The dilapidation of the Weasley family home in Ottery St. Catchpole was nothing compared to the intimidation Draco felt as he gazed up at the seven lopsided stories. The bleach-blond boy gulped as he debated for the final time whether or not to approach it. Not only had he desecrated the Weasleys’ name in the wizarding community, he had tormented each individual in turn over the years. He had yet to meet Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, but he doubted that they could respect him given his family and his own history. Sighing, he looked to the front door, where he had failed to notice a crowd of people standing. He supposed – it was difficult to tell with the sun in his eyes – that the group consisted of Mrs. Weasley and her youngest children, with whom he had gone to school since his first year. He swallowed, wiping at his cheek with the back of his hand. A small amount of blood was trickling down to his jawbone from the open cut. He pushed open the gate and made his way up the walk to the Burrow, realizing bitterly that he had no other choice.
 
“What the bloody hell are you doing here, Malfoy?” Ron spat in disgust, prompting his mother to glare at him. Draco, noting silently that his first assumptions were incorrect, looked up at the family and their guest, whom he had not noticed until that moment. He knew the damage his unsolicited arrival would do his poor ego, but he had decided that it was a risk worth taking. He met Harry’s glare only briefly before proceeding.
 
“I am here of my own accord. I have come to ask for your protection from the Dark Lord as the inevitable time of war grows nearer,” he answered, a feeling of self-disgust filling him as the words left his mouth. The values with which he had been raised were disintegrating bit by bit. Mrs. Weasley looked at him quizzically.

“I highly doubt that this sudden change of heart is anything more than one of your infantile father’s plans,” Harry replied, before anyone else could speak.
 
“My father is in Azkaban, Potter, don’t you remember?” Draco drawled. “Besides, I have been disowned as a result of my failure to carry out the mission I never wished to undertake.”

“I do not know you, young man,” Mrs. Weasley said before the two could continue, “I know your father and your mother, of course, as is inevitable in our world. But in spite of what I may think of them, as far as I can tell, you are being sincere in your story of displacement and plea for protection. You look to be simply a malnourished child lost in a war that is not his own. Come in. I cannot be held liable for anything my children do to you while my back is turned, but if my back is not turned, I will attempt to take care of any problems,” she added, more to Harry and her three youngest boys than to Draco himself. She looked at him again; his clothes were dangling from his thin frame. She motioned him to come in, moving those around her aside to make room.
 
By the time Draco was fed and cleaned up, he had heard every threat imaginable from Harry, Ron, and the twins. He was too drained to really take them seriously at the moment, however. It was still before noon when Mr. Weasley returned from the Ministry of Magic. Draco watched as Mrs. Weasley greeted her husband with a kiss. The boys grinned and chatted with him as he entered the kitchen. It was new to him, seeing such a warm greeting as a family member came home. His mother had only given his father an icy stare when he walked through the door, neglecting even a glance at Draco himself as she watched Lucius walked through the manor to his study. “Where’s Ginners?” Mr. Weasley asked, kissing Mrs. Weasley on her cheek.
 
“Asleep, still. She’ll be up soon, though, it’s nearly half past ten and she seems incapable of sleeping past eleven,” she smiled. Mr. Weasley nodded and then looked around the room, his gaze landing on Draco, who was seated at the table with a bowl of porridge in front of him. Draco stood up, nonchalantly smoothing his slacks, and held out his hand. Mr. Weasley gave him a quizzical look before glancing at his wife with the same expression.

“Well, dear, this is Draco Malfoy; I was waiting until you got home to tell you. You see, the whole... well...” She groped for the right words; the death of Dumbledore was still something few discussed. “He needs the Order’s protection, you see.” Draco saw Harry in his peripheral vision shooting Draco a look of utter loathing and disdain, a look he decided to ignore, as Mrs. Weasley continued, “I think you should...”

 Mr. Weasley seemed to understand quickly enough, for he nodded and turned back to Draco. “Well, hello there, I guess,” he said stiffly, ignoring Draco’s still-outstretched hand as if it were diseased. “Follow me, boy,” he said before turning around and walking through the living room. Draco hid a wince as he turned to follow Mr. Weasley. The idea of a private discussion with a man his father had spoken of with such disgust was not something he looked forward to, especially considering the bigotry Draco himself had always displayed toward the Weasleys. He could still hear the voices in the kitchen as Mrs. Weasley told them all to sit down and get away from the door. He, also, thought he heard something about extendable ears.
 
He followed Mr. Weasley out the front door and onto the porch, where the balding man spun around on his heel, leaning toward Draco menacingly. “What are you playing at, boy?” he spat.
 
“Nothing, sir.”
 
“Are you lying to me?”

“No. No, I’m not. Honestly. I am here for protection, not to serve the Dark Lord, but to plead for help in these darkening times, Mr. Weasley.”
 
Mr. Weasley took a breath. Straightening up and composing himself, he took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose in a circular motion. His eyes were closed, but Draco did not dare to move or even, it seemed, to blink. “I’m sorry. These are, as you said, dark times, and growing ever darker. If I find you are dishonest, young Malfoy, I will have your head. You understand?”
 
Draco nodded, ending the conversation. Mr. Weasley led him back inside and into the kitchen. “I take it your mother has already told you about leaving to stay at Grimmauld Place?” he questioned his children and Harry as they settled back into their places. Everyone nodded, so he continued.

  "Draco, this is a place about which you are not to speak to anyone, for obvious reasons. Grimmauld Place is where we will be staying until this war is over. As our guest,” a term he used lightly, “you will be coming with us, and you will be subjected to certain exercises to prove your honesty. I am not saying it is not because I do not trust you, because partially it is, but it is also because no one else will trust you either. Veritaserum will be involved, if you are not alright with that, then you will be forced to fend for yourself, for reasons blunt enough not to require explanation.” Draco nodded reluctantly; he knew it would be an interview he would forget, but he also knew he would need much more than personal regret in order to emerge with his dignity intact.

“Mum, Hermione just owled. She said she’ll be here in about an hour or so.” A girl’s voice said from behind an unrolled paper. Ginny looked up from it for the first time and nearly fell off her seat in shock as her father and Draco entered the room, her eyes immediately finding Draco. “What is that disgusting, loathsome thing doing in our kitchen?” she nearly shrieked as her gaze met Draco’s. Her brothers’ lips curled into smirks as she drew her wand from the back pocket of her jeans before anyone could object. Not that anyone, besides her mother, would.
 
“Ginevra Molly, you do not treat people like that, especially guests in your home!” Mrs. Weasley snapped at her daughter. Ginny gaped at her mother.
 
“Guest?” she nearly choked. “Is this supposed to be funny? Tell me someone decided to mess around with Polyjuice Potion again,” she sputtered, looking to her brothers for some indication of a joke and finding none. For a moment, she was silent. “So . . . that’s the real Malfoy, then?”
 
“In the flesh,” Harry answered in a clipped tone, clearly revealing his irritation.
 
“You cannot be serious. Mum? Daddy?” Her parents looked back at her, tired and worn. “Merlin’s beard, you’ve all gone nutters while I was asleep then!” She stomped out of the room and up the staircase to her own room, where a door could be heard slamming.
 
“And I thought I’d taken it badly,” Ron said as he leaned over toward Harry.

************

Hours after Hermione had arrived and blown up at Draco herself, the lot of them piled into a blue car bewitched to accommodate its many passengers and headed off to Grimmauld Place. Even though the backseat had been magically stretched, it seemed cramped and almost suffocating to Draco. He had ended up in the corner against the door next to Ginny, who was none too happy about the seating situation herself. She glared at the twins with her arms folded across her chest. Though she was fond of them, the twins were the cause of her being within whispering distance of Draco, so she did not speak to them the whole trip.

When they reached their destination, Draco gaped with utter amazement. “Why are we here, of all places?” Draco asked, staring up at the house he had visited only a few times in his childhood, when his aunt, Bellatrix Lestrange had taken him in. Harry looked at Draco in surprise, and Draco started. “What, Potter?”

“This house is supposed to be a secret; one that died with Dumbledore...”
 
“Was that what that note was on about, then? Hell, if I’d known it was here, I would’ve simply come myself,” Draco answered, thinking silently to himself about how he should pay more attention to where he had been from then on and pulling a folded piece of parchment out from his cloak pocket and unfolding it.

The familiar scrawl brought a burning sensation to Harry’s eyes as they studied the words. A replica of the note he had been shown nearly two years ago was again in his hands. ‘The headquarters of the Order of Phoenix may be found at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, London.’
 
“I thought the note had been burned by Mad-Eye Moody?”
 
Draco shrugged, for he did not know its origins or whatever else Harry was going about; he simply had the scroll and had kept it for some reason unbeknownst even to himself. Mr. Weasley put a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “I’ll not ask, but that puts one problem aside.” The group made their way up the walk to the door of number twelve and strode inside.

Remus Lupin greeted them all at the door, shooting the two adults a quizzical look when he saw Draco. Draco did not bother with a greeting. He was still just as surprised to find such an unlikely place being the headquarters of the Order, as he was that he was there himself. Even so, no one pressed the interview, at least not yet.

“Where is everyone?” Ron asked in a hushed voice as he hung his jacket up on the rack. Draco caught Ginny’s eye as she glanced past the group and straight at him. The two stared at each other for a passing moment, then looked away quickly.
 
“They’re all getting everything together. Since certain events have taken place, things have been rather scattered,” Lupin whispered, before heading off into the dining room, where everyone followed. Well, almost everyone, that is.
 
Ginny was in the midst of finding her bags when she looked up, noticing that Draco was still standing there. “What?” she whispered harshly.

“Why, in the name of Merlin, is everyone whispering?” he asked. He regretted his question at once. Shrill screams filled the air around them and echoed throughout the rest of the house. He winced, realizing why, in fact, everyone had been so careful to whisper. He followed the noise to the thick curtain hanging over a section of the wall. Pulling it back, he found a portrait of his great aunt, Walburga Black. “Bloody hell, what’s all the screaming about?” he asked loudly to get her attention. The portrait of his relative looked at him in what seemed to be disbelief.
 
“Are you not Narcissa’s boy? You have come to rescue my home from these filthy creatures now inhabiting it, have you?” He simply stared at the painting.

“Please, I will do what I can,” he said before closing the curtain. He turned; the girl stared at him and shook her head slightly before starting up the stairs with her bag. He watched her go, the small of her back showing a bit more the farther she went up, for her shirt rode up slightly as her hips swayed. He shook his head almost violently, ridding himself of the thought. Focusing, he looked toward the door where the others had gone.
 
Harry stood there on one leg; the other foot was scratching his own calf under his khaki pants. Leaning against the frame, he folded his arms across his chest in a nonchalant motion. “She hates you, you know. Terribly, actually,” Harry told him, though Draco already knew.
 
“This is news?”
 
“No, this is a reminder. And here’s another: She’s mine,” Harry informed him in a clipped tone. Harry headed toward where the bags lay on the floor. “Grab yours,” he ordered, picking up his own. “I’m being forced to show you to your room.”

Draco grabbed the single bag he had brought and slung it over his shoulder and across his chest as he followed Harry up the steps. “Tell me, Potter, why would I need reminding of anything to do with Ginevra and you? Besides, you two ended after Dumbledore’s funeral, remember?” Harry stopped on the landing and turned.
 
“Just watch how you look at her.”

Harry turned and continued down the hall. Draco shrugged, not wanting to start anything on enemy territory. He may not have been top of their year, like Hermione, but he wasn’t a complete nincompoop, either. If he had learned anything this past year at Hogwarts, it was to choose his battles more wisely.
 
Draco followed Harry to the end of the landing, where Harry opened up the last of the rooms on the floor. “You have the library all to yourself, enjoy. If Hermione bothers you... oh well,” Harry said, almost slamming the door on Draco’s fingers. Draco watched Harry walk up the next flight of stairs before proceeding into the library. Shelves lined the walls with books of all kinds. He was rather pleased with it; he could spend his time here rather than with those who did not want him around in the first place.
 
Days went by without his noticing. He only left his room to use the lavatory for bathing and relieving himself. Other than that, he did not leave his room for meals or for anything else. The books kept him occupied, as did a sketchpad and drawing utensils he found in the desk near the door.
 
Only Hermione bothered him, as Harry had predicted, but she was not much of a bother at all, really. At first, she would knock and enter without waiting for a response, get her book, and leave, but after a few days, Draco changed that.

“You could at least wait for an invitation, Granger,” he noted as she reached for a book on one of the higher shelves. She was on her tiptoes and still could not reach the book she wanted. He made his way over to her, reaching up and handing her the book before turning on his heel and walking back to his couch where a book was sprawled open, the pages facedown against the wooden surface of the table in front of the lumpy couch he slept on.
 
“I suppose I could,” she told him, and she left without another sentence. But from that point on, she waited for his invitation to enter and occasionally even said a few things to him before leaving. For the most part, however, she came and went in silence. Draco wished she would be more outgoing, for other than her, the most human interaction he received was when someone left his meal on the desk and skittered out of the room as if he were a rabid animal ready to bite of their heads if they stayed too long.
 
*******

One night, after almost a month of being there, Ginny knocked on his door. He expected Hermione and was surprised to see her instead.

“Mum wanted me to ask if you’d like to come down for dinner tonight. Y’know, with it being Halloween and all . . .” He did not answer her question, but instead watched her as she subconsciously thumbed the hem of her sweater that went to her mid thigh, a size or three too big for her. “Well?”

He shook his head. “Tell her thank you, but I’m fine up here,” he told her before picking up his sketchbook and the quill next to him on his lumpy couch. Her curiosity got the better of her as she made her way over to the back of the couch and leaned over his shoulder to see the drawing.

A young woman about her age stared back at her, wearing a smirk. She was in a dress from about the nineteenth century, judging from the look of it, and she wore a choker around her neck. Her hair was done up in ringlets on top of her head. “Wow,” Ginny breathed, taking in the depths of the picture. “Who is she?”

“You should look in a mirror more often, Ginevra.”

She blushed as the realization dawned on her. She looked at him quizzically. “You haven’t seen me in a month! Are you sneaking into my room or something?” He raised his eyebrow at her and shook his head.

“Memory.”

“That’s a rather intense drawing for something just from memory,” she noted aloud after a moment’s silence.

“You’re not one who possesses looks another could forget easily, Ginevra. I’ve known you for quite a while, remember?” he answered, thickening a line on the gown to indicate a deeper fold in the skirts.

She watched his hand as it glided down the page, his fingertips pressing the tip of the quill down to thicken another few lines. “I should go . . .” She stayed for a moment more before standing up straight again and heading for the door. He did not speak, only nodding as she walked out of the room, closing the door behind her.

Walking down the stairs and winding her way through the halls she entered the kitchen. “He said he’s not hungry, Mum.” Her mother turned and looked at her.

“I would tell you I regret his absence, but I don’t know the boy, so I cannot say as much,” Mrs. Weasley told her daughter.

“You’re not missing anything, Mum,” said Ron cheekily. “Bishop to E6.” Ginny glanced over at him sitting at the small kitchen table just in time to see his bishop clobber one of Harry’s knights violently. Ginny shook her head before walking over to the sink where her mother stood monitoring the vegetables, which were peeling themselves, and waiting for the water on the stove to boil.

“Could you set the table, Ginny, dear?” her mother asked, smiling gently at her youngest child. Ginny smiled back, and with a nod she was off into the dining room with a stack of plates.

As she was finishing setting the table, Kingsley Shacklebolt walked into the dining room. She smiled a welcome at him, to which he replied with a nod. “Where’s Remus?” he asked after a moment in his calming, deep voice; the voice that always comforted her in spite of everything.

She gave him a small shrug in response. “Den, maybe?” she suggested. He nodded again before disappearing to go search for Professor Lupin. As she set down the last plate, the thought occurred to her that she had not seen Kingsley once since their arrival a month prior. “I wonder if he knows Draco’s here,” she wondered quietly aloud.

“Since when do you call Malfoy by his first name?”

“What does it matter to you, Harry?” she countered, turning to look at him. An irritated, steely glare met her simple gaze. She did not want to argue, but if he was going to get upset about a name, she didn’t see why she should bother to avoid a quarrel.

“Are you fraternizing with the enemy, Ginny?” he repeated, remembering suddenly the Yule Ball and how Ron had accused Hermione of doing the same.

“Fraternizing with the enemy? Draco is no longer the enemy, you twit! He has done nothing wrong since he asked for protection and your closed-minded stupidity is more than likely the reason he hasn’t left that bloody room in ages! Do you realize that he has been cooped up in that room for a month now with only an occasional exchange with Hermione for human contact?”

“Do you realize that that’s not my problem?” he snapped. Ginny looked at him in mild disgust.

“This is why we wouldn’t have worked out, Harry. It has nothing to do with the war and everything to do with your egotistical ignorance,” she huffed before turning on her heel and exiting the room, heading up the stairs. She was not watching where she was going as she headed down the hall, her eyes on the floor paneling. “Oomph!”

“You really should watch where you’re going,” Draco drawled as he held out a hand to the fallen Weasley. She looked up at him and took his hand, and he swiftly pulled her up to her feet. “What’s that face for?”

“Nothing. Harry’s being an arse is all,” she answered, smoothing out her jeans. He tilted his head slightly as he watched her.

“I’m sorry, I think I’m hearing things. Did you just insult your beloved hero?” he inquired, raising his eyebrows slightly as he looked down at her. She stopped fixing her clothes and looked up at him, her eyes flaring slightly.

“He stopped being my beloved hero a while ago, in case you didn’t get that issue of the Prophet.”

“Whoa there, Sparky. Don’t get miffed at me for something you need to work out with him. That’s your own personal business,” he paused, “Something I choose to steer clear of . . . like the plague,” he joked lightly. She rolled her eyes at him, but couldn’t help the small smile. He smirked before speaking again. “Would you like to get out of here for a bit?”

She nodded at him, and he thought he detected a hint of gratitude in her gesture. “Let me get my coat and tell Mum I’m not eating yet, either.”

They had snuck out of Grimmauld Place without being noticed since everyone was in the dining room eating. She hadn’t wanted to use the Floo Network. Truthfully, he hadn’t either. He had spent a month away from anything to do with the Dark Lord and the Ministry of Magic, and that was how he wanted to keep it. Both organizations were watching the Network as it was, and he was certainly not ready to give up his location as a result of a casual nighttime stroll. The two ended up walking down the muggle streets of London in the setting sun’s light just as the street lamps clicked on. The couple saw quite a few people dressed up in various costumes, of different creatures and historical persons, making their way to parties, pubs, and clubs. Draco asked if she wanted to go to one, but she shook her head no, telling him she just wanted to get some coffee or something.

 

The coffee house near Kings Cross in which the two found themselves was just what they needed. Draco sat with his ankle crossed over his knee, holding hot coffee in one hand while he rested his chin in his other palm. His elbow rested on the table near the wall. He watched Ginny sip the hot latte as she finally began to calm down. He ignored the blond locks that fell partially over his silver eyes -- he hadn't had his hair trimmed in ages -- as she set down the white paper cup. He silently pondered his detestation of the fact that they were at a muggle coffee shop and had paid with muggle money. The muggle money had been the worst. For the first time in his life, Draco hadn’t the money to pay for anything, for he obviously didn’t have muggle money. So Ginny had paid for their coffees instead. He stared at her cup now, thoughtfully, as he breathed in the scent of coffee beans. On it was a round logo depicting a twin-tailed siren with her flowing hair covering her chest.

 

“It’s rather seductive, isn’t it?” said Ginny, following his gaze.

 

“Pardon?”

 

“The logo for the shop,” she answered, watching his eyes as she spoke, “A siren, in the style used here,” she indicated the paper cup by picking it up slightly, “is the embodiment of lust and desire. The beautiful body of the woman alone is seductive, but according to Greek myth, the voice of the siren seduced sailors as well, and they were hoodwinked into following her to their deaths. It’s fascinating really, especially when used for a coffee chain in modern times,” she finished, taking another drink of her beverage. He looked at her awkwardly, not knowing what to say. “You learn a few things from muggles; maybe you should try to get to know some of them,” she shrugged.

 

“I do not associate with muggles.”

 

“Except for now, of course. Plus, don’t you think it would be helpful at least to get along considering what the Ministry is considering for after the war has ended?” she said with a small smirk.

 

“What exactly are they considering?"

 

The heel of her palm hit her forehead and then fell to her lap. “I'm sorry; I forgot. Whenever Professor Lupin is able to be back at Grimmauld Place rather than with Fenrir Greyback’s lot looking for information, he and Dad catch up on political business and such. I forgot you haven’t been there,” she explained. “After the war, they’re talking about integrating our world and the muggles’ world,” she told him.

 

“Are they serious?” he asked incredulously. Ginny nodded. “It won’t work. There are too many people afraid of being exposed to muggles. Think about how some people treat muggle-born children. You think I was mean to Hermione about her heritage? That was nothing.”

 

She shrugged before answering, “I doubt it will happen. But just imagine the freedom if it did! I mean, that alone would be worth the effort required to make it work out on both ends. Don’t you think?”

 

“Is that all you want?” he asked her, watching her carefully.

 

She looked at him questioningly. “What’re you on about now?”

 

“Is freedom all you want?” She didn’t answer, drinking her coffee instead. He knew that she was avoiding the question. “Ginevra…?”

 

“Yes, alright? That’s all I’ve ever wanted. Go ahead and mock me for it. I don’t care.”

 

A silence fell between them as he watched her. She was the only daughter and the baby of the Weasley family; her parents and brothers didn’t exactly give her much room to breathe. He had been too preoccupied with tormenting the trio to notice that the youngest Weasley was also the most stifled. The silence lasted for a long while, long enough for Ginny to finish her coffee and almost half her pastry.

 

“So, what are we doing here, anyway?” she finally asked.

 

“Drinking frou-frou coffee, I thought,” he answered cheekily, attempting to lighten the mood. It seemed to work, at least a bit.

 

“I mean, did you want to talk or just get out?” she asked, subconsciously biting her lip as she picked up her empty cup. He considered her silently for a few moments. She did not want to talk, surely not to him at least, so he shrugged.

 

“It’s up to you, Ginevra,” he told her, reaching across the table to pick at her half-eaten pastry. She pursed her lips at him as he sat back in his chair, stuffing the bit of food in his mouth in a clumsy but somehow elegantly suave way. It was the way he seemed to do everything, she noticed; the everyday Draco way. She mentally kicked herself for caring enough to notice things like this about Draco Malfoy.

 

“Why do you call me that?” she asked, feeling awkward.

 

“It’s your name. Or do we need to have a talk about that, specifically?” he teased. She smiled at him without realizing it.

 

“What I meant was-”

 

“Everyone else calls you Ginny?” he finished for her. “I know what you meant. I don’t call you that because . . . well . . . I’m not quite sure why.”

“Why don’t you shorten it a bit and just call me Gin?” she suggested. “I mean, really, Ginevra is quite a long name for someone as small as I.” He rolled his eyes, letting the corners of his lips turn up into a small smile. She tilted her head as she looked at him.

 

“You should do that more often,” she said.

 

“What?” he asked, confused.

 

“Smile.” she paused. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile, not genuinely, anyway,” she said. He watched her painted black fingernails gently scrape the pale, freckled skin of her cheek as she spoke.

 

He had neglected to observe how she had matured since they had first met. Her body had gone from that of a child to that of a young woman, now sixteen. The way she held herself alone was enough to show the world that she had been through enough to be considered more than just a silly girl.

 

“What?” she laughed when he didn’t respond. His eyes met hers for a moment, and then dropped to the table.

 

“I was so busy tormenting you at school that I didn't notice you’re not the girl you were the first days of my second year. I seem not to be the only who never comprehended it, though.” She watched his lips move as he spoke. They were thin and chapped from dehydration, but functional as they uttered the words that no one else would.

 

She set her cup down, looking towards the tile floor. “You’ve noticed how people treat me, then? Like I’m a childish little girl who knows nothing of how the world works or what could happen if I let my guard down?” she scoffed, shaking her head slightly. He listened to her silently as she went on.

 

“No one wants to see me grow up! My brothers are so overprotective of me I’m surprised I can use the loo without their consent or supervision, or that they don't attempt to pulverize the soap for touching me. I’m not even exaggerating!” she said as he looked at her slightly incredulously. “You’ve met them; don’t even act like they wouldn’t try. Then there’s Mum and Dad. They worry about me so much I’m not sure if it’s good parenting or just fear of losing someone else to the war.

 

“Then there’s Hermione. I love the girl; she’s a fantastic friend. But there’s only so much a person can tolerate. And Harry acts as if he owns me, it seems. Not all the time, mind you, just most of it. Then, on top of that, every other person in that damned place seems to think I’m going to run off and become a Death Eater if I walk out the door. That is, if I’m not attacked first.” She shook her head, lost in thought. “You seem to be the only person who somewhat gets it. A bit depressing, isn’t it? You know, considering you haven’t really even been around.”

 

He watched her for a moment before speaking. “They care for you, Ginevra.” She shot him a look. “Gin,” he corrected.

 

“That may be. However, I prefer to breathe when I’m around people. With everyone swooping in on me it’s a bit difficult to do so.”

 

“I know what you mean,” he answered, looking out the window at the street, thinking back. “Are you ready to go back?” he asked, turning his gaze back to her. She wrinkled her nose at the thought, making him smirk, and nodded her head in reply. “Well then let’s go,” he said, pursing his lips and standing up.

 

She looked up at him, sighing, and impulsively she reached out to squeeze his hand as she stood up. She let go and turned around to make her way between the tables and out the door. He followed not far behind, his fingers tingling with the memory of her touch. It felt something like the burn of a hot pan or the numbness of a limb cut off from circulation.

 

They snuck back into the house undetected. It was getting a bit late. They had been gone longer than either had expected. They hoped no one would hear the stairs beneath their feet as they crept up to bed. Luckily, no one did. They made their way to the door to Ginny’s room and stood there awkwardly.

 

“Well . . . night then,” Ginny said after a few moments of silence had passed. She watched Draco look to the ground and then up again at her, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. She stepped inside and closed the door quietly behind her as he walked away. Once the door was closed, she sighed, leaning her back against it and sliding down to the floor. She let her head loll back against the wood as she gazed around the room. Her eyes stopped at the fireplace. Much to her surprise, a boy stood there. “Harry?” she asked, sounding a bit unsure.

 

He was glaring at her in the dark, his green eyes burning into her brown ones with an intensity that was almost vicious. She had seen that glare often throughout the six years he and Ron had been friends. But this was the first time she could remember its being directed at her and her alone, and she was startled by it. She shuddered slightly, looking at him questioningly.

 

“Don’t give me that look, Ginny,” he told her as they stood in stony silence. The lit logs in the fireplace gave her enough light to see his fists clenched at his sides. His knuckles were turning white from the pressure. She swallowed, not understanding what exactly had made him so upset with her.

 

“You have some nerve, you know,” he said after a while. “Going off and gallivanting with that prat in times like these. Of all people, I thought you understood how dangerous and manipulative Voldemort could be. Did you forget your first year completely? Is the Chamber of Secrets just filed away in secret somewhere deep in that silly little head of yours?” He was being rude now, even downright mean. She bit the corner of her lip, tearing away at a layer of skin with her teeth as he spoke. “You just don’t get it, do you?”

 

She watched as he began to pace. Those eyes that had once made her melt when they flashed towards her even for a split-second were now glaring bitterly at the floor panel as his feet made their way back and forth. His mouth was clenched. Gone was the smile that had made her go weak in the knees no matter what. She'd never seen him like this, and she didn't know exactly what to say.

 

“How could I forget something that traumatized me so deeply, Harry? That’s like accusing you of forgetting about the last task in the Triwizard Tournament. And I wasn’t gallivanting with anyone, by the way. I was simply taking a break from certain twits who happen to be suffocating me with an invisible pillow. Draco’s not—”

 

“Not what? Not using you to just get to me for Voldemort?” he spat, stopping to stand up straight and look at her. She met him with a glare. Ginny's glare typically made even her brothers afraid. But not Harry; no, he simply stood there watching and waiting. She wasn’t sure what exactly he was waiting for, but she knew he was.

 

“You need to back off, Harry! What I do in my spare time is none of your or anyone else’s business. Get me?”

 

“How do you figure that?” He took a few long strides forward until he was towering over her, looking down.

 

Grabbing the door handle to pull herself up from where she had been sitting against the door, she took one step so that she was staring up at him, the bridge of her nose less than an inch from his chin. “We’re not together anymore, Wonder Boy. You dumped me at Dumbledore’s funeral. Remember? You have no say in what I do or whom I do it with,” she snapped angrily. “What are you doing in my room anyhow?” Her tone was clipped, and she could feel her cheeks flushing.

 

For a moment, he didn't say anything. His expression softened as he stared down at her. “Don’t say it like that, Ginny. Please, don’t say it like that. I did what I did because I don’t want you to get hurt; I don’t want anything to happen to you,” he said, reaching his hand up and stroking her cheek with his thumb.

 

“What are you doing in my room?” she repeated, turning her head away.

 

His hand dropped, but his gaze remained fixed on her. “Your mum wanted me to see how you were feeling since you didn’t want to eat earlier.” She looked back up at him but didn’t say anything. He pointed his thumb over his shoulder to the made-up bed where a small brown package lay. He took the few steps to the door, but paused with his hand resting on the turned knob. “I didn’t say anything to anyone about your not being here. Fred and George will be by tomorrow, though. They owled your mum an hour or so ago from their shop . . .”

 

With that, he shut the door behind him without waiting for her to respond. She closed her eyes tightly, shoving a hand through her long fiery hair before making her way over to her bed. Sitting down on the edge, she rubbed her face, exhausted, and went straight to sleep.

 

 

Draco sat on the lumpy couch in the library with one leg folded and the other stretched out, leaning against the cushions. He debated sleep as he began to detail another drawing. This one depicted a manticore. The creature’s body was erect; the lion fur modestly shaggy while the scorpion-like tail curled slightly as the beast rested. The face of the manticore was not particularly handsome, but was a man’s face nonetheless, with dark, beady eyes and a short, rounded nose. He had drawn the creature a million times, and it always had the same face. He had no idea if it was from his imagination or some long-lost memory. Draco sighed, and his thoughts turned as he finished fixing the details on the drawing.

 

A knock at the door distracted him for a moment’s time, however. Glancing over his shoulder, he told whomever it was to enter, though he had heard the door shut before he'd even opened his mouth. He expected Hermione to be there, but when he turned to speak to her, he found himself staring at Harry, who was looking more than a bit upset. Draco raised his thin eyebrows as he stood up and set the drawing down on the couch. “What’s got your knickers in a twist, Potter?” he asked in a bored tone.

 

“What the hell is your problem?” Harry asked.

 

“Sorry, you’re being a bit vague. Don’t you think? I mean, really.”

 

“I told you she was mine; you have no business being with her. What did you do to her? Put her under the Imperius Curse? Give her a potion of some sort? What?” Harry was glaring at Draco as he spoke.

 

“That’s what this is about? You think I did something to your precious little doll and she might not be such a toy to you anymore?” Draco knew he was treading on eggshells here. “Look, you pissed her off, so she and I had a cup of coffee. I didn’t put a curse on her; I didn’t slip her anything; I didn’t shag her; I didn’t anything. She went of her own free will. I know you don't realize she has the ability to make her own decisions, and keeping her from leaving that tight little security blanket you force her into isn’t doing her any good anyhow.”

 

Harry swallowed. He wanted to scream millions of curses at Draco for just breathing. “You let her be out in the open where she could have been hurt, captured, or worse, Malfoy!” he reminded him through gritted teeth.

 

“No Death Eater would come to this part of muggle London, nitwit. Not now, and not for a girl. I don’t care if you trust me, Potter, but don’t even pretend to think you’ve been protecting her all this time by keeping her locked up in this place with everyone else.”

 

A knocking sound interrupted the argument, and both boys turned as the door opened to reveal Professor Lupin. He looked sickly, with bags under his eyes and scrapes and bruises covering all Draco could see of his body. He looked as if he hadn’t eaten much in the past few weeks; his clothes hung loosely on him. Being with Greyback’s lot had obviously taken a toll on him. He seemed to stagger slightly when he entered the room, looking quizzically at the adolescent boys.

 

“Might I bother to ask what you two are doing?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow at them. Draco watched the patch on the elbow of his jacket fold gently as it began to sag; it would fall off soon. Harry shook his head, glaring at Draco from across the room. “I’d like to have a word with Mr. Malfoy here if you wouldn’t mind, Harry.”

 

Harry looked ready to argue, but he quickly closed his mouth at the look Professor Lupin gave him. Harry shut the door behind him with a loud click. Professor Lupin pulled out his wand and put a silencing charm on the room before speaking again. “I realize I haven’t exactly been here, so I really wouldn’t know what has been going on in this house. But I can tell when there’s too much tension between people. You and Harry will need to get over whatever school-related problems you have if you are to stay here. This is, after all, ultimately Harry’s house.” He paused a moment, taking a seat on the couch. Draco removed the sketchbook and set it discreetly on the table as his ex-professor continued. “We have never really seen eye to eye, per se, since I never had the knack for intermingling with everyone, including your family.”

 

Professor Lupin looked at him then, almost expectantly, but Draco remained silent. The professor pursed his lips, and then patted the cushion next to him on the couch, indicating for Draco to sit, and he obeyed. “I can see you don't really want to talk, which is fine, but I need you to talk whether you want to or not, if you don’t mind…” Remus had never been good at this sort of thing, and he knew as much, but he reached into his coat pocket nevertheless and uncorked a small vial. Professor Lupin indicated that Draco should open his mouth, and he complied. Then Professor Lupin poured three small drops of the colorless, odorless truth potion into his mouth.

 

“I hate to do this,” he said softly. “Why did you come to the Weasley’s home one month ago?” he asked in the same soft voice.

 

Draco’s voice was flat as he answered, “I came to ask for protection against the Dark Lord since I knew the Weasleys were part of the Order of Phoenix.”

 

“Was this act out of your own interest or the interests of your master’s plan?”

 

“It was of my own accord. I have been disowned by those who would call themselves my family.”

 

“Why have you been disowned, as you put it?”

 

“I could not fulfill the task that was set to me. I could not kill Dumbledore as the Dark Lord wished. Yes, Dumbledore was still murdered, but not by my wand. So I was punished. After years of training and working, I was dropped almost literally on my arse as a result of my failure,” Draco answered, his voice still the flat monotone he had begun with.

 

Professor Lupin looked at the boy before him. Draco was no more than seventeen, and he was already abandoned after being given a task that should never have been his. Voldemort was cruel; they all knew that from experience, but to use a mere child as a tool in such a horrible act was simply unfathomable. War was not a place for children, and they were too often tragically involved. Professor Lupin stared at the boy silently for a moment before continuing.

 

“What do you know about the next actions your master is planning?”

 

“He is not my master. I do not have a master,” Draco informed the professor in that same flat tone. “I know precious little of his plans. I am just a teenager after all. He would not entrust such information to me…”

 

Ginny tossed and turned in her bed, totally oblivious to the interview taking place a few rooms down the hall from her. Her long red locks were a tangled mess, falling gently on her shoulders as she sat up on the mattress and pulled her knees up so she could rest her elbows on them. Her tired eyes searched the empty blackness. She was cold in her thin pajama pants and shirt; the comforter was pulled up over her legs, but she shivered anyway. Pulling the covers away from her, she shoved her arms into the robe that was laid across the chair next to her nightstand. Unable to sleep, she located the fireplace and set it alight before making her way out of the room and down to the kitchen.

 

As she walked into the room, the tile cold on her feet, a small white and brown dog resembling a Jack Russell terrier looked up at her from near the stove. The dog stood on its paws, tilting its head at her in slight wonder, or so she supposed based on its expression. She smiled, calling it over before she crouched down to pet it. She noticed the missing tail and realized silently that it wasn’t a terrier at all. The crup looked up at her as she scratched just behind his ears.

 

“I see you’ve met Gus,” a deep, calming voice said from behind her. She looked up at Kingsley and nodded with a small, groggy smile.

 

“Is he yours?”

 

“Yep, a pain in the neck to keep track of, though.” He smiled down at her as she stood up. They stood there for a minute in silence before he asked, “Did I hear Harry and you going at it earlier?”

 

“Which time?” she asked, causing him to raise his brow at her questioningly. She sighed. “Harry and I don’t exactly have the same opinions as of late."

 

“Funny, I thought you two would’ve gotten hitched or something after you got together last year,” he told her. He watched her carefully avoid his eye as he spoke, making a point of watching the dog instead. He knew it was difficult for her although he did not fully understand the intricacies of it all.

 

“It’s not that I never saw that myself, you know. It’s just that I am seeing so much more clearly now, and I realize that we probably won’t get back together. I care for him; that ages ago I always have. But I stopped caring for him like.” She looked up at him. “I know no one has noticed I’m not a child anymore, but I’m not. Something I do understand, at least a smidge, is love and what it feels like to fall in and out of it.” Her lips pursed momentarily. “It was Harry’s choice, you know. Not mine. Not that I’m complaining that it's over. Not anymore, anyway.”

 

Kingsley was in a state of slight shock. He had known the small girl for almost two years now, and one thing she did not often do was open up. This explanation of her love life and how she felt about Harry was totally unexpected.

 

“Am I interrupting?” a feminine voice asked from the doorway. They turned to see a woman in her early twenties with hair the color of bubble gum. Ginny smiled at Tonks, uttering a quiet word of greeting. Kingsley seemed to go a bit stiff, but he relaxed after a moment and Ginny wasn't even sure she hadn't imagined it. “It’s a bit late, don’t you think, Ginny?” Tonks inquired as she walked over to the counter to pour herself some tea.

 

“Couldn’t sleep,” answered Ginny, bemused. Nymphadora Tonks was not known for being necessarily mature or grown up. For her to be telling Ginny to go to bed was rather uncharacteristic to stay the least. Ginny shrugged off her confusion; oddities were all too common in recent times. “Why the late visit?” she asked in a lighter tone.

 

“Came by to see Remus before going off on another mission,” Tonks answered almost dreamily, grinning. Ginny felt Kingsley go stiff again at the mention of her coming to see Remus. Ginny made a mental note to ask him about it the next time she had the chance. “Where is he anyhow?”

 

“I’m not sure,” Ginny said. Tonks nodded slightly, sipping her tea, and looked at Kingsley.

 

“He’s a bit busy at the moment,” he answered, causing Tonks to quirk a violet eyebrow at him.

 

“Busy doing what?”

 

“Why don’t you ask your puppy dog when he’s through?” Kingsley shot. Ginny gaped up at him. Kingsley was usually so calm and stoic; it was bizarre to see him losing his composure like this.

 

“Could I talk to you for a moment in private?” Ginny asked him. He looked down at her and nodded slightly.

 

“Someone’s a bit snippy this evening,” Tonks muttered as they left the room.

They entered the sitting area and Ginny spun around to look at Kingsley. “What was that about?” she asked, confusion lacing its way through her voice. “I thought you and Tonks were mates. What happened?”

 

Kingsley didn’t answer. His olive skin looked darker than it had a moment before; the light was dimmer in here and it no longer glistened on the hairless skin of his scalp. He looked down at her as if he wanted to tell her something, but the words never came.

 

“Well?” she prodded.

 

“It’s nothing, Ginny,” he told her. His voice, calming as it was, took on certain gruffness in his response. She stared at him, debating silently whether or not to continue her questioning.

 

“Did you and Lupin have a thing?” she asked suddenly. Kingsley’s gaze locked with hers. He didn’t have to say anything. She knew the answer already. “Figures. Why didn’t you say anything, you stupid bloke?” she nearly shrieked at him. He laughed at her enthusiasm.

 

“It doesn’t matter, Ginny. He and Tonks are at unofficial relationship status. He’s moved on,” he told her.

 

She continued to stare incredulously up at him. “Doesn’t seem like you are."

 

“Ginny.”

 

“I’m not going to do anything! I’m just saying. Maybe you should . . . you know . . . talk to him if you haven’t already? I love Tonks dearly, but if you’re not going to fight for Remus then forget him,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone.

 

“Get on to bed, will you?” he told her, evading the subject.

 

“Ooo, nice way to avoid the topic,” she joked as he shoved her gently out of the room. He could hear her laughing all the way upstairs.

 

Kingsley shook his head, listening to the floorboards overhead creak under her weight, and sat down in one of the large armchairs. His fingers absently played with a hole in the arm where the stuffing was falling out.

 

“Only Ginny . . .” he muttered to himself.