A/N: This story was written for Mynuet, and is dedicated to everyone who's having a rough time of it. Special thanks to said lady, for helping me eliminate a couple of weak spots, and to Rainpuddle for jumpstarting the muse.

~*~

Ginny Weasley would not admit it to anyone, but she was at her wits' end.

She would certainly not admit it to the wizard she lived with; she'd gotten up from the breakfast table and bestowed a smile and a kiss on him, and watched as he'd picked up his leather work satchel and Apparated away to the Ministry that morning. He'd gazed at her with those inquisitive grey eyes but hadn't called her bluff, only squeezed her hand before taking his travelling cloak from Libby, giving the house-elf a few quiet orders.

She reached for the mug of coffee that sat on her desk, amongst the pile of parchments that demanded her attention. This is how the youngest of the Weasleys occupied her days, now that Voldemort was gone. She'd gone straight from Hogwarts to Twelve Grimmauld Place, throwing herself heart and soul into the work of the Order -- when the dust settled, she didn't have a job to report to, a Department Head that expected her in the mornings.

This made her the perfect witch in charge of settling Molly Prewett Weasley's personal affairs. Her father would have been a better choice, but in the days following the fall of the Dark Lord and Cornelius Fudge's resultant exposure as his sycophant, Arthur Weasley had been tapped to help hold the fabric of Wizarding Britain together .. and now, a month later, was still at the reins in the Ministry. Bill was handling all of their mother's financial matters, but the work of handling all of the personal correspondence had been given over into the only girl's hands.

Each owl answered, each parchment written, folded, sealed and sent sapped just a little more of her energy. A week after she'd begun the work, she still had half the parchments to go through, and she wasn't certain where exactly she was going to get the strength to finish the commission.

She took a long pull of coffee as she looked around the room, anywhere but at the horrible reminders of her mother's mortality clustered in front of her. Draco had offered her the use of this small study, placed just off of Lethoireach's main library, the moment her father asked for her help in squaring away her mum's affairs; she was grateful for it. Ginny was certain that, surrounded by the familiar environment of the Burrow, no Mum at the sink or the table or the chair where she knit so many ugly jumpers, she would be too overwhelmed with loss to be able to function.

She still wondered how she got through some days.

Ginny set the mug down just as Libby appeared with a crack. "Post for Miss," the elf said formally, holding out a few sealed parchments with one hand.

"Thank you, Libby," she replied. She could feel the texture of the paper at her fingertips as she accepted the letters. The elf's disappearance didn't even register as she looked at the morning's haul; a letter from the Daughters of Merlin -- even chances condolatory or business, as the status of her mother's membership would need to be resolved; a printed slip from Witch Weekly, probably about her mother's subscription; and a letter addressed to Miss Ginevra Weasley from the Derwent School for Magical Medicine.

She set the other two parchments aside, her fingers breaking the seal of the missive from the Derwent School without her consciously making the effort to do so. They smoothed the folds, and traced the lines of script as her eyes darted over the letters.

Dear Miss Weasley:

We have received and have looked over with interest your application for the Healer's course offered at the Derwent School. There were a number of highly-qualified applicants to choose from; unfortunately, we are not able to offer you a position in our program at this time.

We do wish you the very best success in your future endeavours.

Yours very sincerely, etc etc.

She let a shuddering breath as she reread the letter, at first in disbelief, then again with the Weasley temper building up a towering rage. The healing skills she'd begun developing on her brothers as they played Quidditch as children were good enough for the Order, saving several witches and wizards who went on to be honoured with the Order of Merlin, but they weren't bloody good enough for the Derwent School?

"BLOODY FUCKING HELL!" she screamed, the pain of loss, of abandonment, of rejection ripping itself from her vocal cords and echoing through the manor's silence. She grabbed the mug and flung it against the far wall, where it -- and its contents -- splattered and smashed in a violent mess.

Whatever remained of her composure went with it.

She lurched forward, burying her head in her arms, unmindful of the parchments she was soaking with her sobs. Stupid, she'd been stupid to think that she was meant for better than the secretarial pool at the Ministry ... she'd tried, but it wasn't good enough.

Miss Ginny Weasley was done trying.

She didn't hear the door to the study opening or the sound of footfalls crossing the room. She barely registered the arms that came around her shoulders, and she couldn't respond to the demand to know what had happened with anything but keening sobs.

Those arms lifted her as though she weighed nothing, carried her a short distance, then settled her in a close embrace. She felt the parchment that was crumpled in one fist tugged out of her grasp, but didn't take in her surroundings until the fit of weeping had exhausted itself, her eyes burning and tired, her throat sore.

She looked up, to discover graceful, gentle hands in her hair, a look of barely-concealed anger in Draco's eyes. "You look like hell, Weasley," he said conversationally, brushing away some of the tears on her cheeks with his thumb.

"Thanks, Malfoy," she whispered hoarsely, a full clip of irritation evident in her tone. "I appreciate the support." She met his gaze full-on, and her brow furrowed. "What are you doing home? You're supposed to have been at the Ministry by now."

"All true," he replied. "And then I realized I forgot Diggory's report from the meeting with the goblins here on my desk, so I Apparated home to retrieve it. Imagine my surprise when I hear the worst cacophony of noise coming from your study." He gestured with one hand, and she recognized the crumpled remains of the letter from the Derwent School.

Seeing the parchment in his fist drained the energy out of her developing outburst, and she sighed. "I'm sorry for the mess," she murmured. "I .. I needed to break something."

"Libby will attend to it," he said impatiently. "You are my more immediate concern. I think you need a break from that pile of correspondence."

"It has to be dealt with, Draco," Ginny replied with asperity. "It's not just going to go away because I don't want to --"

"Nor will it rot if it sits an extra day. Ginny, you've been working at that nonstop for over a week. Even the Dark Lord didn't demand I work that hard." His eyes narrowed even as he lifted one hand to her face, angling her chin so that she met his gaze. "I am going to take you upstairs, and have Libby draw you a bath. While you turn into a shrivelfig, I'm going to owl Diggory and convince him that I've come down with a rare and disgusting ailment, and that he doesn't want to see me in the office today."

Ginny's stomach lurched, feeling slightly ill-at-ease that she would be interfering with Draco's employment at the Ministry. "I don't want to cause trouble ..."

"Weasley?"

"..yes?"

"Hush." Draco punctuated the command with a heady kiss, intimate and sweet and so gentle that Ginny lost all interest in pressing the issue of jeopardizing his employ. "And besides, if I went back to work what's to keep you from nipping back down here, you little troublemaker?"

She couldn't keep the little glimmer of mischief away from her face, she suspected, even as she fought to maintain formality in her tone. "My word?"

Draco shook his head, and she restrained the urge to brush the few tendrils of fine blond hair away from his face. "You took your lessons from Weasley and Weasley, Proprietors. Your word is .. flexible. I'd sooner trust a strong ward charm -- but even then, I have my doubts."

Ginny's jaw dropped. "I beg your pardon?"

His only reply was the graceful sweep upward of one blond brow, and she blushed. "Perhaps," she muttered.

"I know so." He pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Come on, into the bath with you."

Ginny let herself be nudged from the comfort of his lap to stand in front of him, watching as he brushed the wrinkles from the pinstriped robes that seemed to be a favourite in the Office of Finance. He slipped an arm around her shoulders as they made their way to the master suite, and left her in his bedroom -- their bedroom, she supposed she could call it now -- to undress while he disappeared into the opulent bath.

She set the garments she'd been wearing aside, and slipped his dove-grey dressing gown around her small frame. When she walked into the bath, she gasped audibly at the small fleet of levitating candles, casting a warm glow into all corners of the room, and the layer of bubbles that covered the bathwater. "All this, for me?" she queried, affection at the head of a small army of emotions that fought their way into her tone.

Draco stepped within arms' reach, and cradled her face in his hands. "No one treats my fiancée like a house-elf," he said softly, his irises the colour of mercury. "Not arrogant, ignorant admissions berks, not her twelve prat brothers who can't be buggered to be of some help, and not her father." He paused. "Even if he is the Minister of Magic."

He bent to kiss her again, a slow tangle of lips and tongue that left her knees weak with wanting. "Hurry back," she found herself murmuring, and couldn't keep from smiling at the smirk that crossed his face in reply. He reached for her left hand and kissed the diamond he'd put there before nodding once and drawing away.

She couldn't be sure, but she thought she'd heard him say, "Count on it."