�ve heard,� Blaise mumbled in a low voice. He looked surly, or so
Ginny thought.

Ginny laughed a little in spite herself. �I�ll keep
that in mind, Blaise.�

�Miss Weasley, Mr. Zabini, please continue this socialization outside of this
meeting,� Professor Sinistra said sternly but not in
an unfriendly voice.

�Yes, Professor,� Blaise said with a smile. Ginny rolled her eyes and
went back to work.

Comfortable in Your Own Skin, Part II

Colin and Dean were waiting for her when she entered the art
room that evening. They were talking quietly together, something about
the lighting in one of the paintings. Ginny smiled as she opened the
door, closing it quietly so as not to alert Filch. The last thing she
needed was someone bursting in on her naked and assuming the worst, the word
getting out to her brother, who would probably go around threatening and
beating up people, Dean and Colin in particular.

�Hiya, Ginny,� Colin said
genially, standing and coming over to her.

Ginny glanced around. There appeared to be a sort of
stage thing with appropriate lighting and a few props. Ginny smiled
nervously, putting down her bag and looking at Dean and Colin with
apprehension.

�Well, I suppose I didn�t really know what to expect,� Ginny
said in a low voice.

�I want to thank you for doing this, Ginny,� Dean said
warmly. �I mean, you really will be the perfect model, and you don�t have
to worry about Colin or me spreading your photos around school or anything.�

�I should hope not,� Ginny grumbled.

�Yeah, Ron would beat us into an undistinguishable bloody
pulp if he ever found out anyway,� Colin said with boyish glee.

Ginny silently agreed with him. �Okay, so I haven�t
ever done this before...�

�Oh, neither have we,� Dean said. �But we won�t make
it awkward or anything. Just tell us when you want to stop.�

�Okay,� Ginny said. She nodded her head to the
stage. �Over there?�

Dean nodded. �Yeah, we put a Cushioning Charm on the
ground so you can lie down. If you wouldn�t mind, just right on your side
then.�

Ginny swallowed, bringing her bag with her and then turning
to Dean and Colin, who had situated themselves at their easels. Biting
her lip nervously, she steeled herself, put down her bag, and took off her
robes, which she wore nothing under.

�Let your hair down, please,� Dean said in a business-like
tone.

Ginny took her loose braid out, shaking her head slightly,
and then lying down on the stage area a bit awkwardly. She felt, well, in
a word, exposed. She reminded herself furiously that it was for art and
she would do anything to help Colin; they were friends. He was trying to
get into a good art school, and this was going to help him with his portfolio.

Ginny swallowed, shifting to get comfortable, then looked at
Dean and Colin, who where whispering secretively. It was only when she
heard her name that she frowned.

�Okay, you two, what now?� she said, regretting the
irritability sinking into her voice.

�Well,� Dean said, �Colin and I were saying you have the
classic female body. We couldn�t have got a better model.�

�Oh,� Ginny said. �Um, thanks.�

Dean smiled and raised his brush to his canvas. Colin
gave Ginny a quick wink before doing the same. Ginny sighed, re-propping
her head with her hand and looking around her. She figured she was in the
art room, because she�d never seen it. Ginny shivered a bit, playing with
her hair in a bored fashion.

�I�m kind of cold, boys. Did you have to pick the only
room in the whole castle with no fireplace?� Ginny asked.

Colin and Dean poked their heads around their
canvases. Colin raised an eyebrow. �It�s probably better if you�re
cold anyway. But if you�re bored, write or do homework or something.�

Ginny looked at him dumbly. �Okay.�

Quickly she pulled out her diary
and began writing, staring at the blank page for a moment before putting the
quill to the page. The scratching of the quill filled the room, and Ginny
drowned things out.

Writing to Who You Thought Was Yourself, Part I

September 7, 1996

I can�t believe I�m doing
this. It�s all in the name of art, I suppose. And I never could say
no properly. He asked me last year, when we were going out, and then
summer came, and I couldn�t see him enough to follow though with the
promise. But I said I would, so I can�t rightly go back on my word.
I just never thought posing like this would be so much work. Move this,
move that, put your hair down, put your hair up. I�m not angry or
anything; I�ll even volunteer to do it again.

He really has always wanted to get
into a good art university, and if this helps, I�ll do it a thousand times.
Yes, I still love him, but I never loved him the right way, and that�s why
we�re not going out. I think that�s the problem; I can never love someone
the right way. He told me that, but I didn�t listen right. I can�t
do anything right. Well, I can pose for his paintings right at least.

I think I�m just always too
occupied. The dreams are coming back, with the two men. Mother gave
me this thing...this dream catcher. She said my grandmum
made it when she visited the Americas.
Mum said it was supposed to guard my dreams, capturing them in the web. I
think I should explore, if only just once, to see if it works. Because I
never remember the dreams, not right anyway. The ones about the two men I
only remember pain and death.

So should I look back on the
dreams? It might scare me, and I scare easily. I don�t know if I
could handle it even. But anything for getting rid of these dreams.
I haven�t dreamt like this since my first year. Mum could help those
years, but I stopped telling her about it and kept it to myself.

I think that is a mistake, keeping
it to myself. I should always let things out; I think that�s what writing
is for. It helps. I haven�t been allowed a diary for a while now,
but no one knows about it. If they did, they would probably freak out.

They�re finishing up � lucky
me.� I can put my clothes back on!

September 13, 1996

Chocolate............
ice cream.......... chocolate ice cream............ painting......
poetry........ chocolate...... boys................. kissing......... kissing
boys......... nightmare........... chocolate......... mirrors............
dreaming.......... keys......... chocolate......... kissing boys.......
paint......... red roses............ chocolate...........
boys........music............ kissing boys..... red.......... dream
catching.......... home........ coming home......... ice
cream......Sunday........ birthday........ orchids........ �Dr. Livingston, I
presume?�........ gold............. kissing....... chocolate..... denial..............
Egypt...........
dreams......... coins......... kissing boys.......... jokes..........
chocolate........... Never-Never
Land.........
dreaming....... boys........... dreams............afternoon........... Quidditch............. kissing boys..........chocolate........
poetic.....lost......... poetic death......... ice cream........ kissing
boys........ Slytherin.......... death.............
betrayal......... dreams.......... boys.......... �Dr. Livingston, I presume?�
....... midnight.......... home........... coming home........... lost.....
home........... lion.......... gold................ green.........
boys.......... dreams............

A list, a very good one, of what I
think about. Odd that kissing boys, Slytherin,
death, betrayal, and boys are all lined up against each other. I don�t
even know where �Dr. Livingston, I presume?� comes from. Rather random
even for me. Dreams and nightmares occur a lot too. But I
know why that is. They�ve been getting worse lately; I can never remember
to sleep with the dream catcher over my head. Home and lost are next to
each other too. Wonder what that means.

I�m not lost at home, am I?
Maybe I am. What are six shadows to live under? Hell, bring on
another, I can take it.

Truthfully, I think I�ve done
something rather dumb. You see, I�m drunk right now. Very drunk,
indeed. I didn�t know what it was. They told me to drink it; it
would relax me. Yeah, I�m relaxed all right. At least I�m still
grammatically correct. Things are really weird, I�ll say that. I�m NEVER doing this again. I don�t
like not being in control of myself.

God! Things spin odd...I�m
getting off topic. So, he told me...he told me something. Um, yeah,
he thinks I�m more of a sister. Yeah, and after he hit on me too, how�s
that family love for you? Okay, fine. I didn�t really like
him. I don�t know why he came up to me. Maybe I looked at him too
long. I stare off into space often; maybe he thinks I was staring at
him. I don�t even like him! It�s like everything revolves around
him. Maybe, I�m caught up on another boy. Terry Boot is very sweet,
so is Dean Thomas. I wouldn�t even mind Justin Finch-Fletchley.
I could be pining over some secret love. Maybe I�ll run off with a Muggle and have thirty-eight of his children. Maybe
I�ll open a bakery and have an affair with every father that comes in.

Okay, this stuff is something on my
�Never Again Checklist� now. I just want to get on with it.
It�s like he loves to rub it in my nose.

SO!
SO! So I THOUGHT I loved
him. I didn�t. I know that at least. Merlin. He just
can�t leave it alone.

Fuck.

I�m getting worse.

September 15, 1996

I reread my last entry. The
only word I have to say is WOW. I
had NO idea I felt like that.
Little bit of an insight to me. I�m too lazy to take it out though.
I suppose I kind of like it. It�s rather like a reminder that there�s a
lot of stuff going on in my head and even I don�t understand all of it.

I mean, I don�t claim to be an
enigmatically deep person or anything; I just know there are some things I
don�t understand about myself. I�d be happy if I just had a small house,
maybe somewhere in the country, with a nice little garden out front. I
would stay there for the rest of my life and die a happy old woman.

I guess in other people�s minds
that means I�m terribly complex. Why on earth would someone ostracize
themselves from society like that unless they were horribly disfigured or
terribly deep and felt like an outcast already? What some people don�t understand
is we�re all outsiders and outcasts already. No one can really know
another person, I mean really know them. And sure, if that means we�re
all loners, seeking our place in the galaxy, doomed to be alone and sad
forever, I�ll do it. It isn�t bad to want to be alone. Hell,
sometimes it�s good for you. My brother is always like, �Where are you
going? Off to some little corner to be alone? Why don�t you come to
the Quidditch match with us?�

Well, maybe I don�t want to go to be
around people. It isn�t as if it�s a crime to want a bloody second to get
your head on straight again. That�s what�s wrong with me. I think
too much. I can just sit at breakfast and stare off, not a care in the
world. Snape�s teaching a lesson; there I go
off into dreamland. McGonagall�s preaching Gryffindor goodness, time for
a trip. Flitwick�s telling me I need more work
on my Charms; when�s the next bus to La-La-Land? I just don�t want to be
there. I want to be somewhere else.

Sure I get the urge to communicate
with other people and be social, but not very often. Sometimes I rather
think I do it for other people, not myself. Isn�t that pathetic? I
do things to make other people happy. I cease being myself to make others
more comfortable. That�s top shelf hypocrisy right there. Why would
I change myself for someone else? Why should I? In the end, they
don�t really matter, whatever the end may be.

September 17, 1996

cotton
candy dreams...life has little to do with living...rap, rap, rap, chipped fingernails
on stainless steel, rap is overrated...caution taped conscious...promises are
wood on water, they seem to go with the current...carnival trick
fornication...quivering stomach, rabid butterflies, not merely anxious...tell
me about the end of time, does Atlas stand up straight...who says the sky has
loose morals, why can�t it kiss the earth and the heavens...Christmas tree
mornings with syrup and lies...techno colored nightmare coat...

Just a bit more of my
randomness. I�ve always wanted to use one or more of those in a
poem. They just come to me, I swear.

This time I don�t even have the
excuse I�m hammered. No, that is clean-liver me. Gods, I have
problems.

Not
enough time to tell them now, I�ve got to study for the transfiguration test.

Respecting Burns

Draco closed the diary and looked out the window. It
was on the lake again, but he thought it changed sometimes. Shrugging, he
placed the diary back on the window seat and stared off into the distance.

This person, whoever it was, had done it again. She
successfully sucked him into her world, made him feel the things she felt,
laugh at the things she thought were funny, and frown at the things she didn�t
agree with. Whoever she was, she was a great writer, the best he�d ever
read.

He stood, stretched, and made his way to the exit. It
was Saturday, the first Hogsmeade Saturday.
Draco found himself happily detached from Pansy. Apparently she and �Milly� didn�t spend enough time together and needed some
girl shopping. Fine with him, the less time he spent with her the less
his brain cells were in danger of spontaneously combusting. That happened
to him when he was around stupid people too much.

Draco ambled along, leisurely thinking about going to Hogsmeade and stalking up on quills and stuff for
later. He didn�t really have a good reason for going other than he was
bored. So as he walked down the cobblestone streets of Hogsmeade,
he observed the disgusting third years that stuffed their faces with candy, the
sedated fifth years that ate leisurely at the Three Broomsticks, and the
seventh years sitting peacefully on the grass in the park area.

Draco wanted to sneer at their happiness, the content ways
they lived their lives. They were so carefree, he was almost jealous.
Then he remembered they were all probably poor, and he smirked.

He walked through the park, letting the autumn breeze play
in his hair. It wasn�t chilly out, but the weather was definitely getting
cooler. Quidditch practices would get easier
with the decrease in temperature, no more getting completely soaked in his own
sweat.

That was when he heard the animated conversation. He
rounded the corner of the path and saw two people, Gryffindor and Slytherin, talking over open books with drinks and
half-eaten lunch in front of them. He recognized them, of course.
One was Blaise Zabini, the
insatiable and flaming homosexual that had hit on him one too many times.
His black hair was shining in the sunlight, and his face was slightly angry but
more argumentative. The other person surprised him, for more than one
reason. One was she was a Gryffindor. But the next was she was a Weasley. Her scarlet hair gave her away. She
had a defiant look in her bronze eyes, making her look rather cute, in Draco�s
opinion. She was sitting on the grass next to Zabini,
her black shirt straining against her chest. Draco noticed with
satisfaction that she was very well endowed.

Smirking a little, he waited until they noticed him, unhappy
that it took a little while.

�All I�m saying is that great rhyming poetry has been
written,� Zabini argued. �Just take one look at
any poem written by Robert Frost. One look! It�s twenty times
better than anything modern that doesn�t rhyme.�

�That�s not true! e. e. cummings
is recent! He doesn�t rhyme and look at his poetry! It�s the best
love poetry I�ve ever read. And Keats! Just look at Keats!� she
countered adamantly.

�He�s not recent,� Zabini said
with a raise of his artistic eyebrow.

�He�s good though,� she ground through clenched teeth.

�True, true,� Zabini concurred.

�This argument isn�t really going anywhere?�

�Not unless you bring up Robert Burns again,� he mumbled.

�I respect Burns!� she flared. Her eyes lit with a
spark of something, something that Draco couldn�t put a finger on. It
intrigued him though.

It was then he was noticed. The Weasley
was turned away from him, but when Zabini rolled his
eyes, he caught sight of Draco. Immediately Zabini�s
posture and facial expression changed.

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

Her 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, Ginevra,� 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 arse. �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, Ginevra!
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.�

�At least I don�t have to buy my robes secondhand,� Draco
said, trying to sound lofty when he said it.

Zabini only laughed harder.
�You�ve made him resort to that insult again! The last time I heard that
one was in my second year!�

Draco, deciding the most imperious thing to do was take
points away and leave, sneered and did so. �Ten points from Gryffindor, Weasley.�

Her pretty little mouth dropped, and her eyes held
shock. �For what?� she said, standing and putting her hands on her � in
Draco�s opinion, glorious � hips.

�Disturbing the peace and slandering a great House,� Draco
replied, his sneer deepening a bit.

�I didn�t slander any great House, just Slytherin,�
she shot back.

Zabini�s joyous laughter didn�t help.

�And what�s more, who gave you the right to punish whom you
please? Who died and made you Merlin?� she said angrily. Draco
could tell, no matter how Zabini made light of it,
the shot at her family had hurt.

�Since I made prefect, that�s when,� Draco answered coolly,
fingering his badge.

She closed her mouth, flinching momentarily. Then she
bent down, scooped up her books, and grabbed Zabini
by the forearm, wrenching him up. �Come on, Blaise,
we�re going!�

Zabini was still laughing, but he
followed her dutifully, grabbing his book as he left.

�And that�s five points for littering!� Draco called after
them, eyeing their half-eaten lunch.

He heard another spike of laughter from Zabini,
and he cringed. The two were like brother and sister, Zabini
and � What did he call her? Ginevra? Yes,
they were just like brother and sister. It made Draco slightly
uncomfortable. Slytherin and Gryffindor weren�t
supposed to be friends. They weren�t supposed to even like each other,
much less voluntarily spend free time with each other.

But at the same time, something tugged at the back of his
mind. He wondered what the diary woman would say about it. Only
half caring, he made his way back to the castle, content to wonder. As he
entered his room, he found a letter on his desk. It was from his father;
who else? Grudgingly, he opened it, reading over it quickly.

Draco �

I much desire to talk
with you. Be at your hearth at ten-thirty on the twenty-first of
September.

� L. M.

Short and to the point, just like his father. Well,
his father wasn�t short, but he was certainly to the point. Actually, his
father wasn�t too much to the point either. His father was a fairly
vague, slippery, vindictive, manipulative sadomasochist with no conscience, no
morals, and rather strange goals. Goals like killing people, manipulating
people, inflicting pain, raping little boys, etc.

Draco detested his father and didn�t bother hiding the fact
either. He had grown beyond the stage where he needed his father�s
acceptance and shelter. Draco had enough money, power, and influence as a
sixth year to do pretty much whatever he wanted. He could move out
tomorrow and be fine for the rest of his life, living on the inheritance from
his deceased grandfather. He wouldn�t though. There wasn�t any
reason. His father let him do whatever he wanted and didn�t give a rat�s arse if he hated him. It was just the way it went.

It wasn�t as if Draco sacrificed anything to do what his
father said once in a while. He didn�t lose pride; his father wouldn�t
ask him to do anything that did that. He didn�t lose power; his father
was obsessed with maintaining the family power. And he certainly couldn�t
lose money; he had so much money he could lose over five hundred million
galleons before he needed to worry about money, and only because his mother had
rather eccentric tastes.

So when ten-thirty rolled around and Draco was standing in
front of an empty fire, he didn�t restrain his anger when his father finally
showed his effeminate face...at eleven-thirty.

�Nice, Lucius,� Draco
snarled. �I�ve been here for an hour. I do have a life you know.�

�Draco, Draco, Draco,� his father said smoothly.
�Patience, my precious son.�

�That makes me uncomfortable, Lucius,�
Draco said coolly. �Why did you call me? This is dangerous.�

�Quite obviously,� Lucius sneered,
dropping the �concerned, fatherly� voice. Draco doubted if he had ever
been a �concerned father.� �But what must be done must be done,
Draco. I have a special mission for you, my son.�

�Joyful, joyful,� Draco drawled. �What now?�

�You need to find someone for me, someone who goes to your
school.�

�Well, at last we�ve narrowed it down to several hundred
people.� Draco rolled his eyes.

�Watch your mouth, Draco,� his father quipped. �This
one is important. She is � how you say � the chosen one of our master.�

�Your master,� Draco grumbled irritably. He wasn�t yet
a Death Eater. He didn�t have any real desire to be one either.
Upon closer inspection, he had no real desire to be like his father, one reason
he wasn�t happy about having to become a Death Eater.

His father, however, ignored him pointedly and
continued. �She is a very special girl, young, probably fifteen or
younger. I don�t know much about her, other than she is Elemental and
very powerful. I don�t know how much she will stand out, maybe not at
all. She is a Fire and Wind hybrid though. You do know what all
this means, right?�

�I know what an Elemental is, Lucius,�
Draco drawled. �Mother is one, so I am one. I know.�

Lucius sneered. �Yes, your
mother is one. But remember, no matter how much control you have over
your powers, you are a half-breed of a lesser Elemental, not fit to go up
against a higher, hybrid Elemental. You can�t overpower this girl.�

�Then Lucius, what do you so
expertly suggest?� Draco asked with a sneer. �How did you snag mother?�

Lucius smirked. �I made her
fall in love with me. How else, my dear boy?�

Draco couldn�t imagine anyone willingly falling in love with
his father, but he kept his mouth closed. He rather suspected there was
much more to the story of his father and mother than he was told.

�So I find this rogue Elemental, make her fall in love with
me, and then what? Marry her?� Draco sneered.

But his father snorted in dismissal. �You take her to
our master, you stupid boy. Don�t ever forget that he is your
master. You will not make me look insufficient in front of the master,
not ever. None of your sharp tongue and smart arse
remarks.�

�Yes, Lucius,� he answered without
the slightest hint of remorse in his voice.

His father seemed to accept it, and he brushed his long hair
off his shoulder. �Now I must leave you; I have important issues to
attend to.�

Then his face was out of the
fire and Draco sat on his chair, looking up at the clock. �Yeah, I bet
you do, you pedophilic bastard,� he mumbled. He stretched and fell into
bed, his dreams troubled and dark.

Memories in Blue�

A little boy with blonde hair and a thin nose sat alone in a
room with many, many toys. His mother, or assumed mother, was sitting in
a chair, staring out into space, clearly not in her right mind; the vial with
drops of clear liquid still in it attesting to her state of drugged
bliss. Her bright blue eyes were open but sagging; her lithe, willowy
body sprawled out artlessly. Her thin lips and aristocratic nose made her
look like a skeleton, and it was true, for she�d not eaten correctly for the
past seven years.

The little boy, however, was playing peacefully with some
magical blocks, moving them around with his mother�s wand and building
something primitive. He looked around with his cold gray eyes, not
completely understanding why his mother wouldn�t play with him, or at least
take her wand from him. She would always play a little in the morning,
and sometimes if he was good, she would play in the afternoon too. When
she played, really played, the wind seemed to always be blowing; this, the
little boy noticed. It was always a happy little breeze, or a playful,
gentle wind.

The little, pale boy frowned, tossing a block towards his
mother. She didn�t respond and let it hit her thin thigh. Just as
he was about to do it again, the door opened wildly, slamming against the wall.

�Narcissa!�

It could only have been the boy�s father, for their eyes
were the same, and though the boy�s father�s skin was more tanned, it was the
same consistency. His father burst in sometimes, always angry. The
boy always remembered his father as angry, ever since he was a baby.

�Narcissa!� he boomed. �Get
up! Get up now! The Parkinsons are
coming! Ennervate!�

The boy frowned. He didn�t like the Parkinsons. They had a daughter that followed him
around and a son that always beat him up. But right then, he looked up at
his raging father and comatose mother and frowned.

His mother was waking slowly, her long fingers going to her
eyes and rubbing them. �Go away, Lucius,� she
grumbled. �I�m playing with Draco.�

It was almost too quick for the boy to see. His
father�s cane whipped out and smacked his mother in the face. She flew to
the side, flying out of the chair and landing on her back on the ground next to
it. A harsh sob and a shudder, and she got up, sitting slightly.
The side of her face was bloody, the cane doing its job well, automatically
bruising her fine skin.

�I�m sorry,� she whispered between choked sobs. She
crawled to the boy�s father on her knees, crying blood and tears
painfully. �I�m so sorry, Lucius.�

His father raised his head imperiously, refusing to look at
his wife. �Yes, I know, Narcissa, you always are.
Now get cleaned up; make Draco presentable. And for God�s sake, woman,
take your wand from him; he�s doing it again.�

The boy�s father sneered at him, kicking his simpering wife
away as he left, slamming the door shut. Draco came to his mother,
standing over her shivering form. He was young, too young to understand
why they fought, but old enough to know he couldn�t do anything until his
father left. For five years, he remembered his father doing this to his
mother; the first time he remembered, when he was four, he got hit by his
father for trying to push him away.

As his mother had mended him then, so he mended her
now. Taking her wand with great care, he pointed it silently at her
face. He said no words, but the wounds healed, and his mother�s porcelain
face returned to its normal, crystalline beauty.

�Thank you, Draco-baby,� his mother said tiredly, sitting
now on the ground with her legs crossed. She opened her arms, and the boy
climbed into them willingly. His mother always smelled like a cool spring
breeze; her hands always knew where to hold him to make everything right.
She cried into his small, skinny body as she always did.

The boy hugged her gently, trying to tell her it was all
going to be okay.

�Mummy,� he said in his small voice. �Mummy?
Father will get angry if you don�t hurry.�

The boy shivered in the sudden cold that hit the room.

�Always remember Mummy loves
you, Draco,� his mother said firmly. �Never forget that.�

Another Thing That Burns

Ginny woke in tears, though she wasn�t sure why. She
was burning again, but she remembered what she had done that night before she
went to sleep. She had put the dream catcher over her bed. She
smiled to herself, getting out of bed and walking to her window. A cool
wind picked up as she opened it, and she sighed as her body soaked it in.
It smelled clean and reminded her of her dream for some reason. She
looked up at the moon and stars.

It was clear that night, pleasantly so. The breeze
whipped about her, circling her before flying out the window. The stars
shone in the sky, diamond-like, and flickered. Sighing again, she got up,
closing the window, and plucked the dream catcher from its spot above her
head. It was humming slightly, something that disturbed Ginny, but not
enough to explore. Upon reflection, that was what probably what got her
in so much trouble her first year. She reminded herself that her mother
had given her the dream catcher, not a psychotic spirit of a sixteen-year-old
madman.

She took her wand from under her pillow, polishing it
quickly with her nightgown out of habit before hesitantly bringing it to a stop
a few centimeters from the ruby jewel at the center of the shimmering
web. Frowning, she gathered her courage and touched her wand to the
jewel.

Immediately she was assaulted with visions, dark and
fanciful, bright and terrifying, horrible and scaring. But all of them
almost too quick for her to see. It slowed, showing her a vision in slow
motion. Then it sped up, going faster and faster without pattern, rhyme
or reason.

She wasn�t sure how long she stayed there, watching the
visions, but when it finally ended, she felt drained and tired, as though she�d
been there for hours. Looking at her clock, she found she had been there
for hours. Three and a half. The dream catcher was humming lower
now, not as awake as it had seemed earlier.

Ginny frowned, feeling a bit light-headed. She got off
her bed, washing her face fastidiously and putting on a light robe. She
picked up the dream catcher, holding it up to the moon. It was an odd
thing, to be sure. Her mother had given it to her secretly, not wanting
her brother to see it, but also for no apparent reason. Her mother never
did anything for no apparent reason. She was like Dumbledore in that
respect.

Ginny recalled slipping the dream catcher in her bag, not
really caring. But the dreams came all the same, and she decided to sleep
with it. The dreams had stopped for a while then came back, but they were
different. There were certainly less, as though some were being
filtered. Ginny had a feeling all the dreams she�d just seen (and she
assumed they were dreams, not visions) were the ones filtered away from her.

The thing was she was never in her dreams. She didn�t
remember taking part in any of the dreams; she was always watching. The
dream that stuck in her mind right then was the one with Draco. The woman
she recognized as Narcissa Malfoy
had called him Draco, her son. And Lucius Malfoy had been in the dream too. It was a terrifying
dream, but it set her with a new vision of the family. There was no doubt
Lucius Malfoy was in
control, his wife barely worth squat after giving birth to Draco. The
child, Draco, was different from what Ginny pictured. Sure, he was
skinny, pale, and blonde, but she expected much more of a monster, a bratty child.
He was surprisingly calm and loving. It made Ginny frown. She
almost regretted yelling at him the other day...almost.

But along with the images of the disturbing Malfoy family, she had got hold of the dreams of the two
men, the tall one and the short one. They were scattered though, in bits
and pieces, as though they were broken by waking. Ginny was good at dream
interpretation, but the few dreams clearly remembered seemed to be memories
almost.

And they weren�t her memories.

And it worried her.

�Memories in Blue � rip-off of �Rhapsody in Blue� by George
Gershwin
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