Blaise examined her fingernails. 'So says the girl who thinks spanking is a perfectly acceptable defensive tactic.'
Draco looked pained. 'You're trying to hurt me, aren't you?'
Ginny chuckled. 'Yes, but you deserve it. Honestly, like we'd fight over you.'
'We may have exchanged a few sharp words,' Blaise said. 'But then we resolved our differences peacefully.' She smiled sweetly.
'And that's it?' Draco asked dubiously.
'That's how girls fight, Draco,' said Ginny.
'Damn,' he said. 'Another perfectly good prepubescent fantasy ruined.'
'Reality is cruel,' said Blaise. She put her hand on the doorknob. 'Ginny, I'll tell them you're busy. Draco — ' Her voice was bright, brittle. 'Good to see you're still in one piece.' She turned to leave.
'Blaise,' Draco said.
Blaise turned slowly and stared at him. For a moment, Ginny held her breath. Draco was looking at Blaise, and Ginny knew that look: for just those few moments, Blaise was all he was thinking about, and his eyes were telling her that. 'Thank you,' he said. 'I wasn't sure you'd do it.'
Blaise met his gaze steadily. 'Neither was I,' she said. 'I guess you're right.
I am like you.'
She turned and went out, and the sound of her high heels clicking on the wood floor of the hallways faded into the distance. Draco looked after her thoughtfully. 'That,' he said, 'is a hell of a girl.'
'I like her,' Ginny said, and realized, after saying it, that it was true.
'As do I,' said Draco. He returned his gaze to Ginny. 'I have something else for you. I almost forgot.'
'What is it?' she asked.
'The other half of your heart,' he said, and for a moment she stared at him, uncomprehendingly, until he held his hand out to her. In the center of his palm was a small and sparkling thing: the other half of her glass heart charm. 'I found it,' he said. 'But please don't ask me where. I don't want to have to tell you.'
Ginny hesitated. Draco so rarely said please. 'All right,' she said, against her better judgment. 'But then I want you to do something for me.'
'All right.' He raised his eyes to her. The harsh light of the fire spilled up, casting his face into bright relief, throwing the elongated shadow of his eyelashes down across his high cheekbones. 'What?'
'Keep it,' she said.
He closed his hand around it. 'But it's yours,' he said.
'No,' she said. 'It's not. Maybe someday.'
He bit his lip. 'I can't — ' He cocked his head to the side, then, half-looking away from her. The fire sparked up behind him, the color wavering from gold into a paler yellow. Ginny knew that meant he was about to disappear. 'Hermione's calling me,' he said, his voice sounding suddenly tinny, as if it was coming from a great distance. 'I have to go.'
'Please be careful,' she said. 'When you find Harry, don't let him talk you into anything stupid.'
Draco looked almost amused. 'It's nice that you're concerned.'
Ginny's next words came out of her mouth without any foreknowledge on her part that she was about to speak them.
'I am concerned,' she said. 'I love you.'
His head jerked up and he stared at her, an expression of absolute astonishment on his face. She stared back. She would have thought she would be fighting to keep her expression neutral, but really she only felt very calm. She had said it. Let him do with it whatever he wanted.
Although really, he must have known. How could he not?
When he replied, it was with only one word, and not the one she was expecting.
'Why?'
Before she could respond, the fire sputtered. The flames changed color again, from pale yellow to blue and then to green; Draco looked surprised for a moment, and then vanished. Ginny was not sure if she was glad or not that she had been unable to respond to his question. After all, if he wanted to talk to her, he knew where to find her.
She realized she was still holding the folded parchment in her hand, tightly clenched. With a sigh, she unfolded it slowly, and felt a hammering jolt against the inside of her ribcage: somehow, she had not expected Draco to be correct about Tom, but this was his writing, here his curling r's and workmanlike, careful a's and o's. My orphan's alphabet, he had said, amused, of his cautious scrawls. And what a surprise, it was a list.
Tom had always been so fond of lists. This one was a list of names: Thaddeus Nott, Eleftheria Parpis, Charles Travers, Linton Avery.
For several long moments, Ginny stared blankly at the list. It meant absolutely nothing to her. With a shrug, she folded it up and slid it into her pocket before getting to her feet and heading back to the living room.
The last dark red streaks of sunset were fading out of the sky (heavy with clouds, Harry had half-expected to be rained on at any moment) when Harry turned the corner of Viktor's street, almost running. Several wrong turns down narrow cobblestoned streets and a nearly sprained ankle had contributed to his lateness, although they were not the cause of it. Point me only worked when you knew where you were relative to due north, after all, and Harry had no idea. He swore under his breath, pulling his cloak tight around him, as the lamps all up and down the street suddenly lit themselves, casting shallow pools of light at intervals along the deserted pavement.
Viktor's building was easy to spot. It had a colorfully painted facade, and Harry could see the gabled window of the living room from the street. The lights were on; he must have forgotten to Nox them before he left. At this rate, pretty soon he was going to start forgetting his own bloody name.
Unless — well, Viktor had said the building employed a staff of house-elves.
Perhaps -
Harry's footsteps slowed. A moment before, the pavement in front of Viktor's door had been deserted. Now, just to the side of a pool of light cast by a street lamp, a group of cloaked figures was standing, so closely huddled together that Harry could not immediately tell how many of them there were.
He knew immediately, without knowing how he knew, that they were aware of him, and that they were not friendly.
It never occurred to him to turn around and walk away. Instead he kept moving, slowly and steadily, towards them, while at the same time his hand was creeping into his robes, under his jacket, looking for the hilt of the Gryffindor sword that was strapped to his side.
He was almost to the door. He had begun to wonder if perhaps he was mistaken when one of the figures detached itself from the group. Harry caught the impression of someone tall, wearing a long black robe, when suddenly he found his way blocked. A tall man with long black hair and a stark-white face was standing between Harry and the door to Viktor's building. He wore a black robe, and the front of it was held together by a pin made out of a finger bone. His deep-socketed eyes glittered black and devilish under the faint lamplight, and he was smiling. The smile revealed two canines as long and sharp as the points of daggers.
'Well, well,' he said, and his voice was a softly accented hiss. 'If it isn't the famous Harry Potter himself. This is a surprise.'
Sitting on the bed after Draco had banged his way out of the bedroom, Hermione realized that she was desperate for a change of clothes. Fleur had promised to make sure that the hotel sent their bags on from Diagon Alley to Viktor's apartment, but in the interim period, she couldn't help feeling miserable and dirty: there was ash caked on her shirt where Fleur had pulled her through the fire, and thanks to Viktor and Draco she smelled like cigarette smoke. With a sigh, she unbuttoned her blouse, shrugged out of it, and traded it for Harry's old Puddlemere United t-shirt. She had fond memories of this particular shirt, which Ron had given to Harry when they were all fifteen. It was a sort of pale brown color with black lettering and didn't suit Harry at all, but Harry had never minded and had worn it until the cotton was as supple and thin as tissue paper.
