'No,' Harry said sharply, and caught at Draco's sleeve, but the other boy was too quick for him. Eluding Harry's grasp, Draco strode, swiftly and purposefully, towards the stairs.
Harry darted after him. 'Wait.'
'I can't wait any longer.' Draco was moving down the steps now, one hand on the banister, which had been polished to a dark glow. Torchlight flared at the bottom of the steps. Harry could see the immense double doors of the Manor, looming below them like enormous gates.
'Just let me talk to you.'
Draco had reached the foot of the stairs. He threw his head back, looking up at Harry, and his eyes were narrow slits of gray. 'There's nothing else to say.'
'But there is.' Harry was on the step above Draco now, looking down at him from a height of several extra inches. Past Draco, he could see the narrow windows flanking the huge doors, and beyond the windows more of the same swirling, cloudy greyness. 'Let me see your wrists.'
'My wrists?' Draco looked at Harry as if he'd gone mad, then slowly extended his hands, palms down. Harry reached to take them and turned them over, so he could see the lightning scar along Draco's left palm, nearly blotted out by the double-cross scar he'd sliced over it. Along his wrists were other scars, thick and white as narrow snakes sliding under the skin, puckered at the edges as if long-healed. Draco looked at them. 'I gave all I had already,' he said, thoughtfully. 'I haven't got any more.'
'Did you do that to yourself?'
Draco pulled his wrists out of Harry's grasp. 'If you're asking if I tried to top myself, no. Hardly a need, really.'
'You gave all you had of what? What is it you're missing?'
'If you have to ask…' Draco shook his head, backed down the steps and turned. No! Harry thought, and suddenly he was in front of Draco, blocking his path to the front door. Beyond the walls of the Manor, he could hear the howling of wind.
Draco made a clucking noise of annoyance. 'Potter, this game of human chess becomes wearisome.'
'I know.' Harry held his hand up, as if reaching to catch something. His empty fingers clenched and found they were gripping something: the sword of Gryffindor, red stones winking along the hilt. 'But if you want to get past me, you'll have to fight me.'
Draco's lips curled at the corners like burning paper. 'Fight you? You must be joking.'
Harry shook his head. He could taste salt in his mouth, and copper. 'I've never been more serious.'
Draco shook his head as if in disbelief. 'Fine,' he said, and raised his own hand, and the black-and-silver glimmer of Terminus Est was there, bright in his grasp. 'But do not expect me to be merciful,' he added, lowering the blade as he lunged at Harry.
'Ben,' Ginny said softly. 'Are you all right?'
He didn't answer, rising slowly to his feet, one hand braced against the stone wall. She saw that the robes he was wearing were stained with blood, still wet in some places, gleaming almost black in the torchlight.
'Have you hurt yourself?' she asked.
Ben shook his head. 'No,' he said. 'Unfortunately not.'
'He's drunk,' Ron whispered in her ear. Ginny frowned at him.
Ben narrowed his eyes. 'Who's that with you?'
'My brother,' said Ginny. 'This is Ron.'
'Ah, right.' Ben said. 'We've met before.' His eyes glanced over Ron and returned to Ginny. 'They're good things to have, brothers.'
'I think so,' she said, gently. 'Ben, if you need-'
'There's nothing I need.' There was venom in his tone. 'Let's not play games. You're not here to see what I need, you're here for what you need.
Aren't you?'
Stung, Ginny said nothing; it was Ron who answered. 'The runic band,' he said.
Ben raised an arm slowly and pointed at the doorway beside him. 'In there,' he said. Ginny had never heard two words spoken so bleakly before.
He stood back as she and Ron passed through the doorway and into a narrow room. The only light came from a slit window high overhead. It illuminated a small room with stone-bound walls, a low table covered in a spilled mess of potions, smashed glass from broken vials, and a sticky, thin, red substance still dripping from the corners onto the floor- and a bed, made of carved wood and very old-fashioned, hung around with black draperies. In the bed, a man was lying. Fur coverlets were pulled up to his waist and he was naked above that, his face so ghastly pale that it took Ginny a moment to realize that it was Gareth.
'Is he dead?' asked Ron, his voice harsh in the sickroom stillness. A heavy scent lay on the air, like smoke and something else, something sweet and deathly.
Ginny couldn't reply. He lay so still, and in his stillness he reminded her more than he ever had before of Draco, lying in his own stillness in Madam Pomfrey's infirmary. There was the scar of a terrible wound across Gareth's chest, its edges raw and black-looking, and his fair hair lay in sweat-straggled locks against his skin. Slowly, she reached out and touched his hand. It was icy cold. 'I think so,' she said, uncertainly.
This was not as she had imagined it; it was much worse. She had told herself she could endure Gareth's death because, of course, in her present he had already died, but she discovered that paradoxes of time were cold comfort in the face of real grief. She thought of Draco, painfully, and let out a small sigh, releasing Gareth's hand.
'Are you done yet?' It was Ben, tall and ragged in the doorway in his bloodstained black robes. 'Have you gotten what you came for?'
Ginny drew back from the bed, hesitant. 'Ben…'
Ron took her shoulder and pushed her back towards Gareth. 'Ginny, take the band. Take it,' he hissed in her ear.
Uncertainly, she reached for Gareth's cold hand again, aware of Ben, dark and rageful as a thundercloud, hovering at her back. Holding Gareth's hand was like gripping a statue; swallowing back her instinctive revulsion, she closed her fingers around the cool glassy band, and drew it over his wrist. It came off effortlessly, springing into her hand almost as if it wanted to.
She heard Ben's breath hiss out between his teeth. He was staring at her, at the runic band she held. 'It's true, then,' he said, in a very different voice now. 'He really is dead.'
Ron, alarmed by something he saw in Ben's face, moved to put himself between the Heir and his sister-but Ben had lost all interest in them.
Pushing past Ginny like a blind man, he went down on his knees next to Gareth's bed, put his head on the coverlet, and whispered something she couldn't hear. She thought he was crying-certainly his shoulders were shaking, and harsh noises were coming from him, like the sounds of someone being tortured.
'Ron.' She took her brother's wrist. Something told her that this sort of grief was private; it should not be approached. She tried to tug her brother away, but he was staring, his mouth slightly open.
'This is what I saw,' he whispered, suddenly. 'In my vision-Draco on the bed, and Harry next to him-it wasn't them I saw at all, it was this-'
'Ron!' She shoved him, hard. He moved slowly, turning to stare over his shoulder even as she pulled him towards her and flung the gold chain of the Time Turner around his throat.
Harry ducked the blow and parried, steel clashing on steel. Draco had been telling the truth; he wasn't holding back. He slashed at Harry even as Harry turned, and the tip of his blade tore across Harry's sleeve, opening a gash in the material.
'Jesus, Malfoy,' Harry exclaimed, involuntarily.
'Oh, it's Malfoy again, is it?' Draco cut under Harry's guard, dexterously.
Harry blocked him, but only just. Sparks flew where their blades crossed.
