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Puppeteer of Fate by Clorinda
Puppeteer of Fate by Clorinda

Puppeteer of Fate

By Clorinda

The Carrows, not Headmaster Snape are ruling Hogwarts, and as the DA play with guerrilla warfare, Draco and Ginny are trapped in a strange waltz of good and evil— and the undefined forces that lie in between. Defying truth and gravity isn't as impossible as it sounds.

"Young people would prefer to die on their feet than to live on their knees."

Rage, Wilbur Smith


At the time, hiding out in a closet from Alecto Carrow had seemed like a very good idea. Squashed between prickly brooms and sitting on an upturned pail, it had seemed to be a safe and secure hole for Ginny Weasley. At least under the circumstances.

She had been assigned to set off the Dungbomb under Carrow's chair in her already foul Muggle Studies class, and tired of having her head stuffed full of the excretory product of certain subspecies of wizards who were a little slow to crawl up the evolutionary ladder— she had basically begged for the job.

Now, after being chased out of the classroom with painful hexes (prime suspect because of the Jelly Legs Jinx fired in the last class), threats, faces, and obscenities— she still didn't regret it. With the adrenaline rush yet to ebb away, she was literally trembling in the broom cupboard — and then there were footsteps approaching — all of a sudden, the door was yanked open.

Ginny uttered a startled shriek and nearly fell out, grabbing the edge of the door in time.

"Well, well, well—" a very familiar voice drawled. "Just what do we have here?"

Her head jerked up and she was staring into the murky eyes of the one Slytherin seventh-year she did all she could to avoid. In a flash, she was on her feet, out of the cupboard, and her wand in her hand.

"Back off," she snarled.

An eyebrow arched. "Magic in the corridors, Weasley? Naughty-naughty; I'm a Prefect you know…"

"Like that changes what species of slug you are— you heard me, Parkinson, back off or I'll hex you—"

The fire burning angrily in Ginny's eyes might have got the message across to Pansy Parkinson, whose smirk never faltered, but all the same, she produced her wand. "I'll blast you apart first," she threatened.

"Try me—" The macho talk is wearing thin, she thought, but thank Merlin for Non-Verbal Spells. She jabbed her wand at Pansy — incendio! — and the Slytherin shrieked as the hem of her robes caught fire.

"WEASLEY!"

But no one heard her— Ginny had taken off full-tilt down the corridor, curses bouncing off her heels. She even didn't stop to look back if the fire had been put out, but raced up the stairs and didn't stop until she found the seventh floor and pacing desperately up and down in front of the wall— threw herself into the Room of Requirement and locked it. She collapsed against the door, clutching the stitch in her side.

Staring blankly at the portrait of Ariana Dumbledore, she wondered briefly if she should sneak down to the upper floor of the Hog's Head. She decided against it almost at once; there was no guarantee who could be there just then, and she'd faced worse than Slytherin prefects and the Carrows (in the plural) chasing her, ranging for revenge … alright, perhaps she was stretching the truth in her own head, but she'd steeled herself for worse … she thought of Harry going off on his quest for a revenge that she knew almost nothing about, and shook herself, pushing herself up to her feet.

There was no way she could stay in the Room of Requirement all day; she didn't intend on missing her Ancient Runes and the opportunity to pass on the message that she had succeeded and was alive— to some extent.


Pansy Parkinson never bothered to go all the way up to the seventh floor; rather, she raged and ranted and fumed all the way to the Prefect's bathroom, hissed at Moaning Myrtle sitting at the edge of the bath, and spent her time adjusting her hair and finely applied make-up in one of the cubicles, and then sauntered back into her History of Magic class. She slipped back into her seat, surrounded her girl friends.

Daphne Greengrass jogged her elbow. "Where've you been?" she whispered, one eye on Professor Binns who seemed utterly oblivious to the existence of his class. Pansy's face stretched into a gloating smirk.

"Wouldn't you like to guess which one of Dumbledore's Army I caught?"

There was a shuffle of movement and several Slytherins twisted in their seats to hear. Pansy held her breath, not looking at any of them, lapping up the attention and suspense she thought she was effectively creating.

"Ginny—"

Already eyebrows were shooting up. The name was familiar, but unplacable.

"—Weasley. I caught her cowering in a broom closet, and set her robes on fire."

"Out in the corridor?" asked Millicent Bulstrode amazed. She was a heavy girl, hair brushed tightly back from her forehead and she intended to try out for the Beater's place in the Quidditch team. Her eyebrows had arched so high that they almost disappeared into her drawn-back hairline.

"Oh yes," purred Pansy. "I swear Filch almost saw me … saw him turning around the corner … swear I heard something like: thanks … yeah, that Squib needs all the help he can get; I'm just obliging." Then she noticed it.

Her lips curved into a dangerous pout.

"Draco—?"

"Hn?" His back was still firmly turned towards her.

"You don't like listening to me? You don't like baiting scum— or are you too hoity-toity for it?"

"Not sure, Pansy," returned the dangerously soft voice. "I like listening, all right, to stories about baiting scum. But yours is a little too tall for me … escapes my comprehension, you know…"

Her face twisted into a vicious scowl, but he was bent over his desk now, scribbling furiously over a sheet of parchment, and the other girls were staring at her, looking like they were trying to suppress snickers. Pansy felt her face go red. She tossed her hair in a grab at imperialism, and huffed, "A lot of things do, Draco…"

— But it came a minute too late.


Ginny somehow made it to her Ancient Runes class, trying to look as small as possible as she navigated her way through the castle, peering around corners to make sure there was no one lying in wait. She was right across the corridor from the door of the classroom, through which students were filing in and banging closed after them. She was one of the last to reach it — no hope of dissolving into the crowd — but as she lunged for the doorknob, feeling it twist in her grasp — someone screeched from behind her:

"YOU LITTLE WEASEL !"

She was inside the room like shot, the door exploding as it slammed closed behind her.

"Miss Weasley," drawled another familiarly tight-strung voice. "I admit only young witches and wizards into my class, not Neanderthal beasts that missed drowning in a bog somewhere by chance."

No one in the class laughed.

Ginny gulped, and ducked her head, trying to look contrite. Professor Drine swept past the rows of desk, reaching Ginny in a few swift strides, forcing her chin up until she was forced to stare into those crackling blue eyes embedded in the old crone's face. It was impossible to hold that stare, but Ginny tried.

Drine's biting sarcasm was not as amusing as Professor McGonagall's, and neither was it as venomous as Snape's. All the same, there was a menacing quality to it that could shrivel your flesh beneath your skin. "Dare I ask what you mean, disrupting my class like this? You, I am sure, have little interest in your own education—" a flashing reference to Ginny's recent less-than-scholarly run-ins with the Headmaster "but I intend on keeping my job, and to do that I must force some rice grain of knowledge into the hole-ridden skulls of—"

A furious hammering on the door.

Drine snatched her hand away, hissing through her clenched teeth. For an old woman, she moved surprisingly fast and flung open the door. The short, stubby figure of Alecto Carrow stood there, wheezing up into Drine's face. A chill of fear danced down Ginny's spine.

"'Scuse me, Doris—" began Carrow in an out-of-breath falsely sweet, voice. "I need to—"

"Check when the two of us were ever on a first-name basis?" supplied Drine helpfully.

"No — I want — want — to — bo-bor—row—"

"A How to Speak English Fluently guide book?"

Someone sniggered.

Drine whipped around.

All sounds muted themselves. Ginny, hidden by the door, breathed a terse sigh of hope.

"Who was that?" demanded Drine. "Who finds this discourse so very amusing?"

No answer. Everyone was staring at the blackboard with stony faces. To own up before Drine was enough to ensure horrible consequences, but with a Carrow watching— well, the student who made the mistake of assuming honesty was the best policy would never been seen in Hogwarts again.

"Yes, that's what all you creatures are: cowardly, dishonest liars." With a contemptuous snort, Drine returned her full attention to Carrow. "I do believe you were leaving— good day." The door exploded again into sound as it crashed into its frame. "Thank you for rendering your decorative services, Miss Weasley, but I assure you, I do not need another wallflower ornament in my classroom. You will find your seat at the bottom of your cesspool where you left it."


"Here comes the heroine!" someone yelled, and the Gryffindor common room burst into cheers as the Fat Lady's portrait swung aside, and Neville Longbottom climbed in, Ginny on his heels. Students swarmed forward to congratulate her, thump her on the back, and shake her hand so hard that it was almost wrung off. Her protests and pleas for modesty were reduced to nothing— it was still early in the year, and the fact that she had escaped one of the Inquisitorial Squad and Alecto Carrow (twice) seemed to be a big thing for celebration. Up until then, hexing the Headmaster from the shadows as he went past was considered to be a feat of bravery.

Neville had already sneaked into the kitchens to steal platters of food, and someone had strung up streamers misplaced from Christmas and there was a mistletoe incongruously dangling near the entrance. It was a raucous party, especially with the weekend ahead, Butterbeers were vigorously shaken in their bottles and corks popped like missiles; food was passed around over people's heads; cutlery was forgotten and people were stuffing their faces; Dennis Creevey kept reaching up to kiss Ginny under the mistletoe but was too short, until Neville took pity on him and hoisted him up to reach her lips. They all went to bed feeling satiated, and that all was well with the world.

Of course— that statement implies the opposite.

Ginny woke up suddenly the next morning, and twitched the curtains aside to check what the time was. The sky outside the window was still a pale cerulean colour, the clouds feathery and wispy across the blood-red sun. There was a good view of the grounds from the sixth-year girls' dormitory. Blindly, she reached into the darkness of the four-poster bed for her robe; she had a tingling desire to go for a morning run.

The school doors were always open, and the only difference between then and nighttime was that at night, there were better chances of being caught prowling. With Peeves on their side, there was nothing to be scared of. She never made it all the way down, however. She'd gone as far as the second floor, before she realized it was a decidedly unwise move she was making. There was a reason as to why she had been able to attend classes normally after Ancient Runes the other day; she suspected it had something to do with a teacher pulling weight.

Which meant that Alecto Carrow was in a vicious mood.

To be caught on the grounds, in the early hours, wearing comfortable — but — Muggle clothing— well, to put it in simplest terms, no one in Gryffindor Tower would ever see her again. Swallowing, she began to retrace her steps, pulling out her wand and remembering to follow the more secret passageways of the castle. Regardless of what either Percy or Mum said, there were advantages of having Fred and George as family…

Of course, it took her twice as long for her to get back, but as she threw herself into the Common Room with relief, she was immediately, instinctively aware that something was— extremely wrong.

There were a group of older students clustered around the bulletin board, and Neville Longbottom suddenly detached himself, and she caught a glimpse of his usually friendly face: now, grim and terse. The Prefect badge gleamed on his chest, and she realized that he'd been summoned by a teacher in that wee post-dawn.

"Neville—?" she said hesitantly. "What's going on?"

"See for yourself," he mumbled.

The notice was printed in burnished, angry red letters:

The following are the newest bulletins:— Any student caught on the wrong foot with any teacher will be sentenced to detention. DADA students are expected to be attending all practical classes in their allocated detention rooms. Teachers are expected to report all cases of misdemeanour to either Prof. Alecto Carrow, or Prof. Amycus Carrow. Failure to comply will result in a re-evaluation of the pertinent teacher's merit to Hogwarts.

"Well, that's a blow to our support base," sighed Neville, sounding generations older as he turned away. "I'm going back to bed— not that I'm going to get any more sleep now."

Several voices, furiously murmuring dissent and resignation in the same breath followed his.

"This sucks ," growled Seamus Finnegan, and that seemed to aptly sum up the situation.


Pansy had chosen breakfast-time to evaluate her matrimonial prospects, propping up Draco's copy of the Daily Prophet against their glasses of orange juice (arranged side-by-side with significant deliberation.) She normally wouldn't have approved of men reading while she was talking to them, but she thought the newspaper gave Draco a distinguished, intellectual edge.

It didn't matter that he was only avidly poring over the Sports section.

"We're leaving school next year, you know," she said. "Your dad's name isn't in such good shape, so if you do intend to go into politics, you'll need back-up. My family's a good place to start—"

She was oblivious to how he had suddenly stiffened beside her; Blaise Zabini who was sitting on Draco's other side abruptly leaned over and demanded the salt cellar be passed over to him. Draco suddenly found the low buzz, more heated and subdued than morning chatter hanging over the house tables very captivating.

Involuntarily, his eyes sought out the Weasley girl, remembering what Pansy had been bragging about the previous day (albeit with exaggeration) and guessing she was responsible for the strange notice up on the boards. As a Slytherin, he had nothing to fear; it was Snape's old house, after all (the bat might have become a little touched in the head with old age, but at least he remembered where his loyalties lay); and as a Malfoy, he had even less to fear from the Carrows.

The thought came like a hot stab at his heart. Your dad's name isn't in such good shape … his fists clenched under the table. His father, broken, battered, cowed, a shadow of his former glory and pride … his mother reduced to shudders, trembles, and a sense of overpowering, all-pervading terror … it even sank its steely hooks into his aunt Bellatrix, but there Draco's pity ran thin … No, he thought firmly. I don't mean that. She's family. Blood is supposed to be everything .

Is it?

Pansy was tugging at his sleeve, but he barely felt it. Her words flowed like potion pouring out of an overturned cauldron, in such a flood that it simply washed off him. He couldn't keep from thinking however, what he'd realized in the slow, agonising months in between leaving Hogwarts and coming back for the new academic year. He'd not missed his Aunt Bella's rage and fear drove her worst qualities to her surface, submerging whatever shreds of humanity that she once possessed. She was shrill, domineering, edgy, over-sensitive … it was hell to have her living under their roof, with his Uncle Rolf abroad on the Dark Lord's business.

But she's still family. Blood is everything.

It was what he'd always believed. He couldn't — wouldn't — didn't have to believe it was wrong.

Because it wasn't wrong.

It wasn't.

Like the crack of thunder, he suddenly found himself staring into electric coffee-coloured eyes. The sensation was like being shoved into the ocean, drowning before realizing you knew how to swim. Those eyes were filled with such smouldering emotion that the shudder ran up Draco's spine—

Ginny Weasley was staring at him.

Weasley.

Blood is everything.

It was true.

Inexplicable, uncurbed hate and loathing flowed through every vein in his body in that split second that he held Weasley's eyes. The force of it shocked them both; he saw her recoil, then watched her face twist into a contemptuous sneer as she tossed her head and returned to her breakfast.

His hands that been moulded into clenched fists beneath the table— were shaking.


She had been minding her own business (really!) but Fate had the nasty habit of picking on her. It was true.

At the time, all she'd been doing was sneaking off to the shadows of Hagrid's pumpkin patch with a bunch of the DA, because Anthony Goldstein had a wireless and they wanted to listen to a news update. Ever since the last notice (the one announcing that DADA students would be learning the Unforgivable curses and practicing it on test subjects), Terry Boot getting beaten up in the Great Hall, and Michael Corner in defiance going to free some of the detention students— all connection to the outside world had been snapped off.

Ginny herself had not made it out alive out of Alecto Carrow's clutches. Three days after the Dungbomb fiasco, Carrow had her marked out as if she went around the place with a bright red target painted on her. Ginny had been accused of breaking into the kitchens and poisoning Snape's food, and dragged to the dungeons right out of her Ancient Runes class (not a coincidence) despite the clamour of her fellow students. She'd been released much later when evening was dissolving into night, her wrists and ankles chafing from being hung by chains from the dank ceiling.

"What's the time?" whispered Cho Chang beside her, and Ginny controlled all her primal reactions towards her, and showed her the Muggle wristwatch that most of the students sported as a fashion statement. Cho nodded, and as if sensing Ginny's hostility, moved away.

There really wasn't (she supposed) any real reason to be jealous of Cho anymore. She remembered standing in her room, that last kiss on Bill's wedding day, feeling the taste and pressure of Harry's mouth, trying to will the sensation to last forever and never leave her like he inevitably would. It hadn't lasted in her bedroom, and she'd known instinctively, awfully that neither would they.

As she trudged along with the others (scattered in small groups) to the rendezvous, she felt the old flicker of damp misery weighing down on her, but she tried to shrug it off. Harry would come back— he had to. She was no longer sure what she was wishing for— his coming back alive or his coming back to her.

"Over here!"

Someone was waving— one dark arm windmilling above the indistinguishable lumps crowding the vegetable garden. Ginny and the others hurried forward; blond, broad-shouldered Anthony was already twisting the knobs, searching for the right frequency. A confused jumble of sounds and signals spilled out, while people kept pelting him with advice. His eyebrows kept knitting his forehead into a deeper furrows, until Luna Lovegood's clear, piping voice sang out:

"I do believe Michael's forgotten the password."

The protest rose in a wave of impatient swearing, but finally someone supplied the right one, and they were waiting with baited breath, hoping Potterwatch was on air that evening.

Maybe it was, perhaps it wasn't— they never found out. The single inarticulate scream that Cho Chang uttered was the only warning call they got. The viciously triumphant "Ah ha! — illegal items!" was lost in translation. As the shadows of the Carrows' lackeys appeared over the pumpkin patch — distorted and lengthened by the treacherous sun — curses flew, the Slytherins retaliated — people dove for cover and tried to crawl out of the ambush.

Ginny was sent stumbling by a sudden push from behind. She fell on her knees in the dirt, a few paces behind the others. No one seemed to see her— their attention was locked on the Slytherins, who were being forced to back away for cover. Students who had been lounging on the grounds were gathering themselves, and were either staring or shrinking back. Suddenly she caught sight of it— deserters making a break for the castle.

The familiar seething rage rose up in a tidal wave inside Ginny as she reached— Her wand!

It was gone!

In sudden panic, she thrust her hands into her pockets, turning them inside out in her haste to find the only weapon that would protect her—

A hand closed around her wrist dragging her to her feet. Distracted, Ginny barely struggled, allowing herself to be hauled up. A part of her could hardly believe this was happening— the burst of wandlight and sparks and curses above the pumpkin patch looked like fairy lights in a dream, the clustered groups of students amid the vegetables were like a patchwork quilt.

Barely comprehending she began to run, haltingly, stumblingly, after the person pulling her along. Only when the sunlight grew weaker and the smell of damp earth hit her nostrils did she realize how dark the evening had suddenly become. She wasn't amid the pumpkin-quilt anymore—

And the Forbidden Forest looked so much more menacing without Hagrid— so much darker, more awful, the gnarled trees with their raised stumpy roots seemed to have faces, their forked branches cutting Ginny through her clothes as she stumbled through them.

Let go! her mind screamed, and she snatched away her arm at once

He — it was a he who had been holding her — turned around in surprise.

"Malfoy!"

He seemed to start at the sound of his own name — involuntarily jerk away. His foot caught against a sprawling root and he had to grab an overhanging bough to keep his balance. "Weasley," he said evenly.

For a minute, neither could remember anything to say, almost like they'd forgotten how to speak. Her body was tensed, ready to run, to attack, and his grip tightened around the branch as if it was the only thing keeping him on his feet.

"Why the hell did you save me?" The word came out of her mouth, twisted with incredulity beyond recognition.

"Would you rather I left you?" he retorted. The black snaking vines of anger were creeping over his heart again. The undirected, inexplicable rage he'd felt upon seeing her.

But then to his disbelief, she said, her voice a little tremulous, a little bashful: "Thank you— I owe you one, Malfoy."

A film dropped over those stony stone-grey eyes, hiding them, rendering them completely inscrutable. Ginny was forced to look away from them again, once again catching a fleeting glimpse of some naked pain that it took an effort for him to mask. Something that she brought out without knowing how, knowing why.

"Yes, you owe me."

But there was no menace, no malice in that tone. Just a deep, profound beginning of a promise. She had not known — until that second — that a person's voice could speak for them by saying nothing at all.

"Maybe I'll call you on it someday."

She had been about to turn and leave— but the words arrested her, making her whip around. He was watching her quietly again, but this time his scrutiny did not unnerve her.

"You'd best go back to the castle, you know," he said, and she nodded slowly, forcing herself this time to turn away and start to run.


One morning there was a note wedged under his plate as Draco came down to the Great Hall for breakfast. It was simple, brief, and brisk.

"Why did you help me?"

No address, no signature.

Two days later, he collided into the Weasley girl in the corridor, and they sprang apart, hissing like angry cats. His friends would have liked to see another skirmish ever since the one near the half-breed's hovel had been broken up by the teachers, but they were late for class and had to literally drag him away to keep him from going for Weasley's throat.

There was a piece of paper clutched in Ginny's fist as she picked up her things and walked away.

"I don't know how to answer that if I don't know how to think."


"Of all the people in the world, I had to go to Myrtle to find you," she remarked conversationally, leaning a shoulder against the door-frame and crossing her ankles casually. "Of course, it required a hefty bribe to keep her out of here— I had to do a lot of wheedling to make Malcolm Baddock take a dip in the Prefect's bathroom at this hour. Since he's in Slytherin, it involved feminine wiles and a bottle of hair dye. But hell, at least he's a good-looking troll."

She waited until he went through the ritualistic spasmodic shocks and jerks, and slowly turned around to face her as if the image of her popping up in the mirror wasn't bad enough. "Hello, Draco," she said.

"H-he-h—"

The words didn't come out and his pale skin just kept getting redder.

"I'll take that as a greeting," she said kindly.

And then, before she realized it, he'd whipped out his wand, there was a blast of light and the door slammed shut in her face.

Unperturbed and amused, she simply leaned forward and opened the door again, walking in and closing it behind her. By this time, he'd succeeded in pulling a jersey halfway down over his bare upper body, and Ginny who'd seen more unmasked, didn't need to bat an eyelash.

"What're you doing here?" he demanded, not turning around, but splashing cold water on his face and wiping it with a sleeve. "How did you I'd be in here?"

"I ambushed Myrtle."

He uttered a groan, low in his throat. "So what do you want?"

"Why would I want something?" she asked innocently. It didn't help that she was leaning wicked-nonchalantly against the door: barring the only exit.

"Because you're Ginny Weasley. Now confess your crimes."

She giggled, and he groaned again, averting his eyes. "This is not funny," he protested, avoiding eye contact because laughter was damnably contagious. "You can't just barge into unused bathrooms," he added seriously, hoping this was an effective argument.

"Why not?" she queried, still giggling. "It's not like you own it."

It hadn't changed much since Myrtle had locked herself inside to escape Olive Hornby: fungus had overgrown the damp walls, the porcelain sinks were cracked and cockroaches slithered in and out of the toilet bowls, often seen scurrying on the wet, sloshy stone floor. Why anyone would voluntarily spend their time here, she couldn't fathom, but maybe it was private by default of its description. Which reminded her—

Silently, she extended her clenched fist. She was holding his note.

"Do you — do you really—?"

Reflexively and instinctively, Draco's mouth opened in a snide retort, but the words died trying to come out of his throat.

Strange bedfellows, he thought. The unlikeliest.

Her stare was too intense to not be disconcerting, but there was no more hate. He'd expected to see pity, but the light fell through the high, broken windows and it fell on her, illuminating what she was trying to convey to him.

Too bad he'd always been such a stubborn git.

Her arm was still extended before her. But her fingers had opened, and the note had fallen to the ground, the leaking water seeping into the slip of parchment, turning black as the ink started to run. She was extending her hand to him, offering to pull him across the brink, telling him to leap over the chasm because she was there to catch him.

Wasn't it just too bad he'd always be a stubborn git? His father would be so, so disappointed if Lucius could see them now.

A Malfoy's hand in a Weasley's grip.

—- finis -—



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