Disclaimer: Not mine, JK Rowling's. Really. Do you honestly think I could create such magnificent characters? Who are you kidding?

A/N: Hey, everybody! I posted this on Fanfiction.net (My account name there is "Shadow Dragon" how boring) as the same title. "Deeper Than Blood" It's currently a lot longer than this, so don't worry about cliffhangers—they will all be solved, really.

Anger In Blood

Chapter One

Blinded

Hope that you can see

All the things that I can be

I'm blinded

Do you hear my call?

Tell me, will you catch my fall?

- Blinded, Bandits Soundtrack

Jameson Flint was like almost every other member of his team—big, hulking, and very nearly stupid. He was the younger brother to Marcus Flint, who had won every game as captain until the irritable Harry Potter came to Hogwarts. Jameson had never been particularly interested in Quidditch, but that had changed after Marcus had held him against the wall with the threat of dire consequences unless he played as a Beater. Needless to say, Jameson had been at the try-outs the very next year. Now he was standing in the entrance to the Quidditch field, waiting for them to raise the tarp so that the team could enter the field. Milicent Bulstrode, Tiger Jawkins, and Renton Marx, the Chasers, were at the back of the line, chatting in dark tones. Jameson's fellow Beater, Vincent Crabbe, was standing silently beside him. The Keeper, Malcolm Baddock, was muttering to the captain, Draco Malfoy.

Draco Malfoy had been made captain that year because he had been on the team the longest. Most of the team hadn't been looking forward to this, as Malfoy was hated with a passion throughout the Slytherin house and Hogwarts. But Malfoy had changed over the summer in some strange way; the Slytherin team was put through a rigorous practice schedule but it was a fair one. Malfoy was a strict coach, but he was incredibly fair and he knew what he was doing. He had earned the grudging respect of most of the other team captains, with the exception of Harry Potter. Even though Malfoy had given up his age-old habit of insulting Potter and Company, the relations between them stayed frosty.

Jameson now moved closer to Baddock and Malfoy to hear their conversation. "Gryffindor has won the cup five times when you were Seeker," Baddock was accusing Malfoy.

"Three," Malfoy corrected through gritted teeth.

"All right, three then. That's four too many," Baddock snapped, once again proving his inability to count. "You don't deserve to be captain. You're a weasel, Malfoy—"

"Ferret," Malfoy corrected, looking as though he was about to throw a punch at Baddock. Jameson edged closer, eager for a fight. "I'm a ferret, get me? I'm not a weasel. Professor Snape thought I deserved to become captain, and I agree with him. Notice that we've nearly had a shutout? Nobody has even scored against us yet. Without my captaining, you would still be on the reserve bench."

Baddock snorted with contempt and turned away.

Jameson watched Malfoy for a long moment afterward until Malfoy swung his head and snapped, "What are you looking at, Flint?" With a sigh, Jameson turned away. And to think he'd almost thought of Malfoy as nice.

*

Draco,

I am very displeased at your lack of writing skills. Can you not write something more than "Father, we lost. Draco?" You were trained to be a Malfoy. Include some respect—I am your father.

Your loss to Gryffindor shames me, boy. I did not raise a child to lose at Quidditch! I was fairly pleased that you were made captain before your seventh year. If you do not beat Gryffindor next year, I shall have to cancel your scholarship to the Chudley Cannons. Quidditch can not mean that much to you if you lose constantly.

"No, we've just had a shut-out season, except for the fact that Gryffindor beat us by ten points," Draco snarled inside his head. "Gryffindor was the only one that managed to score—one goal." He had trained up a top-notch Quidditch team; it was his own inability to catch the snitch before Potter that had lost the game. And he would have caught it, too, if Potter hadn't sent both Beaters in on him like vultures. Draco had come out of that particular mess with a broken arm and a wounded pride. He had caught every Snitch before with spectacular skill; one could see he was made for Quidditch. So why did Potter beat him to it every time? Draco scowled as he continued reading.

If circumstances continue on like this, I may be forced to request that you resign from the Slytherin Quidditch team completely.

Your mother looks forward to your return. Your test scores had better be higher than those of last year.

Cordially,

Lucius

"It really must hurt to have a failure of a son," Draco said aloud to the empty Common Room. He stood up and stretched out his arms as his legs cracked suspiciously from a long period of disuse. There was blood on his palms where his fingernails had dug rivets of anger into them. His face was flushed from the heat because he was still wearing the thick Quidditch jersey and light corduroys. His arm and leg guards lay next to him on the long couch, glistening in the firelight. Draco had waited up, expecting the letter to come, so all of the other students were already to their beds. A glance at his fancy watch told him that it was nearing one o'clock in the morning and that he should retire to bed. Shrugging off his Quidditch cape, Draco bundled it about the guards and trudged up to his room.

"Get another letter?" Goyle asked as Draco entered the room, not bothering to be quiet. Goyle, Crabbe, Zabini, and a couple of his dorm-mates were all playing poker on the card table Goyle had lugged from home. Draco could see a heaping pile of coins in the center and turned away. Up until last year, gambling had been a horrible addiction. Gambling was something that Lucius did. Draco had fought his whole life to become the spitting image of his father; now he wanted nothing more than to disclaim the name Malfoy and take his place in the world as a normal John Doe. He didn't need to join this game.

"Yes," he said shortly, and climbed into his four poster, depositing the bundle at the foot of the bed. He jerked the hangings shut and clenched his eyes shut against the addictive clinking of the Galleons and Sickles. For a long time he sat there, wrapped in the horrible stench of his own feverish sweat. His father would like it this way—Draco would drown himself in misery given from his own body. With the horrible smell in his nostrils and the tempting sound of money in his ears, Draco tumbled into an unhealthy and fitful sleep.

*

It was cold, and damp, and dark, and every other thing that should not be accustomed with summer. Draco stood on feet that wept from being stood on for too long and stared at the wall dully. He did not know how he got to the dungeon and neither did he care. The house elves had probably done that, most likely on his father's bidding. Somehow, he had lost his shirt and was dressed in a pair of ordinary muggle jeans that were now more red than blue. His feet had socks on them—plain, ordinary socks that he supposed had once been white. Now they were grimy with slime, blood, and dirt. His pale hair clung to his forehead with what he hoped was sweat, but could not be sure. Dark lashes of pain ripped into his back. Somebody had whipped him.

But he couldn't remember any of it.

All he felt was pain, pain that was more complete than anything the Crucatius Curse could throw at him. And he knew who was behind all of this—Lucius had done it time and again for punishment. His head throbbed with a dull ache that would drive him mad, his legs shook with another ache, his back screamed for mercy. There was maybe one place just behind his right ear that didn't hurt. Draco's chest jerked as he tried to breathe deeply. His breath gave up in a gurgled choke because even that simple motion made his back burn more fiercely than before.

"Don't you remember anything, fool?" A voice, Lucius's, snapped out of the darkness about him. It echoed about him, trying to confuse Draco. As a child, Lucius had told him several times that the dungeons of Malfoy Manor did not exist. Now he wished with every pore of his body that the dungeons were still the fabled nightmares that Lucius talked about when he thought Narcissa wasn't listening.

"More than you think, Father," Draco sneered, moving his shoulders ever so slightly so that his wrists wouldn't have to take so much strain from the manacles. This shot spears of pain through his back, nearly blinding him with red, but Draco's voice did not waver. "How much did you beat me this time? Four lashes? Five? Or did you just use your wand—like the coward you are?"

He knew it was foolish to contest his father like this, but a rage so deep as Draco had never known was growing in his chest. To his surprise and outrage, his father only laughed at his valiant statements, a deep laugh that made Draco strain against his bonds in anger and draw more blood. He hurt so badly, but he wanted so terribly to punch back. Nobody moved until Draco's fit was gone and he hung by his chains, spent. Even in the darkness, his gray eyes burned with rage.

"Men, let the boy down. Narcissa will expect him in time for dinner."

Draco could do nothing as slimy hands reached out and touched him, throwing the pain away. A feeling of intense numbness swept him in and he saw black for a moment. When the world cleared, there were slimy hands on his bare shoulders, and his back was whole. Whoever it was that had healed him brushed a hand over his chest, washing him with cold, and reached for his neck…

Draco woke up gasping, clutching at his neck. Somebody was still trying to choke him—he could feel the phantom hands on his neck, strangling the life from him.

"Malfoy?" Zabini asked sleepily from his own bed as Draco struggled with the imaginary foe.

Zabini's voice was a beacon of light to Draco, a beacon of sanity. Immediately, the cold feeling was washed away and he discovered that he was sitting in his own bed at Hogwarts, surrounded in sheets that were damp with cold sweat. The phantom that was trying to choke him was gone, lost to his dreams. Somehow, he had torn his jersey off in his sleep—it was crumpled at the foot of his bed in what looked like several pieces. Draco stared at it, aghast, as he managed to croak out, "Go back to sleep, Zabini."

Zabini had already complied.

Blood—dirt—slimy—cold hands—blood—slimy—slimy, cold hands…

A shudder that left Draco gasping tore through him and rendered him weakened in its wake. He stared at his hands, his wrists, down to his socks, all of which gleamed whitely back at him. "Get a hold of yourself," he told himself aloud as his shoulders shook with fear. But he knew he wouldn't.

None of the Slytherin sixth-years saw Draco Malfoy stumble out of his dormitory with a dazed look on his face and a hobble in his step.

*

An early swim was what it took to start the day off on a good note, Ginny had decided early on in her fifth year at Hogwarts. One of the benefits of being a prefect was getting to use the prefect's bathroom and swimming pool. Every morning before the sun rose, she slipped from her dormitory and paced through the cold corridors of Hogwarts stealthily, never caught. Her movements were exactly like a cat's.

Or a snake's…

On the Sunday morning after the big Quidditch match, Ginny arrived earlier than most days because she wanted to scrub off the memories from the celebration in the Common Room. Harry's hands had touched her in a way she didn't want to be touched, making her feel repulsive and disgusting all over. The stupid prat had neither noticed, nor cared. He was Harry Bloody Potter, she thought, and it didn't matter what little Ginny Weasley—Ron's little sister, on top of that—thought about him. Ron Weasley was too busy gloating with a group of girls surrounding him to notice that his best friend was feeling his little sister up. Hermione had seen and had jerked Harry off of her and snapped, "Cut it out, Harry!" The only relief to Ginny now was Hermione's whispered apology after Harry had wandered off, confused.

"Ginny, he doesn't mean anything bad. He's drunk," she had whispered, gripping her hands fretfully.

"On what? We're not house elves. Butterbeer's not that toxic," Ginny had snapped, trying to shrug off the nauseous feeling his hands had left behind.

"Seamus was having his little joke. The butterbeer's got brandy in it," Hermione had said, and left.

Now Ginny slipped into the prefect's bathroom, having murmured the password ("Minty-Clean"). The prefects actually had separate bathing chambers through a door in the back, so the oversized bathtub was now used as a pool since the bathroom was coed. Ginny set one of the taps to thick bubbles that smelled faintly of flowers and another of the taps to gush out cool water that flowed dark purple. After a moment, she slipped her oversized robe off and climbed in, wearing a black shirt that clung to her form and a pair of black shorts that she had stolen from Percy.

Swimming laps had always soothed her in the past. When she was troubled, she either swam in the lake if she was at school or in the pond at home. During the winter, she had usually ran about the school to cool her nerves, but that held no candle to swimming them off. With a lot more to think about than most sixteen-year-old girls, Ginny treasured the simple things to relieve stress more than anything.

Now she kicked to her swimming with extra vigor, not even stopping when her muscles strained and she had difficulty breathing. Only when her vision turned red and threatened to drown her did she stop—and only then for a few moments to catch her breath. The day was Sunday; nobody would be looking for her for quite some time and everybody woke late on Sundays. In fact, the only one looking would be Colin Creevey—and he wasn't a prefect, so she wasn't worried.

Why can I never get the guys I like to notice me? Why do I always have to attract the ones I don't like? Ginny demanded furiously to nobody in the corner of her mind. First, it had been Neville that had harbored her in her third year. Last year, it had been a mixture of Ernie Macmillan and a boy named Justin Pratt. To add to the confusion, Harry was only a friend now—she'd gotten over that childish crush in her third year on Boxing Day.

"Three years, that's an awful long time to have a crush," Jamie Marks, a friend of Ginny's from her own year, had remarked. In the corners of her mind, Ginny saw the truth in this and realized that she probably would have been over the crush long before had it not been for her mother's influence. Molly Weasley had raised her children to believe that Harry was the light and salt of the earth.

And so, for her entire first year at Hogwarts, Ginny had hero-worshipped Harry the way Ron hero-worshipped Samson Parsnippy, the Chudley Cannons Keeper. In her second year, the affection towards Harry had been more of the sort of affliction one felt for somebody who has just rescued them. In her third year, as she watched Harry battle all sorts of dangers from dragons to Lord Voldemort (having met his former self, Ginny blatantly refused to call him "You-Know-Who") she had realized what the feelings were: she was not in love with Harry the person, but the concept of Harry. That had ended really quick.

Men are alike, Ginny decided while she turned around to start a new lap. None of them care about other people. In fact, all men are evil.

So wrapped in her thoughts was Ginny that she did not notice the creak of the door from the bathing cubicles opening.

"Well, well, well," somebody drawled to the far right of the pool. Ginny, caught off guard, gasped in a lungful of water. As humans cannot breathe water, this became increasingly difficult on Ginny's oxygen-starved lungs. Black crowded around the edges of her vision, threatening to send her into a great sense of nothingness. She did not feel the strong hands that grabbed her shoulders and hauled her out of the pool, scraping her across the side and onto flat, dry tiles. She was only barely aware of being rolled onto her side. Only when she coughed, gushing water onto the tiles, did the black start to recede. After a long moment while her body heaved the offending soapy water out of her system, she was able to think again. Then she got her first look at her savior.

Talk about evil men.

Draco Malfoy was crouched in front of her, clad only in blue silk boxers and looking neither self-conscious nor condescending. His face appeared almost naked without its sneer. Ginny even thought that he looked pale, although he allowed no more than a look of neutrality to pass across his finely chiseled features.

"Whatever were you doing, Weasley?" he asked, removing his hand from her shoulder. He did not stand up, however, so that left him in an awkward half-kneel, half-crouch that looked painful. He didn't seem to notice.

"Swimming," Ginny coughed weakly. She continued coughing until Draco pounded her back twice to help her let the water out. For a long moment, she just sat there, too weak to move.

"You are aware, however, that Gryffindors aren't perfect and therefore cannot breathe underwater?" Draco, despite his cruel words, did not look at her with a sneer—his eyes clearly held worry and shame that his thoughtless actions had brought her to this.

"As I'm sure you're aware that Slytherins don't always have to be mean and cruel," Ginny countered, exasperated at being shoved off as a Gryffindor. Her voice creaked like a teenage boy's as she talked. Draco Malfoy was high on her list of people to dislike, but she was willing to be civil on account of the fact that he had just saved her life.

"Touché," Draco said with an uncharacteristic smirk. Ginny smiled hesitantly. In the tense moment of silence that followed, Ginny noticed some spare clothing lying on the ground a few feet away. Draco had apparently taken off extremely expensive clothing to rescue her—all of that clothing was toppled about and half-drenched now. Somehow, Ginny was touched, but she said nothing.

Draco finally broke the silence by clearing his throat, finally seeming to notice that he was only in boxers. "I was, er, thinking of swimming, if you don't mind sharing the pool for awhile."

"No—go ahead."

Draco Malfoy, most evil of all men, was being nice to her, a Weasley. Wasn't there some sort of law against that? Their fathers hated each other with a passion, the children naturally followed in their parents' footsteps. Until he had startled her into nearly killing herself, Draco Malfoy had barely said a word to her—and certainly, he had never said a nice word to her at all. She had begun to believe that he, like his father, was just purely evil and therefore not to be messed with now. People around school had claimed that he had changed this last summer—were they right?

She watched numbly as he paced to the edge of the pool, testing the warmth with one foot before arching his back and diving in like a professional swimmer. He was only inches taller than she was, but he had a creepy thinness that gave him a skeletal look in the low light of the poolroom. When he had raised his arms for balance, she saw well defined muscles bunching around his shoulders and upper arms. Draco Malfoy definitely had the body form and the strength of a Seeker. She waited until his head and shoulders appeared above the surface of the water before she moved at all. Hesitantly, she clambered back into the pool, ignoring the fact that he was watching her.

"Why do you swim?" Draco asked as Ginny sank into the water and let it wrap her in warmth.

"To stay fit," Ginny lied before she experimented with a simple forward stroke and performed it cleanly. No physical damage from her near-death, apparently. If only her hands would stop shaking…

Draco eyed her with an expression she could not hope to read and ducked under the water. He reappeared and slicked his hair back, smiling maliciously now. "Why would you need to stay fit?" he demanded, eyeing her form. Ginny was about to hold his head under the water and give him a black eye or two when she noticed that he wasn't looking at her chest—he was staring at the water next to her. He was just doing this to annoy her, but he was being noble about it. She sighed and turned over to do a side-stroke.

"Why are you up so early?" she asked suddenly, changing her mind.

Draco's smile disappeared so quickly that she wasn't sure he had been smiling at all. "I don't want to talk about it," he said, his aura suddenly turned to one of forced pleasantry. Through the smile-grimace, she could see the pain in his eyes. Something had driven him from his sleep—something horrible.

"We're both mysterious people, aren't we?" Ginny rubbed both hands through her hair to tame it down and smiled hesitantly, trying to break the ice. "You won't tell me why you're down here and I won't tell you why I swim."

"We're mysterious, all right," Draco agreed guardedly. "We would be boring if we were not." He smiled back as hesitantly as she had.

Somehow, Ginny knew, she had made a new friend that day in the most unusual way possible. The funny thing was: Harry Potter, Draco's greatest schoolboy arch-rival, had driven her to it.

*

Draco Malfoy looked up from his latest History of Magic essay and sighed, rubbing his hand through his straw-thin pale blond hair. Clumps of it were sticking up from repeated motions of this action, and there were blue-black circles under his eyes against pale winter skin. The halting smile he had given Ginny Weasley was completely gone; there was nothing on his face now but a tired look. Even his eyes were blank of their usual hardness. People passing by could gauge one thing about him immediately: Draco Malfoy hadn't slept comfortably in a long time.

"Doing homework, Malfoy? That's not like you." Draco looked up to see exactly who he didn't want to talk to: the exasperating third year, Malcolm Baddock.

"Yeah, I got to be the leading contender for Head Boy by sleeping in class and spending all of my afternoons gambling away my father's money," Draco snapped, not in the mood to deal with Baddock at the present moment. In truth, yes, he had fallen asleep in a couple of classes in his second year and he had spent quite a few afternoons gambling. Baddock didn't need to know that about him, though.

To Draco's complete annoyance, Baddock sat down opposite him and opened a Potions textbook. "I wanted to talk about who's going to be captain next year."

"We are not giving the position of captain to you, so do not even try," Draco told him shortly and turned back to his essay, trying to signal that conversation was officially over.

Baddock either didn't get much human interaction or he was just stupid. "My father says your father won't let you play again since you lost to Gryffindor," he said very quietly.

"I lost to Gryffindor?" Draco could not believe this kid—he was bigger and taller than Baddock, but Baddock was still pursuing this subject. He longed to beat this—this child's head in and reduce the size a bit. "If you had blocked that shot by bloody Seamus Finnegan, we wouldn't have lost. We would have at least tied, so the fault is not entirely mine," Draco said, his blood boiling now. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of red hair and groaned. Great, now Harry Potter's sidekick was here to make his break worse.

"If you had caught the snitch, we would have beaten the crap out of Gryffindor for the first time in six years!" Baddock snapped back, his voice rising.

"Five."

"Whatever, five years! My father says you're not worthy of being—" Draco, tired of this conversation, used the quick reflexes he was born with and lunged across the table. His hands secured Baddock by the collar of his robes. Baddock paled as Draco jerked him to his feet and frog-marched him out of the library. Once they had passed an unsuspecting Madam Pince and had gone out into the corridor, Draco slammed Baddock none too gently against the wall, still holding him by his fancy robes.

"Listen to me, little boy. I've got three years and about ten pounds on you, not to mention at least a foot and a half of height," Draco hissed, murder in his eyes as he jerked Baddock's collar a couple of the times. "I am the Quidditch captain, whether you like it or not, and I will be captain next year. Furthermore, you will follow my leadership until a new captain is appointed. With all of the trouble you've been giving me, I will personally talk to Snape and be sure that you never get the position. Ever. You may think that Dumbledore doesn't have any power in this school, but he does and quite a bit of it. What your father demands will not matter. And if I go to Dumbledore with this, trust me, he will be on my side."

He didn't plan to go to Dumbledore—his father would never permit it—but the threat was enough to shut Baddock up for at least a month. Draco shoved the shorter boy against the wall again and stalked off, face flushed from anger. Baddock rubbed his neck apprehensively and tried to slink back into the library. He was knocked out of the way by somebody in a hurry and had to pick his pride from the ground once again, much to pleasure of any and every watching Gryffindor.

"Mal—Draco!"

Draco, halfway down the staircase, did not turn as somebody shouted his name. Please don't be Pansy, he complained in his head. I have had about enough of her as I can take for a century. Please, don't be—

"Draco, wait up, will you! Your legs are longer than mine."

No, the voice definitely wasn't Pansy's. It was not anybody from Quidditch, and it didn't sound like anybody's voice that Draco knew of. The voice was too light and melodious, a rather pretty voice. After years of dealing with other Slytherins, the girls' voices would grow to become deep and seductive, or high and annoying. The Slytherin Accent, as Draco tended to refer to it. He wagered that the person calling him was either a Ravenclaw who was curious about something or a Hufflepuff who was just stupid. When he turned, he saw neither of these possibilities.

Ginny Weasley was hurrying towards him.

"I just saw you hold that kid against the wall," she gasped. "What happened? Are you okay?"

Draco was caught off guard—Ginny was worried about him and not Baddock. He heard himself ask, "Baddock? I wish I'd done more than hold him against the wall." At Ginny's questioning look, he explained, "He's on the Quidditch team, and he wants to become captain, despite the fact that he's a third-year who has something up his—" He stopped, not wanting to curse in front of Ginny. "He was threatening to write to—write to my father and get me kicked off the Quidditch team."

"But you're the best captain Slytherin has ever seen!" Ginny burst out. Seeming to realize what she said, she clapped both hands over her mouth and stared at him, wide-eyed.

Draco paused and turned to her, a puzzled look on his face. "Weasley—"

"Ginny. There are so many Weasleys that if you called me that, you might get an answer from any number of my brothers." Ginny uncovered her mouth so she could talk.

"Okay, then, Ginny—you realize that you're a Gyffindor, don't you?" Ginny gave him an annoyed look, but he didn't back down from his point. "Isn't there some sort of Code of Ethics in the Gryffindor Common Room that says 'Don't praise the Slytherin Quidditch Captain' or something?"

"Yeah, it's right next to 'Thou shalt worship Harry Potter.' You can see I don't do that either. I'm not the typical Gryffindor."

"Really? Then why do I seem to recall…" Draco trailed off with a mischievous grin on his face, the first happy look in two days. Grinning even wider, he flung out both arms and sang to the world, "His eyes are as green as a fresh-pickled toad—oomph!" He held his stomach where Ginny socked him and laughed in great wheezing gasps.

But Ginny didn't find this funny at all; her eyes spoke murder as she glared at Draco Malfoy with a hatred he had not seen except in the deepest remnants of his father's eyes. He only watched in shock as she stormed off, ears as red as her hair. "Okay, I just screwed something up," he muttered to nobody in particular and shook his head. Nobody could understand girls, he was sure, not even themselves.

Or Gryffindors, for that matter.

*

Draco had once again returned to his essay when he felt another shadow above him. "Bug off, Baddock, I'm tired of listening to your whining," he grumbled, thinking that maybe Baddock would go away if he didn't look up.

"Malfoy," a voice much deeper than Baddock's snapped. "I want a word."

To his everlasting disgust, Draco looked up to see the insufferable Ron Weasley standing there, backed by brain-whiz Hermione Granger. There was no love lost between Weasley and Draco—as a matter of fact, the two hated each other with a schoolboy grudge gone too far. Granger was glaring daggers at him as well, as if that should do anything to wear down his resolve. "If this is about Ginny, then I really don't want to talk to either of you about it," he snapped, growing irritated. "I just want to finish my essay."

"I don't know why you even talked to Ginny in the first place," Granger commented, eyes narrowing into slits. Draco considered giving the two of them a rude signal for a long moment, but decided against it and started to return to his essay.

There was maybe one thing that Draco would give Weasley—he was strong. Much as Draco had grabbed Baddock's collar earlier, Weasley hauled Draco his feet and pulled him from the library. Draco had enough dignity to throw him off and stand there, poised angrily like a dangerous snake. Weasley looked equally angry, his face red as he faced his 'greatest enemy.' "What did you say to her that upset her so much?" he demanded of Draco.

"I told you that I'm not going to talk to you about it. If Ginny has a problem with me, then let her talk to me about it." Draco turned on his heel and started to go back into the library, but Weasley's next words stopped him.

"You're just like your father, Malfoy. Just like him, you know that?" Weasley bounced on his toes, really warming up for his next insult and not realizing that he had hit a nerve. "You're both insufferable, ugly, stupid, sadistic pigs. You're destined to turn out no good, like your good-for-nothing father."

"Don't," and Draco spun around with a wild look on his flushed face, "ever compare me to my father again, Weasley." His voice was full of quiet venom and his face held nothing but barely-contained anger. "I am twice the man he will ever be."

And he spun around and walked off, his shoulders drawn up close to his ears.

Ron watched him go like a predator who only watches as the prey merely walks off. "Stupid git," he snapped at Draco's retreating back. Draco gave no response.

*

Ginny was tired of it all, tired of being interrogated by Ron and Harry and Hermione, tired of playing the good child, and tired of keeping her feelings locked up. The three sixth years could be quite bothersome if they put their minds to accomplishing something. Right now, they had one goal: draw all of the information out of Ginny and make her break.

Just her luck that she had followed Draco in broad daylight, especially from the library. Hermione, always the diligent studious one, had seen and had been nosy enough to follow. She'd seen Ginny blow up at Draco and she was convinced it was entirely Draco's fault. Never mind that Ginny had insisted that she could take care of herself, Hermione had gone to Ron and Harry. Now all three were giving her looks that varied between fathering anxiety to pity to fury.

"What exactly did he say to you?" Harry asked concernedly, patting her hand. Ginny recoiled from him and covered this by rolling her eyes at all of them. "You can tell us—we're doing this for your own sake."

You wouldn't be so concerned if Draco were somebody else. You'd let me handle this by myself if I chose to befriend somebody else. But, nooo. You think that Draco's the ringleader here. If Draco weren't a supposed follower of Lord Voldemort, you wouldn't be doing this to me. Deep in her mind, Ginny had suspicions of this, but now was not the time to voice them.

Ron leaned over her, always the overprotective brother. "Why won't you tell us? This is Malfoy. Draco Malfoy, creep of all evilness. You're allowed to make mistakes, we can forgive you for that. Just 'fess up."

"I'm proud to say I've slapped him," Hermione commented from where she was perched over yet another book. Ginny had tried sending her thoughts via the female link for the past twenty minutes. Now she had given and figured that Hermione must be some sort of paranormal female, above reading the thoughts of her fellow peers.

No wonder you people are all single. You're bothersome, annoying gits! Stop prying into my life and get your own, the rebellious side of Ginny snapped at them. The placid side leaned back and rolled her eyes, tired of the whole affair. She was only mutely annoyed at Draco now—he didn't know that discussion of Harry Potter was a particularly tender spot. She wanted to go find him and apologize, hoping he was once again in the library. For some reason, friendship with the blond Slytherin appealed to her more than she could hope to think.

Colin Creevey entered the Common Room just then and stared to head up to his room with a fistful of freshly developed prints. Noticing the pleading look on Ginny's face, however, he strode over immediately and grabbed her hand. "Ginny! Just the person I was looking for! I need your help with something." Ron tossed his hands up in disgust as Ginny practically leapt from her chair and danced off with Colin.

Ginny thought she heard him mutter, "Well, at least he's better than Malfoy."

Colin hauled her out of the Common Room and stopped just in front of the portrait of the Fat Lady. "Evening," he murmured to the back of the portrait, always polite, before rounding on Ginny. "What was going on in there? You looked like you were going to kill something!"

"Ron's being the overprotective pig-brother we all know him to be," Ginny sighed, leaning weakly against the passage wall. "They're worried about me because I talked to Malfoy today. I saw him holding some kid against the wall and asked what the problem was. Nothing serious." Colin nodded—he had never had much trouble with Malfoy, so Ginny knew that he wouldn't give the typical Gryffindor reaction to mention of him. "Thank you for rescuing me! I owe you one."

Colin's dark eyes glimmered with silent humor as he nodded. "Well, you can help me right now, then." Over the years, he had morphed from the scrawny, pale boy to a much taller, darker young man with a deep, husky voice that would set any girl on edge. Because he talked so little around people that were not Harry or Ginny, not many girls knew this about him. Ginny at one point might have been interested in dating Colin, but they were too good of friends for that. Besides, she didn't like brown hair that much.

"Sure, what's the problem?" As much as she would have liked to go talk to Draco and maybe explain her actions should that be needed, she decided that could wait if Colin needed help.

"Well, there's this girl I want to ask to come with me to the last Hogsmeade trip…" Colin began nervously.

Ginny smiled. This, she could help with.

*

Draco leaned his head forward, trying to ignore the fact that his back was screaming at him in two thousand languages, screaming the same meaning in each.

Pain. Pain. Pain. Ouch, that hurts.

Lances of fire mounted his skin, clawing into him and drawing thick rivers of red blood tainted with poison. He was a Malfoy; the poison came with the pain that was already there. Being poisonous was part of the heritage.

"Feeling better now, son? Perhaps I should let you have another lash. You do not seem to be sobbing like the baby you are." Lucius stood in front of him, a pale head that rose from a black-eschewed form. He walked across the packed dirt and stood a foot away from his son so that it appeared like Draco was looking into an extremely evil mirror. Draco screwed his eyes shut and turned his head away so that he would not have to look at his filth of a father. "My own son, a Malfoy, cowering! Men, is this not amusing to you?" He turned around with his hands up in the air like some sadistic game-show host. Laughter ensued.. As soon as the laughter stopped, Lucius whirled on his son once again. "You're a coward, unfit to be my son."

"I'd rather die than be your son!" Draco howled, rage exploding from him in the form of a beast. He strained against the chains at his wrists and ankles, but he must have been wounded deeper than he thought. All that his efforts did was knock him forward clumsily. All around him, laughter, cruel and insidious, echoed. Even Lucius, who normally kept an ice-chilled cover, laughed coldly, spitting at Draco's upturned and raw back.

"We can arrange that," he whispered softly to Draco, pulling out his wand and pointing it between the boy's eyes. "Say the words and I'll do it."

Kneeling on the dirt, wet with his own blood and sweat, Draco looked up defiantly. "One day, I'll fight you, Father," he promised quietly as the laughter stopped. "I'll fight you and I'll kill you!" He leaped forward again, but again, he fell. "I'll bring real honor to the Malfoy name. I'll wash out memories of the cowards like you and the Malfoy line will have something to be proud of again."

Lucius sneered openly into his face. "Whip him again."

Another streak of pain into the fiery mass, another scar to his growing collection. Draco only twitched as the blow was delivered, his eyes never leaving Lucius's face. "You can beat me all you want, Father. I won't remember when I'm done with it. You'll just perform a spell to make the memories go away and I'll cling to them in dreams. Does it matter?"

"You'll have the scars. You'll always have the scars."

"And you'll have the memories," Draco swore.

*

Draco woke up sweating, his head pounding. He had fallen asleep on the couch in the Common Room, where he had been reading a book A glance at his watch (tailored in Switzerland, specially made for him) told him it was too early to be awake, and too late to go back to sleep. A long night's sleep had been achieved, but Draco felt as though he hadn't slept at all. In fact, he was quite sure that the entire Wizard Symphony percussion section was playing the timpani beneath his skull. With a sigh, he trudged up to his dormitory and pulled a fresh change of robes out of his trunk, rubbing at his sore neck. A whispered spell relieved the pain in his head.

He was not surprised to find Ginny swimming when he entered the bathroom. She did not hear him come in and did not even notice him as she did lap after feverish lap. For a long time, he just stood there, staring at her surrounded by a pillow churning water. He wanted to say something to her, but he knew he shouldn't. The last time he had randomly said something while she was swimming, he had ended up stripping to his boxers and jumping in to rescue her. Sighing with resignation, he went back into the bathing cubicles and let the hot water run all over his shoulders and the scars he knew were there.

When he emerged from the bathing cubicles ten minutes later, feeling refreshed, Ginny was sitting at the edge of the pool staring intensely into the depths. "Oh!" she cried, seeing him. "I didn't see you come in."

"You were swimming. I thought it best not to disturb you," Draco said cordially, and made a beeline for the door. The remnants of the pride his father had shattered were telling him to get out of there—she was a Gryffindor and therefore hands-off material. Don't stop me, don't say anything, he pleaded in his head.

Ginny either didn't read minds or was just being blatantly defiant, because she stood up and stopped him with one quelling look. "Are you a Death Eater?"

Draco, expecting her to start apologizing for hitting him or something equally strange, was caught off guard. "What?" he asked dumbly.

"You heard me: are you a Death Eater?" He wished she would look away or something, but true to her Gryffindor nature, she stared fixedly at him. "Harry thinks that you're the—"

"Potter thinks. That's funny," Draco said shortly. Ginny had stumbled onto a particularly touchy subject that he didn't feel like discussing with anybody he knew, much less her.

"Are you?" Ginny plowed on. Her fists were closed and shaking at her side. Apparently, this moment wasn't any easier for than it was for him. "Seriously, Draco, are you a Death Eater? I need to know." Draco struggled to look away from her face so he could deliver the horrible news, but he saw the pleading look in her eyes. He opened his mouth to answer.

"Draco the Death Eater. Sounds like a children's book," a new voice told from the darkness of the shadows. Harry Potter, who was not a prefect and had obviously followed Ginny into the bathroom (judging from the murderous expression on her face, she hadn't known that he had), emerged, looking like the child-hero he was praised to be. Draco shut his mouth with a resounding noise. Harry seemed to take this as a drama cue, and glared at him. "A rather grim children's story that will end in lots of pain. Watch it, Malfoy, I'm on to you."

"On to me, are you?" Draco forced an air of pleasantness, even though Ginny could see his fingernails digging into his palms. The healing scabs were open and blood was starting to trickle into his hands. "Perfect Potter's on to little old Malfoy, is he now?"

Potter glared and Draco found himself suddenly apathetic to the whole mess. He opened his mouth to tell Potter to screw off, but what came out instead was: "Is it bad enough that you have to beat me to the Snitch every time and humiliate me in front of the whole school? Is it bad enough that you're perfect and I'm a horrible foul little monster? Can't you just leave me alone and stick your head in a toilet somewhere?"

"It's my job to seek out the bad guys, Malfoy. That means you." Potter glared at him as he stalked about the pool and planted himself next to Ginny. He wrapped a protective arm around her wet shoulders. She looked away, but Draco could see the furious dislike on her face; whether it was for him or Potter, Draco had no way of telling. Suddenly, it dawned on him.

"Oh, I see," he said quite suddenly. "Potter's still playing his little game of coppers and robbers." Draco was angry now, angrier at Harry Potter than he had ever been, although he could not hope to explain the irrational feelings. "Potter's after Malfoy the Bad Guy. Malfoy, the son of Voldemort's top henchman." Draco was good at containing his anger—numerous trips to the dungeons over the summer had trained him better than any tutor or governess could—but right now he just did not want to contain it. He wanted to beat Potter's face in worse than he ever had before. Instead he danced about in a sinister "bad guy" fashion, holding his hands up like a despicable muggle Frankenstein monster. "Potter the saint is protecting 'his girl' from big bad Malfoy."

Now Ginny was glaring balefully at him.

"Perhaps Potter is blinder than even I thought he was," Draco finished, making eye contact with her. In the brief exchange, Draco said more than he could have ever said aloud. Ginny discreetly twisted out of Potter's grip and sat at the edge of the pool, once again staring into the depths.

"I've always hated you, Malfoy," Potter swore, now looking Draco in the eye. Neither boy shied away. "People are saying you've changed. They say that you're different, nicer even. I don't believe one word of any of it. To me, you'll always be the…" Potter paused to let his words sink in, but Draco jumped on the opportunity.

"Quick, Potter, don't strain your mind," he drawled, hiding the irritated note in his voice. "Exams are next week. You'll need all of that thick wit you were born with to pass those." Draco felt like he was leading a child around with a bit of candy. He was bored with this game; he just wished that he could go on and ignore Potter and his little friends in peace. They were so intent on fighting the dark forces that they missed what was right in front of their eyes. "Now get out of here before I pull rank and take ten points from Gryffindor. You're not a prefect, after all." From the pocket of his black trousers, he pulled a Prefect's badge out and waved it at Potter.

"Ginny, come on," Potter said disgustedly, still glaring at him while he started to tug her towards the door.

"You go on. I still have to change into my robes and rinse off." Potter still did not notice that Ginny was glaring at him as she wrangled herself from his grasp. He only sighed and let himself out. Draco started to follow, but he was foolish enough to look at Ginny on his way out.

Ginny moved so that she was in front of him, dripping onto the tile and not seeming to care. "Look, I'm sorry I hit you yesterday—"

"Don't apologize. I deserved it. No wonder you hit me, either. If I'd had a crush on that guy, I'd be hanging myself from the Astronomy Tower." Draco walked over to the sink, glared at the mermaid (who only giggled and waved her tail fin back at him), and plucked up a towel, which he tossed to Ginny. Ginny caught it and started to rub her hair dry. "Is it just me or did Potter get an insufferably huge head over the school year? Whoever thought somebody could be so dislikable?"

"I did. At least he didn't try to feel you up." Ginny's voice was dark as she wrapped the towel around her hair and pawed through the pile of clothing she had brought with her.

"He felt you up?"

"Yeah. He was drunk. Seamus Finnegan put brandy in the butterbeer at our celebration party for winning the Quidditch game." Ginny picked up the pleated gray skirt (probably secondhand) and light gray shirt and started to head towards the bathing cubicles. "It's a side-effect of saving the world—he thinks he can have any girl he wants." She twitched her shoulder at Draco and disappeared into the cubicles. Draco, knowing how long his mother took in the shower, resolved not to wait and went to get breakfast before putting in an extra hour of studying for his Transfigurations exam while the rest of the school woke. If he focused on studying, he could almost get the picture of Potter feeling Ginny up out of his head. He went to his first class thoroughly disgusted.

*

Draco saw no more of Ginny for the rest of the week. His nightmarish memories kept him pinned to the sheets until it was time to get up for breakfast. Neither he nor Ginny dared approach each other in the hallways between classes. This didn't bother Draco too much; he had other things on his mind. When he wasn't clamoring through a textbook, he was planning out new routines for the next Quidditch season. On Friday afternoon, he headed down to the dungeons with the rest of his classmates, but broke off from the group and headed to Professor Snape's classroom.

Luckily, the professor was in there, brewing an anti-cheating potion and looked foul-tempered about something. However, Draco Malfoy was one of the people that did not get perpetual glares from Professor Snape, so he was not worried about this as he walked in.

"Afternoon, Professor," Draco said after he had knocked on the door and entered to Snape's annoyed "Come in, come in" call.

"Ah, my Quidditch captain. What brings you here? Shouldn't you be in the library studying?" Snape asked, straightening. He never called Draco by his name when Draco came to see him about something for Quidditch. Draco suspected that it was because his name was Malfoy. Lucius had made it plain that Snapes and Malfoys were never supposed to get along.

" had some business to clear up with you before we left for the summer. Since you've got finals next week, I thought now might be the best time. How well do you know Malcolm Baddock?" Draco praised all of the training he had received as a child that made him sound like an adult right now.

"He's the most exceptional Keeper Slytherin's seen in quite some time," Snape said guardedly.

"And he knows it." Draco paused. "He's been bothering me quite a bit lately about becoming captain and being quite forceful about it. I think he's trying to get me thrown from the team."

Snape started laughing, a cold laugh that chilled Draco. "I figured you would be down to see me about this. Mr. Baddock was just in here yesterday, complaining about your inability to catch the snitch."

"So he's going to the teachers about it, now? He was threatening me with some very indiscreet and pretty hateful topics." Draco paused, unsure of how to word his next question.

"So you want to know if you can scare him a bit, make him loosen a little?" Snape asked, watching his best student's face. "You're coming to me for permission? Something's changed you, Mr. Malfoy."

Draco started and nodded. "In fact," Snape continued, "a year ago, you would have beaten Mr. Baddock into the ground without permission." Draco nodded again. Snape paused for a long moment, searching his pale face and seeming to find what he was looking for. He nodded. "And your seventeenth birthday in a few weeks, you have a very big summer ahead of you, don't you?" I'm going to stop jumping any moment now, Draco swore to himself as he jumped. "You're not looking forward to this summer at all, are you?"

"No, sir."

"I shall speak to Professor Dumbledore about this. He knows everything as well as I do. You might want to schedule an appointment with him to discuss this summer's events, yes? The meeting will of course be classified information." Professor Snape lurched forward one step and stared at his top student. "You're going to make a fine Head Boy. It's time Slytherin had one. And—er, yes, you may rough Baddock over a little. Make him suffer the pains of Quidditch."

"Thank you, sir."

Feeling jumpier than he had been when he entered, Draco saw himself to the door and raced away from the dungeon to the library, where solace could be found. He didn't want to talk to Snape about this summer and he certainly didn't want to talk to Dumbledore about it. He was a Slytherin, wasn't he? Didn't he have some sort of pride?

He sighed as he opened his Potions text book and stared at the page. Strengthening Potion. People needed strengthening potion to help them out with difficult situations. Maybe, just maybe, he might need help about this summer. Unbidden, he thought of telling Ginny about what he was expected to do, but brushed that thought away quickly. Part of his not wanting to tell Ginny was Slytherin pride, the rest was just not wanting to deface something that hadn't been touched by the evil he had been raised into. Ginny Weasley had a good life—she didn't need bumbling Draco Malfoy to ruin it. Perhaps it was best that he give up his pride and go to Dumbledore. As much as he hated to admit it, Draco Malfoy could not do this alone.

He still didn't want to think about this summer.