The eldest Weasley brother and his new bride gazed lovingly into each other’s eyes, gliding across the soft green grass as Celestina Warbeck serenaded them from the wireless. Nearby, Ron Weasley rocked back and forth in an awkward manner, blushing to the tips of his ears when Hermione Granger stretched up and pressed a light kiss on his lips. From the happy, animated chatter and relaxed atmosphere permeating the small garden behind the Burrow, one would never guess that a war had begun only weeks before; that one of the guests – currently sneaking into the broom shed with the pretty, young Weasley girl – was the key to the war’s end.

Draco Malfoy was all too aware of these facts, having been essentially responsible for the first volley in the battle. It was ironic, he supposed, that his part in the murder of Albus Dumbledore had left him in the care of the Order of the Phoenix. Returning to the Death Eaters was not an option, not that he particularly wished to go back. That he was unable to commit the murder of the Hogwarts headmaster himself was unpardonable to the Dark Lord. If he was found, a simple death by Avada Kedavra would be the most optimistic outcome.

When Severus Snape suggested to Draco’s mother that she appeal to Molly Weasley to look after Draco until a more suitable hiding place could be secured, he’d balked. He couldn’t think of a less acceptable place for a Malfoy to stay. Narcissa Malfoy had been resolute, however. With Lucius still languishing in Azkaban and the Dark Lord no longer favoring them, his mother was not about to risk losing Draco. It had not been an easy sell, but eventually the Weasley matron had agreed to hide him. As far as Draco knew, the only other individuals aware of his location were Arthur Weasley and the daughter, Ginny. There was a slim satisfaction in the fact that Harry Potter and his sidekicks were not in the know, even if it was solely due to Mrs. Weasley’s belief that they ‘had enough on their minds without worrying about what’s happening at the Burrow’.

And so, in the interest of secrecy, Draco had been banished to the dusty, ghoul-inhabited attic for the duration of the wedding festivities. Only Mrs. Weasley’s occasional flickering glances towards the high attic window and the ghoul’s abnormally active pipe banging betrayed his presence. With a sigh, he stepped away from the window and rummaged through the basket of goodies his hostess had packed for him. Selecting a particularly scrumptious looking piece of rum cake, Draco muttered, “Plebian rubbish.” The ghoul didn’t appear convinced.

It was well after midnight before the guests began to leave. Eventually he heard the sounds of Mr. and Mrs. Weasley making their way up the stairs to bed. Having long since polished off his food, Draco decided to risk a trip to the kitchen.

As he was about to descend the final set of stairs, Draco heard the front door open and someone step inside. Flattening himself against the wall, he listened carefully.

“Ron, Hermione!” Harry Potter’s hushed voice drifted up the stairwell. “Wake up!”

Groggily, Hermione Granger answered, “Harry, what’s going on?”

“It’s time to go,” Potter replied.

“I thought we weren’t leaving until morning,” Ron Weasley yawned.

Draco could see Potter at the bottom of the stairwell, looking towards the living room. “I think it would be best if we go now.”

“Is something wrong?” “Mum will be disappointed if she doesn’t get to say goodbye.” Their voices crossed over each other as they tried to establish the cause of this change in plan.

Potter looked uncomfortable. “I just don’t want a big scene about our leaving. You know how your mum is, Ron. She’s liable to start crying and decide we need a babysitter like Moody to go along with us. Besides, if we stay, it’ll be awkward with Ginny and I having called things off.”

Especially after you’ve spent the afternoon in the broom shed with her, Draco thought to himself.

“I reckon you’re right, but Mum’s not going to be happy about it,” Ron sighed.

Hermione was not as easily convinced. “This is all about you not wanting to face Ginny, isn’t it?” she sniped. No one ever accused the Mudblood of being stupid.

“Hermione,” whined Potter.

“Oh fine, you coward,” she snapped. “You boys never cease to amaze me. Who else would rush off early to fight the most villainous wizard of all time just to avoid an emotional situation?”

Draco waited as they gathered their things and left, giving a few extra minutes in case they came back for some reason. Then he continued on to the kitchen to find something to eat.

Grabbing a cupcake off the table, he sat down and devoured it quickly. He was just about to go for a second when the door opened again.

Bugger, thought Draco as he dropped down under the table.

“Harry,” Ginny Weasley’s soft voice called as she tiptoed into the kitchen. Bits of grass clung to her tousled hair. She stifled a yawn, absently smoothing her rumpled clothes. “Harry?”

“He’s not here,” Draco drawled, moving out of his hiding place.

Whipping out her wand, Ginny spun to face him with eyes widened in surprise. As recognition set in, the surprise turned into irritation.

“What are you doing down here?” she demanded in a harsh whisper. “Someone might see you!”

“I’ve just told you, there’s no one here. I saw Potter leave with Weasel King and the Mudblood just as I was coming downstairs,” he replied casually, picking through the food still laid out on the table. “Besides, I was hungry. I’ve been in the attic all bloody day.”

Ginny craned her head towards the family room, obviously unsettled by this turn of events. “Harr… They weren’t supposed to leave until morning. Why did they go now – in the middle of the night?”

Draco crossed to the pantry, pulling items out at random then placing them back on the shelf with a frown. “I wasn’t exactly prepared to takes notes, Freckles. They just left. Is there any more of that rum cake?”

The splat of a moist and spongy baked good hitting the side of his face was the only answer he received. Shaking the bulk of the ruined dessert to the floor, he scowled at the young witch who stood, unsurprisingly, with her wand still raised.

“Was that really necessary?”

“It got your attention, didn’t it?” Ginny answered. “My name is Ginny, by the way, and I want to know what they said when they left.”

A familiar smirk pulled at his lip. “I’ll tell you what they said if you tell me what you and Potty were up to in that broom shed.”

The poor lighting made it difficult to say for sure, but Draco thought he could discern a blush creeping up her face. Satisfaction washed over him. “What do you say, Freckles?”

“Git,” she spat before racing up the stairs.

With a laugh, he called after her, “You might want to get that grass out of your hair before you mother sees you.”

This time he was able to dodge the airborne treat.

In the following days, Draco found that little was expected of him by the Weasleys. Mr. Weasley didn’t spare him more than an occasional disapproving look; and while Mrs. Weasley often tasked Ginny with chores, all she seemed to want from Draco was for him to entertain himself and stay out of the way. In a house as small as the Burrow, Draco found this a more difficult task than one might expect. Since he wasn’t allowed out of the house, his time was mostly spent reading in the kitchen.

There were a number of reasons why he chose that particular location. Firstly, covert observation was something of a pastime for Draco. In Slytherin House it was always advantageous to keep an eye on the goings on around you. You never knew what piece of information might turn out to be useful later, so it was best to make note of as much as possible. The kitchen was the busiest location in the Weasley household and while Draco doubted he’d learn anything of interest from this sort of family, he needed to keep his skill honed.

Secondly, however common the food might be, Mrs. Weasley was quite a good cook. Sitting nearby while she prepared meals meant Draco was likely to have a bit of nosh put in front of him from time to time.

Lastly, even the wooden, straight-back dining chairs were preferable to the lumpy mess in the living room that passed as a sofa. It had taken him a full ten minutes to escape that deadly cushioned beast the one and only time he’d dared to sit on it.

So, as Draco worked his way through Ron’s Quidditch magazines, the old copies of Dragon Keeper Weekly, and an incredibly dull tome detailing cauldron specifications around the globe, he became familiar with the habits and idiosyncrasies of the family with whom he resided. Mr. Weasley favored hot porridge with raisins for breakfast, even though it was summer. Mrs. Weasley glanced at the strange spoon clock on the wall every time she entered or exited the kitchen, without fail. And the girl Weasley made her way to the kitchen every afternoon at three o’clock to look for the post owl and make a concoction of milk, soda water, and chocolate syrup. She’d yet to offer Draco any of the drink, which he found very rude. He was fond of chocolate.

One afternoon, when Mrs. Weasley had gone out, Draco made up his mind to tell the girl just what he thought of her greediness and lack of manners. Ginny came into the kitchen, making her usual stop at the window to check for owls. As she began mixing the ingredients for her drink, Draco called to her.

“Freckles,” he began.

“My name is Ginny,” the rude one countered sourly, not bothering to turn around.

Draco smirked. “So you’ve said. Look, I’ve been meaning to speak to you about your abysmal manners.”

Ginny faced him, brown eyes round with disbelief. “My abysmal manners?” she said. “You, king of all that is snotty, want to complain about my manners?” She took a threatening step towards him, her hand drifting to her wand. “Sod off.”

Keeping an eye on the twitchy witch’s wand, Draco continued, “I was merely going to point out that it’s impolite to fix a special treat for yourself, and not to offer any to your guest.”

“You,” Ginny said, pointing her wand at him accusingly, “are not a guest. You are a pest that has infested my home. If you want something, you can bloody well get it yourself! I’m not here to serve you!”

“Fine,” Draco sulked. As though he’d prepare his own food – ridiculous! “You keep it all to yourself and get fat like your mother.”

It occurred to him a split second before the beverage splashed over his head that he might have pushed the envelope a little too far. Licking at the drips running down his face, he was annoyed to find the drink was every bit as tasty as it looked.

After that, Ginny made sure Draco knew just how much she enjoyed her chocolaty beverage. Emitting happy sighs and licking foamy moustaches from her upper lip, she’d stare at Draco as she drank the whole thing. Eventually it was more than he could put up with, and he resolved to take his chances with the sofa of death.

Having worked his way through most of the available reading material in the small house, Draco found himself picking up one of Mrs. Weasley’s romance novels, much to his distain. It was the sort of book with busty witches in frilly robes and muscle-bound wizards with roguish good looks on the cover. Draco snorted and laughed his way through the predictable tale, then reached for another.

As he thumbed through the shelf of books the picture on one of the covers caught his eye. A ginger-haired witch stared lustily at her sharp-featured lover, tangling her fingers in his blond locks as he leaned in for a kiss. The woman looked very much like Ginny Weasley, if a bit more voluptuous. She was quite pretty.

“He looks a bit like you, doesn’t he?”

Draco’s head snapped up at the redhead’s comment. Ginny was peering down at the cover in a contemplative way.

“I mean, he’s more muscular, of course, but the facial features are similar,” she continued.

Frowning, Draco examined the cover again. “A little, I suppose,” he conceded. “I was thinking that she looks rather like you – only with a better figure.”

With a roll of her eyes, Ginny laughed. “Oh, you are a charmer, aren’t you?”

For once, Draco had the decency to look sheepish. He was very glad to be out of the vicinity of any food, lest she be tempted to cover him with it.

Leaving him to his romance, Ginny pulled out an old photo album and sat on the floor leafing through it. Draco had a difficult time concentrating on the book, frequently flipping back to stare at the cover. It was true the figures on the cover resembled them. How odd to see his likeness and hers in such a pose. It ought to have been distasteful to him, but Draco couldn’t quite convince himself to be repulsed by the thought of Ginny Weasley in his arms. Puzzling. Not one to spend a lot of energy on introspection, Draco abandoned the book and struggled out of the sofa’s cushions to see what the Weasley girl was looking at.

The photo album was open at a page filled with images of happy red-haired children at the beach. In one photo the oldest two Weasley boys waved from the water. In another Percy Weasley smiled proudly next to a large sand castle, only to have it demolished by Fred and George a moment later. A very small Ginny, dressed in a ruffled swimsuit, danced in circles with another child in a two-piece. Draco did a double-take.

“Is that Weasel King?” he exclaimed. “In a bikini?”

“Technically,” Ginny corrected, trying to keep a straight face, “that is a tankini.”

Draco howled. “Whatever you call it, why is he wearing a girl’s swimsuit?”

“Ron was a very modest child,” she explained. “He’s always been a bit of a prude, really, more like Percy than he likes to admit.” Taking in Draco’s incredulous expression, she dissolved into giggles. “He’d kill me if he knew I let you see that picture.”

Ginny turned the page and a loose picture fell out of the album. It was several years old, but more recent than the other photos in the album. In it, a Ginny of about eleven years watched wistfully from the window as outside Harry Potter laughed with her brothers as they hurled gnomes from the garden. The real Ginny shoved the picture into the album quickly, her face inscrutable.

An awkward silence settled over the teens. Draco wasn’t sure why it bothered him that she might be upset, but he felt like he ought to say something.

“The night they left, I remember what they said,” he offered softly.

She looked at him with a rueful grin, and the clock struck three. “It doesn’t matter,” she said, closing the album and getting to her feet. “Let’s get an egg cream.”

Relieved not to have to spend any more time talking about Potter, Draco followed her to the kitchen. “A what?” he asked.

“An egg cream, it’s the drink I make. Hermione told me about them after she and her parents took a trip to New York.”

“But it doesn’t have eggs or cream in it, does it?” Draco inquired, mentally running through the things he’d seen her mix together.

Ginny laughed and shrugged her shoulders. “No, neither one. What do you expect, it’s a Muggle thing.”

And like that, the afternoon ritual changed. Ginny no longer seemed to care whether post was coming, and Draco finally got to enjoy the drink he’d been coveting, even if he was occasionally expected to help her make it. It was a sacrifice he could make for the sake of his clothing, which could only endure so many encounters with flying food.

It was during one of these daily snack breaks that Mrs. Weasley came in smiling and carrying a letter. Ginny and Draco had been arguing over which Quidditch team was likely to take home the cup this year, but were interrupted by zaftig matron.

“Draco! I’ve heard from your mother. She’s found a place for you both to stay, isn’t that wonderful?”

Draco sat for a moment, just blinking at her. At length he managed to say, “Yes, wonderful.” He wasn’t certain he actually meant it, though.

“You’re to go first thing tomorrow morning,” Mrs. Weasley continued. “I have a portkey for you which will activate at nine o’clock.”

“I’d better get packed,” Draco said, rising from the table. Ginny sat quietly, studying her egg cream.

As he gathered his things, Draco wondered why he wasn’t happier to be reuniting with his mother. He’d missed her, and been worried about her. Still, it wouldn’t be the same without…

There was a knock at his bedroom door, and Ginny peeked in.

“Can I come in?” she asked, not waiting for his response before stepping into the room and closing the door behind her.

“So you’re leaving, then,” she said, absently kicking the bed frame.

“Excellent statement of the obvious, Freckles.”

Ginny raised an eyebrow at him. “Say it with me, Malfoy. Ginny. Gin-ny.”

“I’d rather not,” he said, continuing to organize his belongings.

“Look, Draco,” Ginny said, jerking him by the arm. He looked down at her quizzically, waiting for her to continue. Instead she reached up, sliding her fingers through his hair and tugging his face down to hers. Just like on the cover of that book, Draco thought in a daze.

The first brush of her lips was like satin. Instinctively his arms went around her, pulling her closer. As his tongue swept into her mouth, Ginny gave a small sigh and urged him on. It was bliss, kissing her, feeling her small frame tight against him. He could have gone on like this for hours had it not been for the unwelcome image of her waiting by the window every afternoon that slipped into his mind. He wouldn’t pull a Potter on her. He couldn’t lead her on that way, knowing he was leaving in the morning.

Gently, he pushed her away. “Ginny, stop.” She looked up at him, confused. “This isn’t a good idea.”

“You didn’t seem to mind a second ago,” she snapped.

“I know,” Draco admitted. “I just don’t think we should.”

Angry tears threatened, and Ginny turned away. “Fine,” she said, and stormed out of the room, leaving Draco alone again.

The next morning Draco stood in the living room, waiting for the thimble portkey to activate. Ginny had not come down from her room, and he hadn’t been able to work up the courage to say goodbye. It was too late now, as his last minute at the Burrow ticked past. He felt the familiar tug at his navel, and looked up just in time to see Ginny, still in her nightgown, rushing down the stairs. She gave a small wave as he disappeared.


Four years later, Draco returned to England. He and his mother had lived on a small Greek island during the war. She’d taken ill and Draco had spent the next few years caring for her and going from hospital to hospital to find the specialists who could help her. His mother was still weak, but her illness had been cured and she wanted to return home.

He’d thought of contacting Ginny often, but it seemed unlikely that she’d want to hear from him after all this time. In retrospect, that summer seemed more like a strange dream than an actual memory.

The Malfoy Manor Draco and Narcissa Malfoy returned to was a dusty, doxy-ridden mess and Draco had spent the morning shopping for new linens in Diagon Alley. Having accomplished his objective, he decided to stop in a small pub before heading home. He took a seat at the bar, ordering a butterbeer from the cheerful barkeep.

A familiar laugh drew his attention, and in the back corner Draco saw a large group of women chatting animatedly. It was obviously a celebration of some kind, and he recognized several of the ladies in attendance. One of them was Ginny, looking lovely and raising her glass in a toast.

“Excuse me, but what’s all the commotion at that back table?” he asked the bartender.

“Oh,” the man replied with a merry laugh, “that’s a bridal shower for the Weasley wedding. They’ve been having a grand time.”

Draco felt like the air had fled from his lungs. So, Ginny was getting married. Why should he be surprised? It wasn’t as though they’d had a long term relationship. They’d shared one kiss; that was all. Still, the news stung more than he would’ve expected.

Pulling out a pen, he scribbled a quick note on his napkin. He hailed the bartender.

“Can you mix something special for me?” Draco asked.


“A gift from the gentleman at the bar,” the bartender said, setting down the drink and the note which accompanied it.

“Oh! That’s very kind,” Hermione laughed. “Gracious, is that an egg cream? I haven’t had one of those in years.”

“An egg cream?” Ginny asked, astonished. “Someone sent you an egg cream?”

Hermione nodded in the affirmative. “There’s a note, too.” She scanned it, looking puzzled. “Well, that doesn’t make any sense at all.”

“What does eet say?” Fluer queried from across the table.

“It says ‘Congratulations, Freckles.’ There’s no signature.”

While the other women wondered at the curious message, Ginny’s heart pounded. “Who did you say sent this over?” she asked the barkeep.

“The gentleman at the bar, miss,” he answered, pointing to a now empty stool. “Oh, he seems to have left. How very strange.”

“Excuse me,” Ginny said, bolting from her chair and rushing out of the pub.

She saw him several yards away, walking slowly, seemingly lost in thought.

“Draco!” she called. “Draco Malfoy!”

He stopped and turned, waiting for her to catch up to him.

“Why did you leave?” Ginny asked, throwing her arms around him. “It’s so good to see you!”

Draco patted her back awkwardly. “You were involved in your party. I didn’t want to intrude.” He cleared his throat. “Congratulations, by the way.”

Releasing him, Ginny stepped back. “Thanks. It was only a matter of time; we’ve expected it for ages. They’ve been dating for years, after all.”

“Who?” Draco asked.

“Ron and Hermione, of course! Who else?”

Draco’s heart jumped in his chest. “So, you’re not engaged?” he inquired hopefully, wanting confirmation.

Ginny looked at him as though he had three heads. “Me?” She laughed. “Is that what you thought?”

“Well, the bartender said it was a bridal shower for the Weasley wedding. I just assumed…”

With a Cheshire smile, Ginny snaked her arms over Draco’s shoulders, pressing herself against him. “I’m not engaged,” she said, staring into his eyes. “I’m not dating anyone. I’m completely available.”

Relief flooded over him. Wrapping his arms securely around Ginny’s waist and leaning down until their lips were almost touching, Draco whispered, “No, you’re not.”