A/N:  Ok, Ok, I agree, the tear was a *bit* OOC.  But hey, that's why they call it fanfiction, right?  *Snort*  This is incredibly short, I'm sorry.  But I'm currently afflicted with really bad writer's block.  Religious people, be warned, for in this chapter Tom mocks God.  And he gets a little kinky with Gin *winkwink*.  Anyway, here's the next chappie.  I think I know where I'm going to lead this story . . .

DISCLAIMER: Harry Potter and all related characters and situations are the property of JK Rowling, Warner Bros Studios, and various other third parties unmentioned here.  I only own the plot.

Acceptance came to Draco in many stages.

The first stage was shock.  Draco was shocked when he saw the look Ginny bestowed upon Voldemort.  Not only shock that she could love a seventy-year-old dark wizard, but shock that she wasn't enamored to himself.  He was shocked that all the weeks they had spent together, snogging each other senseless, and even just talking, appeared to have meant nothing.  All the things he had told her, how he opened up to her, they were just tossed away when she saw him.

After the initial shock wore away, there came depression.  How could she do that to him?  How could she?  She was his, and his only, his precious Ginger.  How could she just shove his love to the side like that?  Just like it was nothing?  And instead of him, she turned to Voldemort.  Voldemort!  Draco's love for Ginny was pure, didn't she see that?  All the Dark Lord wanted her for was temporary amusement!

Draco stayed in gloomy-mode for a few more moments.  Then came the next stage of acceptance:  anger.

He inhaled deeply, attempting to prevent himself from screaming out in rage.  What right did she have?  The fucking tart, she was just using him!  She wasn't anything special; she was just a little whore, willing to use her body any way she could to get what she wanted.

Eyes flashing, Draco approached the old oak desk that was settled in the corner, and grabbed the first thing that came across his path of vision:  a small porcelain figurine of Wronski, flying on his broomstick.  It was an original, and the insignia of the Medici family, the greatest craftsmen in the world, was scrawled across the base.  A priceless original, one that had cost Narcissa Malfoy thousands of galleons, and even more in promises and favors, to get as a Christmas present for her only son.

It smashed against his bedroom wall, miniscule shards streaming down like a waterfall.  It created a nice little mess that Draco would be sure the House-Elves would take care of.  Well, once he left the room.  No servant was stupid enough to intrude upon a Malfoy when they were in a temper.

He stalked up and down, fists clenching and unclenching.  He took a few more deep breaths.  The adrenaline that came with his anger always played havoc with his mind, and he needed a few moments to cool down, so he could think.

He sat roughly on the smooth bedspread, streaming out under him like a soft copper ocean.  It glinted merrily up at him, and he scowled in return.  He looked around his room, at the red walls and copper and gold furnishings.  He had chosen to stay in this one over the holidays because it gave him an odd oriental vibe.  Now, however, he decided it looked incredibly too Gryffindor.  I have got to move to a room with different colors, he thought.

He placed his elbows on his knees, and cupped his face with his hands.  He rubbed his eyes, hard, and tried to clear his head.

What to do with her? He asked himself.  For surely something had to be done.  She had, after all, tricked and used a Malfoy.  Draco Malfoy, no less.  And angering Draco Malfoy was about as safe as sleeping in a nest of lethifolds.

He stood back up, determined.  He reached in his pocket and elegantly withdrew his wand, tracing the shaft with his finger.  He decided he needed some time to practice the curses dear old dad had taught him over the summer.  And what better target indeed than one who is alive?

That ghastly flaming hair should make her easier to hit.

Besides, if he couldn't have her, he would damn well make sure no one else could.

*        *          *          *          *          *

She was still in his study, draped across the high backed chair they had been sharing a few hours ago.  She was watching him with half-lidded eyes, strangely content to just sit there and be.  It was a strange feeling, and seemed to remind her of lazy summers long past, times before Hogwarts when the only things to worry about were if it was going to rain that day, and the only thing she missed was Mum's Christmas cookies, which she wouldn't get until December.

He was sitting at a desk, carefully going through papers and sorting them into different piles.  Lists of possible initiates, that was what he had said.  Very important, as they would need to build up their forces for the war that was coming.

War was eminent, that was positive.  Weak though Fudge may be, Tom knew he would never surrender the Ministry outright.  As far as Tom was concerned, once they had the Ministry they would be able to take on all of wizarding Britain.  After the desolate island was decontaminated of the muggle and mudblood scum, he would spread like a virus, pouring into France and Germany, conquering every country as he went along. 

Tom remembered something briefly from the Sunday school classes he had taken while he was at the orphanage.  The second coming, was that it?  It was with that silly little God those muggles believed in.  Or was it his son, Jesus?  Tom shook his head.  It wasn't important.  But he remembered the great personage separating those who were worthy from those who weren't.

He smirked.  He would play Jesus to those mudbloods.  He would unleash his vengeance upon the earth, and he would purge the soil of those unworthy non-magic peoples.  He would start with the muggles, and then filter out the mudbloods from the rest of the society.  He scowled; they did not deserve to be called witches or wizards.  They smeared dirt upon the name.  He was here to reclaim the ancient respect it had once purveyed.

He was here to bring back the honor.

Tom raised his eyes to look at Ginny, who was still sitting in the chair, staring at him.  She smiled a cat-like smile, seductive in its innocence.

He smiled, and raised himself from the desk.  He arched his back, stretching his newly restored teenage muscles, which ached.  He strolled over to the chair, and sat on the arm of it.

"I think I can take a break.  Is there anything you would like, m'dear?  You know I could give you anything."

She looked up at him, eyes sparked with mischief.  "Anything?"

His eyes narrowed, reflecting her dark playfulness.  "I could give you the world if you only asked nicely," he teased.

"I don't want the world." She stated, bluntly.  "I want you."

He grinned, and wrapped his arms around her, drawing her mouth towards his.  Ginny winced in pain, slightly, because she had never been kissed so harshly.  His mouth demanded satisfaction, he ripped it out of her, and she willingly obliged.  God, she never knew how it could hurt . . . but make her so incredibly aroused at the same time.

God, Ginny, never knew you were kinky, did you? She thought.  It was the last coherent thing that played in her mind for quite a while.

She inhaled deeply, breathing in the scent that was wrapped around her.  He smelt wild, like ginger, and his kisses tasted of cinnamon.  It reminded her of a muggle candy she had once tried . . .  an atomic fireball, that's what it was.  It had the same burning sensation as if she had tried to eat one of the logs off the fire.  But this felt so good.

They separated briefly, and she leaned forward and whispered in his ear.

"I've been saving myself for you,"

He pulled back, and looked into her eyes, slightly shocked, and clearly amused.  "For me?  Thank you," he grinned, and swept her into his arms.  He walked across the study and kicked open the door that led to the adjoining bedroom, Ginny giggling gleefully the whole way.