Disclaimer - I don't own HP, either canon, characters or situations. Don't sue.



He saw her out of the corner of his eye, a flash of red, a brief impression of familiarity. For a moment, he stared after her, caught unawares by vivid memories of another time, and another place – until his new bride’s voice brought him back to the present.


“Draco,” she said uncertainly, resting her hand on his sleeve, and then snatching it away just as quickly. “What do you think of this one?”


Dutifully he turned his attention to the glittering collar of diamonds and rubies the saleswoman was holding up to Millicent’s neck. Even at a quick glance, he knew it would overpower her, that she was far too plain and insecure to carry off such extravagance with style. But the expression on her face was too naked, too eager to please, and he knew that he would not say anything at all, or else he would speak too truly for both their comfort.


She had known, coming into the marriage, that he did not love her, or even desire her, and that all he wanted of her was her money and her discretion. She had accepted his proposal anyway.


Murmuring something noncommittal, he escaped outside, fumbling with a packet of Muggle cigarettes – a last remnant of the War, when his life expectancy had been measured in days, not decades. Another flash of red caught his eye, and he turned to see Ginny Wood frowning at him, her eyes warm and exasperated.


“Those things will kill you one day, Malfoy,” she said, her voice a complex mix of old humour and new reserve.


He laughed. “Oh?” Wryly, he slipped a cigarette between his lips and lit it with a muttered word.


Her mouth tightened, just as he knew it would. He had known everything about her, once.


A high-pitched, joyous squeal interrupted the moment. A small, compact bundle, bright-eyed and red-haired, launched herself at Ginny and squeezed her tightly. Ginny smiled and ruffled the young girl’s hair, bending down to hug her back.


“Yours?” Draco asked.


“Yes,” she said frankly, pushing her long hair back in an achingly familiar gesture. “My eldest: Emily.”


He looked down at the girl’s small, pale face, the bright, innocent eyes, and the unmistakable resemblance to Oliver Wood. “Congratulations,” he forced out.


Ginny looked at him sharply. After a moment, she said, “I understand that congratulations are in order for you, too. Millicent Bulstrode, wasn’t it?”


He drew sharply on the cigarette, breathing in the bitter, acrid smoke. “You can endure anything if you truly have to, Ginny. Voldemort taught me that.”


The harsh, bitter lessons of his youth had been hard learned, and almost too late. His family, his fortune, and even his home had been destroyed, but he was still here, still thriving, when other, better men had failed. And if he ever wished for something different, he had only to remind himself of the blackened, smoking walls of Malfoy Manor, and of the cold, wretched years of hunger and poverty.


Only Gryffindors were proud in their suffering.


“Draco?” Millicent’s deep, hoarse voice called him back to reality. “Are you ready?”


He turned to face her, suppressing a wince at the blinding brilliance of her necklace. Deliberately, he smiled, gave her his arm. “Millicent,” he said pleasantly, with none of his former bitterness, “do you remember Ginny Weasley? Oh, it’s Wood now, isn’t it?”


Ginny’s eyes narrowed, but still, she held her hand out to Millicent, her expression bland and noncommittal.


Millicent darted a glance at him and then shook hands, puzzled and uncertain; there were times when Draco wondered if the awkward insecurity was all there was to her, whether there was anything more. Sometimes he thought…


But he didn’t care enough to find out.



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Fin

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