Have a Little Faith, Miss Weasley

“Protect it carefully, Miss Weasley. It’s vital that this arrives at Ministry headquarters intact.”

Ginny nodded, taking the package from the Headmistress’s shaking hands. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll do my best to ensure nothing happens to it.” Curious what could be so important that Minerva McGonagall’s blue eyes were filled with tears at the thought of losing it, the young redhead asked her, “What’s in it?” But the old witch just smiled and laughed nervously.

“Of course, it has the usual Deflection Charms, all sorts of protection cast on it. Professor Flitwick put his very best into it.” The clock on the mantle struck ten, and the Headmistress gasped and placed a hand to her heart. “It’s time for you to go. Madam Hooch will be along any minute.”

“Good morning, Headmistress. Miss Weasley,” the flying instructor greeted them with a slight smile and nod of her head. They acknowledged her and murmured their ‘good mornings’ politely.

“You need to be there and checked in by no later than 11:30. I expect the queue will be rather long, with all the arrests they’ve made lately. Madam Hooch? What do you have for her Portkey?”

“Dobby’s old pillowcase. He gave it gladly,” she replied, not bothering to hide her disgust at its shabby condition.

Ginny wrinkled her nose at it. “That’s, um, very kind of him. But I still don’t see why I can’t Apparate. I’ve been trained, and I have my license.”

“It’s far too risky. There are bound to be spies outside of Hogwarts, just waiting to see who or what we’ll send.” McGonagall frowned. Ginny couldn’t help but notice how tired the headmistress looked; she had relied on Dumbledore so much, and with him gone, things were really starting to take a toll on her.

At last, the old Gryffindor said, “You’d better go now, dear. When you get there, go down to the lowest level and check in with the wizard at the front desk. He’ll be expecting you. Good luck.” She took one last look at her and breathed shakily. “Remember, Miss Weasley. People’s lives are at stake here.” Ginny nodded and pressed the package close to her chest.

As Madam Hooch escorted her down to the Quidditch field, the two conversed very little. This was what Ginny had come to expect from the old flying instructor: she was a woman of few words, and what she did say was spoken in her usual quick, sharp tones. It was as if time was always working against her.

When the youngest Weasley first came to Hogwarts, she didn’t like Madam Hooch very much. Fred and George had told her the instructor wasn’t one to joke around. This bothered their little sister, who thought that flying should be fun, especially if you were playing Quidditch. But over time, the young witch grew to appreciate Madam Hooch. She helped her hone her flying skills and learn to use her strengths as a woman to become a better Chaser, and for that, she was thankful.

When Ginny had finished her magical education last year, she was flattered by Madam Hooch’s request that she stay on and be her apprentice. The instructor wanted her help in realizing a dream she had long had: to be the first school to have a top-notch, all-girls Quidditch team. In fact, Madam Hooch felt there should be entire witches-only leagues, instead of just the one team in all of Britain. She believed it would promote athletics for young witches, an area that was sorely lacking in opportunities for them. Ginny had come from a long line of competitive Quidditch players, so Madam Hooch assigned her the task of teaching female students how to play the game. Once a girl learned to ride a broomstick and expressed an interest, she was allowed to enter the program.

At last, the pair arrived at the pitch. The winds had picked up a bit, but the weather was rather nice for late October. They walked several paces from the stands then stopped. “Well, this is just as good a spot as any, I suppose,” Madam Hooch announced dully. She set down the worn-out piece of bedding then cast the activation spell. Meanwhile, Ginny prepared mentally for the dizzying effects of Portkey travel. She clutched one arm tightly around the package and bent down to touch the cloth.

A few seconds later, she stood near the telephone box that led straight down to the Ministry of Magic offices. Once she had dusted off her robes, she checked to make sure the package had not ripped or sustained any other damage. It appeared to be fine, but she shook it carefully and listened, just to be sure; hearing only an indistinct, muffled noise, she stepped into the booth and followed standard procedure required for admission. She had her wand checked by the security wizard then entered the lift and began her descent.

Once the lift had reached its lowest level, Ginny took the stairs to the level of her final destination. Long before actually reaching the doors, she could see that the queue snaked in and out, winding back and forth for several feet. She sighed. She just wanted make her delivery and leave. After an indeterminate amount of time, she found herself face to face with a wizard who had a grey, walrus-style moustache and extremely bushy eyebrows. He looked like the most boring wizard on the planet.

Most people, even the dullest ones she’d ever met, tended to take notice of Ginny’s shockingly red hair when they first encountered her. It was almost annoying, really. But this man just stared down at his forms, inked his quill without even looking up, and said dully, “Name?”

“Weasley. Ginny Weasley.”

He wrote her name in the required block of his form then visually scanned a list positioned on the left side of his desk. “Ah, yes, Weasley. Here you are. You’re from Hogwarts, right?”

“Yes, sir. Headmistress McGonagall sent me,” she informed him, although it was obvious from the look on his face that he couldn’t care less if the Minister himself had sent her.

“I figured as much,” he said blandly, narrowing his eyes to study his list. “You’re defending . . . Malfoy. Draco Malfoy.” Only when he heard the gasp the name drew from Miss Weasley did he look up.

Ginny’s mouth hung open. “I-I’m what? Defending? Oh, no, there must be some mistake. I’m just here to deliver this t-to you, and then I’m leaving. Isn’t that right?”

“Not according to my log. It says that you are testifying on behalf of one Draco Malfoy, former student at your school. McGonagall’s orders. It’s right here,” he said in a snooty tone as he pointed to his manifest, meeting her eyes for the first time. “Now, go in the courtroom and listen for them to call the younger Mr. Malfoy. You know what he looks like?” She nodded.

Ginny gulped. Was McGonagall out of her mind? She might have told her first . . . how could she be expected—

“Your package, Miss Weasley? Won’t do to leave it here. And don’t forget to open it when you’re called.” She stared at him in wide-eyed disbelief and nodded. When she turned around to look for an empty seat in the waiting area, the walrus-moustached wizard muttered sarcastically at her back, “Nice hair,” then went back to his list of names and cases.

Soon, chaotic shouts began to emerge from the next room: the place where the Death Eater trials were being held. A loud roar suddenly erupted, followed by a few shrieks from some of the spectators. One middle-aged witch in periwinkle blue robes appeared to have fainted. As two men carried her out, Ginny took the opportunity to find herself a seat inside the crowded courtroom.

Lucius Malfoy was being led out of the room. He was livid. He had earned himself a one-way ticket to Azkaban, and his property had been seized. Next on the docket was a wizard many had believed to be dead, Peter Pettigrew. Very much alive, he stood accused of being a close associate of the Dark Lord. He was brought to the stand and locked into place. After him was Lucius Malfoy’s only child, the person Ginny was supposed to help defend: Draco Malfoy.

Scrimgeour began by saying something about Pettigrew’s known Animagus status and that if he so much as attempted (he repeated the word ‘attempted’) to transform himself, the guards had orders to kill him on the spot. The man who had lived as Ginny’s brothers’ pet rat for over a decade nodded and shuddered visibly. Before the first question was asked, he was crying loudly. It wasn’t long before he was divulging high-level secrets: places, events, methods, spells – anything that might save his pathetic, worthless life.

Ginny ignored much of Pettigrew’s simpering testimony and observed her client dispassionately. She could tell he’d been imprisoned, for he had that thin, pale, rather haunted look that most Azkaban residents wore after just a few short months. He looked far less haughty – almost repentant, in fact. But not quite. Besides, she was no fool; it was clearly an act for the Wizengamot.

The infamous traitor continued his testimony, and as he did, the crowd gasped now and again. They began to talk in hushed tones which soon grew out of hand. Scrimgeour banged his gavel loudly, demanding order and ensuring the spectators that they would all be asked to leave if he did not get it.

Ginny paid little heed to the din but continued to watch Draco for that trademark smirk or his hateful sneer that spoke contempt for anybody who was not in his circle of friends.

But all she saw was a sad, scared little boy, the same one who had made fun of her all those years ago inside Flourish and Blotts. He had just gotten bigger. When the light came back to his eyes, he scowled as he looked out at the crowd, which was finally responding to the Minister’s commands for silence.

Ginny rolled her eyes at Malfoy’s phony contrition. She scoffed to herself rather loudly, not realizing that the crowd had finally become silent. Scrimgeour gave a nonverbal warning by pointing his gavel directly at her. Ginny’s face turned scarlet. She bit her lip and looked down at the package in her lap, wondering once more what could be inside.

Just then, Draco happened to look up and catch a glimpse of the Minister of Magic. The old man was staring angrily at the spectators; in fact, he was aiming his gavel at one in particular. Only then did the accused notice the supremely embarrassed redhead. He blinked and did a double-take.

What the hell is a Weasley doing here? he wondered to himself. Her presence bothered him: was she going to make things even more difficult for him, listing all the grievances he had committed against Potter and the other Gryffindors over the years?

Would this day never end?

Meanwhile, the terrified Peter Pettigrew had moved on to naming names. Many of them were the fathers, mothers, grandparents, and uncles of practically everyone Draco had ever known. Even a few of his former schoolmates were implicated. No one was safe, it seemed, no matter how young or old.

I should have known you would rat out everyone you could. Anything to save your own skin. But it won’t help. You’re going to get a life sentence for what you’ve done – if you’re lucky, they’ll let you keep your soul. They just wanted to use you, you stupid fool.

Draco was right: there would be no reprieve today for the wizard who had once been friends with James Potter, Remus Lupin, and Sirius Black. Once he was done, the Minister of Magic thanked him then sent him on his way to Azkaban, where he was to receive the Dementor’s Kiss immediately on arrival. Pettigrew started to cry and shake in terror. His screaming was quickly squelched with a Silencio! as the guards forced him out of the room, snarling and biting like a rat that was cornered. She watched him intently, waiting for any signs of transformation, but none came.

Banging his gavel once again, Scrimgeour said in a booming voice, “Next!”

Someone called out the name, “Draco Malfoy!” Ginny jumped to attention.

The prisoner was drawn to the stand where he would face the greatest challenge of his life: to save himself from a fate worse than death. He would be fighting for his very soul.

Scrimgeour considered the slender young man. His intense eyes narrowed as he scrutinized him. “Well, Malfoy. You’re a bit young for a Death Eater, aren’t you? Is someone here to defend you?”

“Er, I—” he began nervously.

“Yes, Minister Scrimgeour,” Ginny said as she jumped to her feet. “I am.”

He turned his gaze to the redheaded witch who had stood up. “And you are?”

“Ginny Weasley. Headmistress MacGonagall sent me from Hogwarts. I work there.”

“So I gathered.” Addressing the witness, he asked, “And why did she send you?”

“I-I’m not sure,” she stammered, feeling incredibly stupid. A few people tittered while others laughed out loud. But the Minister was not amused.

Suddenly remembering the package, Ginny lifted it and said quickly, “She told me to bring this with me.”

“Aren’t you going to open it?” the Minister of Magic said with a derisive sneer. This even made Draco Malfoy chuckle a bit, despite his precarious position.

She blushed profusely and proceeded to undo the wrapping; incredibly, it had not sustained a single rip. When she saw what was inside, she gasped. Her mouth fell open as she stared.

It was a painting.

“Professor Dumbledore!” Ginny said to the portrait. “What—?” She couldn’t think what else to say.

“Good morning, Miss Weasley. It is still morning, is it not?” She nodded, and he smiled and gave her a wink. “Excellent! Now, turn me around so I can face the Wizengamot and testify on Draco’s behalf.”

This is insane, she thought as the portrait of Albus Dumbledore proceeded to defend the very person who had tried his best to end the old man’s life. In Ginny’s estimation, if it weren’t for Draco Malfoy, she wouldn’t be here with a talking, animated portrait of the man she had known as Headmaster for nearly all her life. Once the portrait was set on an easel, the wizard explained his view of the events that had irrevocably reshaped this poor young man’s life, starting with the arrest of the boy’s father and the subsequent assignment from Voldemort.

Dumbledore paced back and forth in the frame, occasionally sitting down to rest. “For many decades, I was quite skilled at Legillimens. It was this ability that warned me early on of Tom Riddle’s dark ambitions and his burning desire to harm Muggles. Knowing that helped me keep him from succeeding in completely taking over our world during his first rise to power. His heart was filled with hatred from a young age, and this disturbed me. In fact, he very much wanted a position teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts. Based on what I had seen inside him, I refused to give him the job. Can you imagine how much more quickly he could have reached his goals if I had acquiesced and hired him, as some of my staff members thought I should?

“Why do I tell you this? To show that I was a good judge of character because I was able to read what was in a person’s heart. This is why I trusted Severus Snape up to the time of my death; I assure you, my judgment was not flawed. When the time came, Snape did what he had to do to save Draco from a horrible future. In doing so, he saved the entire Malfoy family from being tortured and killed at the hands of Lord Voldemort.”

“But Albus – the boy tried to kill you,” said Mafalda Hopkirk, a recent addition to the committee.

“Yes, Draco Malfoy tried to kill me. He tried. He gave it his very best effort.”

He paused to clean his spectacles then set them back carefully on the crook of his nose before continuing. “But his heart was not in it. I could see that. He had no malice toward me, and so he was unable to complete his task. He felt ashamed, and I felt pity for him. Sacrificing my life was a small price to pay to save this boy who, through no fault of his own, had this heavy burden thrust upon him.

“I hope the Wizengamot, in its combined wisdom, will see clear to free this young man, this bright wizard with so much talent, intelligence, and potential, from any wrongdoing. He truly was a lamb sent to slaughter. Thank you.”

The moment Dumbledore had finished his statement, the crowd stirred and began murmuring loudly. Scrimgeour was forced to bang his gavel repeatedly to quiet the lot of them. Ginny looked at the portrait of Dumbledore. He winked at her again, and she gave him a half-hearted smile.

How could he be so wrong? she thought.

“Don’t fret, Miss Weasley,” he whispered, causing her to wonder if his portrait could do Legillimens . . . the thought made her clear her mind and focus instead on the tattered sleeves of Draco Malfoy’s prison garb. Albus smiled at her then crossed his legs and rearranged his robes over them. Meanwhile, the committee privately discussed what they had heard.

The noise within the room grew steadily. Ginny ignored it and looked up at the accused. Was he truly remorseful? He certainly looked different. He didn’t make any threats or rude gestures – he just sat there, quiet, stoic, pensive. He didn’t even bother to mask his fear or the fact that he was shaking like a leaf. A solitary tear trickled over his pronounced cheekbone, but he made no move to hide it. It was as if he’d given up.

The Minister of Magic soon looked down one side of the row and then the other. One by one, the stodgy, old members nodded at him. As they nearly reached consensus, a wizard shook his head followed by a witch. Apparently, they wanted more information. Scrimgeour cleared his throat. “Will the defendant please rise?”

He did.

“Draco Malfoy, you have been accused of being a Death Eater and serving under the now deceased Tom Riddle, also known as Lord Voldemort, The Dark Lord, and You-Know-Who. Please raise your left sleeve so we may check for his mark, also called the Dark Mark.”

Ginny involuntarily tensed up and leaned forward; she wasn’t sure why, but if Professor Dumbledore still believed in him after all he’d done, then just maybe . . .

His arm was pale and unblemished. There was no mark. The spectators gasped again. “The son of Lucius Malfoy doesn’t have the Dark Mark? Impossible!” a woman not far from Ginny said loudly. “I can’t imagine how he—” another began, only to be cut off by the banging gavel and an angry, booming voice.

“This is my final warning to you people! If you wish to remain, I must have quiet – if you will not comply, I will Silencio all of you!” Addressing Draco once more, he asked, “Why didn’t you take the Dark Mark? I thought it was an honor, a symbol of one’s loyalty. Yet you do not have it. Why?”

The young wizard rolled his sleeve down and began to fidget. At last, he spoke on his own behalf. “He-he said I’d never get it. He called me a-a failure for not wanting to kill Dumbledore. I mean, I thought I did . . . but I didn’t want it enough. I didn’t – hate him enough. And the Dark Lord never forgave me for it. He never trusted me with another important task. Until he was destroyed and I was taken to Azkaban, I . . . ” He hesitated. “I-I was basically an ‘errand boy’ for him and those close to him. Little more than a house-elf, really.” He sniffed and looked down at his feet.

The Minister nodded. His lips were tight. At last he said, “We will deliberate this privately. The accused may be seated.”

Draco declined and instead rocked back and forth on his feet.

The Wizengamot set about reviewing the facts and discussing Draco Malfoy’s fate amongst themselves. The crowd anxiously held its breath. A short time later, the Minister of Magic passed down Draco’s sentence.

“Given the circumstances and the testimony of your intended victim, Albus Dumbledore, your sentence is reduced to time served—”

Gasps and cries of outrage and protest spread through the room once more, but a swift glare from Scrimgeour silenced them all. He went on loudly, “Time served, plus six months supervised house arrest.”

Draco gave a hollow laugh. “But I don’t have a house, remember? You just bloody confiscated it,” he snapped, trying to keep the sarcasm from coming through so the committee wouldn’t change its mind.

“Yes, that is a problem, Rufus,” said the man sitting to his right. Ginny thought his name was Fitzwilliam something.

The hazel-eyed witch next to him agreed but wasn’t sure what to do. “Well, he doesn’t need to go back to Azkaban – ten months is long enough for his crimes – but the boy has to live somewhere.”

Dumbledore cleared his throat and once again stood up within his portrait frame. “Why not let him live at Hogwarts? It’s a safe, secure environment where he can easily be kept in line. He could even serve a useful purpose of some sort for the staff. Give him a chance to learn and be helpful, without the pressure of Voldemort weighing in on him, and let’s see what he makes of himself.”

Now I know he’s bonkers, Ginny decided.

Most of the Wizengamot thought this was a splendid idea. What else could they do with him? He had no living relatives who could take him in, and Azkaban was deemed too harsh, given the circumstances.

“Done!” Scrimgeour pronounced the case closed with a bang of his gavel and called for the next prisoner to be brought forth. Dumbledore clapped his hands and smiled.

“Have a little faith, Miss Weasley,” he said encouragingly as she picked up his portrait. “Trust me: we did the right thing.” Despite his assurances, she wasn’t sure she agreed with him. She was escorted out of the building, a disgruntled yet greatly relieved Draco Malfoy in tow.

Draco returned to Hogwarts that afternoon with Ginny. For the first several days, Headmistress McGonagall was at a loss as to what to do with him.
“He can’t exactly return to classes as though nothing happened and expect to be treated like any other seventh year. Not only does he have a rather colorful history here, he’s at least two years older than the other students,” she said at their Friday staff meeting.

“We know, Minerva,” Professor Flitwick agreed. “But the boy needs to be doing something.”

“But he never finished his magical education,” Professor Sinistra reminded them.

“What is he best at?”

“You mean other than taking house points from Gryffindors?” one of the professors joked, eliciting a round of laughter from the table.

Flitwick offered, “He always did pretty well in my class.”

Madam Pomfrey looked at him and asked him pointedly, “Does that mean you want to work with him?”

“Well . . . not especially, no.”

Someone else suggested he take on detention-like duties: polishing trophies, sweeping the greenhouses, repairing broomsticks, and the like. It sounded fine, but most of them agreed there wouldn’t be enough of it to keep him busy. And as Hagrid mentioned, “Besides, if Malfoy does all ‘at, what kind of punishments would yeh hand out to any misbehavin’ students?”

Professor Vector cleared her throat. “Horace, haven’t you been thinking of retiring - again?” The elderly potions master nodded. “Perhaps he could be your apprentice and then take over your post when you leave?”

The Charms professor jumped in, “Only if in the interim, he finishes his education, in private study.” Horace too had his opinion on the subject.

“While that may sound like a good idea, Septima, I don’t think he’s got what it takes to teach potions. He’s skilled enough, perhaps, but . . . Now, I know Severus thought very highly of him, and I have nothing against Severus – God rest his soul, he was a good man – but I just don’t think the Malfoy lad’s top-notch when it comes to potions. At least, not like Harry Potter or his late mother, Lily Evans. Raw talent like that only comes along once in a very blue moon indeed . . . ”

Another staff member asked, “Would Mr. Malfoy even make a good professor? I can’t imagine him running a classroom. It could be chaotic.” Some nodded in agreement, but the headmistress came to his aid.

“Well, he’s not the most personable individual. But, if you recall, neither was Severus, and he was always excellent in whatever he taught.”

“Yes, except for his preferential treatment of anyone in his own house,” Professor Sprout noted.

The discussion went along in that vein for about 30 more minutes, with everyone trying to find a suitable position for their transient resident. At last, they found what seemed to be a viable solution. “Good. That’s settled, then. Madam Hooch, will you let Miss Weasley know?”

“Of course, Headmistress. First thing in the morning.”

“I’m what?” Ginny practically shouted to her superior.

“You are going to work with Draco Malfoy to get this girls Quidditch team up and ready. Other schools are catching on to the idea of an all-girls team, and Hogwarts will not be left behind.”

“But why him? Why me?”

“He’s a very good Seeker, Miss Weasley. We should put his talent to work.”

“But-but I’ve been a Seeker; I even caught the Golden Snitch!” she protested.

“Yes, I know you have. It was a lucky catch. But you are a born Chaser. Fortunately, you also seemed to have picked up some of your brothers’ talent for the position of Beater. But I’m afraid your Seeker skills, to put it bluntly, are somewhat sparse. I mean no offense, but that has never been your forte.

“When Miss Johnson chose you to temporarily replace Mr. Potter for Gryffindor several years ago, I was relieved, for your sake and that of your team, that you would not come up against Mr. Malfoy.”

Ginny just looked at her. Why didn’t they tell me I was that bad? she longed to ask but couldn’t bring herself to say. Instead, she swallowed her pride and faced the situation head-on. She knew that just working at this level so soon after she had finished school was an honor. Straightening her shoulders, she asked, “What methods do you wish me to employ, Madam Hooch?”

“That is entirely up to you, but I’d suggest you two start with some sort of game or trial to see who has the potential to become a great Seeker. From what I’m hearing, we’ll need one.”

“Now, hang on. You said he would be working with me, you didn’t say we’d be working together—”

The grey-haired instructor had to laugh. “How else did you suppose he would be working with you? From across the pitch using Omnioculars?”

Embarrassed, Ginny said, “No. I suppose not. I’ll – we’ll see what we can come up with.”

“That’s the spirit, my dear! Now go on. The girls are down in classroom eleven on the ground floor.”

“A classroom? Why aren’t they out on the pitch?”

“Have you noticed the weather at all today? It’s perfectly dreadful out there! Worst Saturday we’ve had in weeks. The girls can’t fly today; they’d catch their death.”

“Right,” Ginny said meekly, feeling utterly dense. “I suppose I’d better go join them and see what he’s teaching them.”

Like cheating!, she felt like saying but didn’t.

She left the office and stormed down the stairs toward the ground floor, grumbling to herself all the way. “So he thinks he can just waltz back into school, still acting as though he owns the place, as if nothing has changed? Just come right in with his cocky attitude and his Pureblood snobbery and upset our entire Girls Quidditch Program, a program that I have spent nine weeks planning and working on! We were finally getting somewhere: Anna had just gotten over her fear of heights, Emilia was learning to swing the bat without knocking herself off her broom, and Winifred . . . well, Winifred was—”

“Why, hello, Miss Weasley!” an excessively cheery Nearly Headless Nick greeted her. “Good to see you again.”

Ginny felt like groaning. She didn’t have time for small talk!

Why are the Hogwarts ghosts always happiest when it’s raining like mad?

“Hullo, Nick. Nice to see you, too.” She tried hard not to fidget, but it was hopeless. She was far too agitated to even feign politeness – she had to stop Malfoy before he ruined everything!

“You seem to be in a bit of a hurry. I won’t keep you.” He bowed briefly and when he did, his loosely-attached head nearly slipped off its perch. He reset it then floated up the stairwell toward the next floor.

To avoid seeming openly rude to her favorite ghost, she called after him, “Goodbye, Sir Nicholas!”, then leapt down the stairs as quickly as possible. As she approached the classroom, she could hear voices.

Now, Malfoy, let’s see what you’re really up to.

She reached out to push the door open. Just before she touched it, she heard laughter. Apparently, Malfoy wasn’t there yet.

Good. I can still stop him from—

“I spy,” she heard Draco begin in a loud voice.

“With my little eye,” the girls answered back.

“Something . . . white!”

Ginny paused outside the door and listened. The game had begun.

“Is it a candle?”

“The coverlet on the sofa!”

“That parchment on the desk?”

The wizard snorted at their pitiful answers. “No, no, it’s much smaller. How do you expect to spot the Golden Snitch when all you can see is the obvious? Look closely. You’re looking for something very small. It might even be moving,” he finished in a whisper.

Who is this imposter, and what has he done with Draco Malfoy? Ginny wondered in mute amazement as she eavesdropped in the hallway.

A gasp emitted from the room. “I know – it’s that tiny floating fairy!”

“Did you just make that?” another one asked.

“Ohh, she’s pretty,” a third girl sighed. Ooohs, aahhhs, and squeals of delight continued to pour out.

“Yes, I did, Miss . . . er, what’s your name?”

“I’m Emilia.”

“Yes, I did, Emilia. I transfigured her out of a spare button. Which is something you will learn yourselves, when you’re a bit older.” After the girls quieted down a bit, he asked them, “Do any of you know why I did this?”

At first, they didn’t see what a game of “I Spy” had anything to do with Quidditch, but none of them were bold enough to admit it. Finally, one brave soul – Ginny thought it sounded like Hester – said, “But sir . . . what do fairies have to do with Quidditch?”

“Nothing, really. It’s just the moving, the flying, their swift, unpredictable movement. And if any one of you have the ability to spot something that small while it’s in flight, then maybe you can catch –this.”

Ginny heard the familiar buzzing of its tiny wings starting up: the Golden Snitch. She couldn’t stand it anymore! She threw open the door and barged in, facing him squarely with her hands on her hips.

“Mr. Malfoy, what do you think you’re doing?” she demanded. The girls barely noticed her: their eyes were trying to follow the Snitch as it moved from one random spot to the next, pausing briefly before flittering off across the room.

“Well, shut the door, you ninny!” Draco snapped at her. “You don’t want it to get out in the hallway, do you? Then you’ll have to find it – and what are the odds of that happening?” A few of the girls giggled at his blunt accusation that Miss Weasley was not the world’s best Seeker. Ginny blushed in spite of herself.

She glared at him then said, “Fine. I’ll close the stupid door.” As she walked away, she muttered, “Prat,” then took a seat near the exit.

Folding her arms across her chest, she observed the group as the Snitch whisked from one place to the next. Most of the girls seemd to like the game and their coach’s new assistant. Frustrated by Malfoy’s quick success and instant popularity with her girls, she exhaled noisily.

He looked at her and scoffed. “Do you have a problem, Miss Weasley?” he asked, clearly annoyed.

“Me? Why would have a ‘problem’?” she replied just as nastily.

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

“It’s like this, you see. These girls can barely fly, so I don’t see why you’re wasting their time with crap like this.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “I don’t see what you’re on about. It’s never too early to train one’s eyes. My father used to play this sort of game with me long before I could balance on my broomstick.”

But she wouldn’t back down.

“Your father,” she began sarcastically. “Now, would that be the same man who just happens to be rotting away in Azkaban for crimes too innumerable and horrible to mention?”

“Don’t talk about my father that way! He’s a good family man.”

“Yeah, if you’re part of the Manson family.”

Her jab went over his head, as well as any of the girls’ who happened to be listening.

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

He must have slept through Muggle Studies the day they talked about cults in the United States, she thought. But she just scowled and said, “Nothing.”

Their argument was interrupted by a sniff from across the room. Ginny noticed that Delilah, a third year who was small for her age, was staring right at her. It was clear from her reddened cheeks that the girl was crying, but her expression was unreadable. Ginny jumped up and ran to her, ready to protect her from the bully at the front of the classroom.

“What is it, love? Did Mr. Malfoy say something that bothered you?”

Streams of frustrated tears ran down her cheeks. “No, Miss Weasley –you did.”

Ginny couldn’t believe what she just heard. Her eyes popped open slightly as all the blood ran from her face. It was a blow she hadn’t expected.

“I-?”

Delilah reminded her firmly, “You shouldn’t make fun of people in Azkaban. They have families, too, you know.”

“Of course, they do. But what does that—”

“My mum’s cousin is there – he’s her favorite, and mine too. He went there when I first started at Hogwarts, and now they’re saying he may never get out,” she said angrily.

Ginny felt like an absolute heel. “I’m so sorry, Delilah. I didn’t know.”

“He didn’t even do anything wrong,” the girl insisted. She wiped her eyes and sniffed again. “My mum said he just had the wrong friends.”

“That’s what happens sometimes,” Draco interjected. Ginny turned to look at him, her eyes wide, but he didn’t spare her a glance. Instead, his eyes were on the child. He spoke softly to her. It was as if they were the only two people in the room. “You trust the wrong people, you make a few bad decisions, and before you know it – they take your whole bloody life away.”

But instead of sounding angry, he sounded . . . sympathetic. Ginny was taken aback. Speechless, she looked from him to the girl then back to him again.

Since when did Malfoy feel empathy for anyone?

Ginny thought of Sirius Black and realized that what Delilah and Draco had just said was true. Sirius had done nothing wrong; they were looking for a scapegoat, and he spent over ten years imprisoned for a crime he didn’t commit. He eventually got out, but he was never free.

That made her feel even worse.

“I got it! I got it!” a shrill voice broke the momentary silence. It was Winifred. She had caught the Golden Snitch.

Draco gave her a faint smile. “Well done. Bring it here so I can release it again.” He looked back at Deliliah, who had stopped crying. “Are you going to be all right?” he asked her. She nodded.

He was about to set the Snitch free for another exercise when he noticed Ginny staring at him, her mouth hanging open. “Uhh, Miss Weasley? Close your mouth. Wouldn’t want this to fly in it,” he added with a smirk. A few of the girls bit their lips to keep from giggling or snickering; even Delilah cracked a smile. The older witch rolled her eyes and pursed her lips. Draco said, “That’s better. Here we go!”

Her students – his students – were enthralled. They followed the Snitch intently with their eyes, gasping each time it suddenly disappeared from view, and shouting or squealing in excitement when it was found. After several more games, Draco said it was time to stop. “If Miss Weasley has no objections, that is.”

She didn’t. Truth be told, she was getting drowsy and wanted to catch a quick nap before dinner.

The girls stood up to leave. Those who had excelled at the session left the classroom together, thrilled to have done so well at tracking the winged ball’s swift movements. As the others followed, one girl grumbled to another, “That totally sucked.” Ginny wondered whether Draco had heard her, but he was still busy talking with Delilah. She stepped out into the corridor behind them.

“Look, you two,” she told the two complainers rather crossly. “I know you’re used to working with me, but Madam Hooch herself has asked Mr. Malfoy to help our team be the best it can.”

“But I was pure crap at that!”

“Don’t worry if you couldn’t catch the Snitch. That only means you’re better suited for some position other than Seeker. It doesn’t mean you’re off the team or that you can’t play. Emilia, you’re already showing great potential as a Beater. And Rebecca has the speed and agility a Chaser needs. Everyone has their strengths.”

“Yes, Miss Weasley.”

“Off with you, now. Go to your common rooms, and I'll see you at dinner.”

Rebecca and Emilia smiled at her then took off running.

“Walk!” she called, sounding eerily like her mother.

“Yes, Miss Weasley,” they both said, slowing down until they were just out of view then bolting recklessly up the stairwell.

Ginny reflected on how much Rebecca had changed since first signing up for the all-girls team. The shy Ravenclaw was finally coming out of her shell and actually learning to enjoy the feeling of flying weightlessly through the breeze. It was rewarding, knowing she had helped the girl, and it made her smile.

Slow, deliberate applause from behind her shook her out of her daze.

“Nicely handled, Miss Weasley.”

She turned to face her new assistant and rolled her eyes at his sarcasm. “Thank you, Malfoy. And honestly, thank you for talking with Delilah; I had no idea what she was going through.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh, so you’re saying you don’t know everything? Could you repeat that, please?” he asked, leaning a bit closer and putting a hand to his ear. She stared at him as a wry smile spread slowly across her lips.

Had those months of humility actually changed him? Or perhaps she had misjudged him all along . . .

“I didn’t know you could be funny. That is, other than when it came at my brother’s expense, and his friends.”

“There’s probably a lot you don’t know about me.” He winked at her and started to walk away. “Afternoon, Weasley. See you at dinner.”

After Malfoy’s exercise with the Golden Snitch, Ginny went back to her room and laid down. The patter of the rain on her solitary window soon lulled her to sleep. By the time she finally awoke, it was dusk. That meant dinner had already begun. When she got to the Great Hall, most of the seats at the staff table were gone, and she groaned at her dismal choices. She could either sit by Professor Slughorn or next to . . . 

I don’t want to sit by Malfoy; he’ll probably think I like him after what happened today.

At least Slughorn was immersed in his conversation with Madam Pomfrey, so maybe he wouldn’t notice if she sat down quietly—

“Miss Weasley!” the Potions Master called her name enthusiastically.

So much for slipping in unnoticed. She gave him a weak smile.

The fat, moustached, old wizard had become even louder and more eccentric in the days since the Dark Lord’s demise. Some said he was trying to silence his guilty conscience for having taught Tom Riddle about Horcruxes in the first place. And the older he got, the more he got on Ginny’s nerves.

“I say, how is your friend, Harry Potter? We haven’t seen him here in quite some time. When was the last time, Poppy? I would say it was well over two years ago, wouldn’t you? Such a fine young man. Does he enjoy his work in France?”

Ginny always hated moments like this: they were awkward, strained . . . and frankly, embarrassing.

“I don’t know, Professor Slughorn,” she said, purposely using his formal title, even though as a staff member, she was no longer required to do so. “I haven’t seen him since my brother’s wedding.”

“Oh, that’s right! Rupert married that bright young Miss Granger, didn’t he? How are they doing?”

A few of the students at the front of the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables were beginning to stare. Ginny felt like crawling under the table and slipping out the back. Ignoring their peering eyes as best she could, she focused on what she wanted to eat and casually put a few items on her plate.

“Very well, thank you. She’s expecting, you know. She’s due in April.”

“That’s wonderful, my dear! Does Minerva know?” Poppy asked. But Ginny just shrugged.

Professor Slughorn grabbed onto her left hand in an attempt to shake it as it lay on the table. “Yes, smashing news! Her children are bound to brilliant, unless they take more after their father, of course—”

Draco, who was seated by himself at the end of the table four chairs away, snorted into his tea, nearly spitting it onto his plate. Ginny leaned forward to look around the two staff members that occupied the chairs between them and glowered at him.

“Malfoy, are you eavesdropping?” she asked.

He stifled a giggle then gaped at her as if he were appalled. “Me? Eavesdropping? Certainly not.”

“You certainly were, and I don’t appreciate it.”

Still looking down the table at each other, he said, “Uh, Miss Weasley? You’re about to get your hair in your gravy.”

Irritated, she scoffed and sat up straight. “Just – leave me alone! I’d like to enjoy my meal in peace.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Suits me fine.”

Shortly after their exchange, the two professors to her right stood up to go, leaving only empty chairs in between her and the annoying wanker. Both staff members smiled at her. She blushed, presuming they only left to avoid having to listen to her and Malfoy bicker.

“Now see what you did?” she hissed.

“Me? You started it.”

“No, you started it by laughing at Ron,” she insisted. “It was a private conversation between me and Professor Slughorn.”

“And Madam Pomfrey,” he corrected her, pointing his fork at her.

“Yes, and Madam Pomfrey.” She picked up a roll and started to butter it. “Well, it was semi-private – but it was none of your business, anyway.”

Draco laughed quietly at how worked up she was getting over this. “Oh, lighten up, Weasley. Is it my fault that old Sluggie’s losing his hearing and unknowingly shouts about half of everything he says?” As he said this, he moved to the chair next to her.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Uh – I’m moving closer so we can stop shouting. A few of the students are staring at us. Frankly, it’s a little embarrassing,” he added in a low voice.

Frustrated by his audacity, she tore a bite off the roll and stuffed into her mouth. “Ron is not stupid. He’s an Auror, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know. Don’t really care either. Your ignorant, uncouth brother and I were never friends, so feel free to keep right on excluding me from conversations about him and that Mudblood wife of his. They make me nauseous anyway.”

She rolled her eyes but decided not to take the bait. Instead, she focused on dessert. The house-elves had made her favorite double-chocolate cake again, and she prepared to savor a richly decadent slice of it.

“Listen, Weasley, I’ve been thinking.”

“About how to insult my sister-in-law again? You’re just jealous ‘cause she outdid you in every class.”

He glared at her. “Grow up, Gin. It’s about the girls Quidditch team.”

She sighed and set down her fork. “All right. What is it?”

“Well, I have some ideas about how to help them improve. Flint wasn’t as dumb as he looked, you know – the Slytherin team wasn’t all about cheating. Of course, I’ll need to see them actually fly. When is their next practice?”

“We’re supposed to have a make-up on Wednesday. I’ve booked the pitch for the time between their last class and dinner.”

Draco nodded and took one last swallow of his tea. “Fine, I’ll be there.” As he stood up to go, he stopped and looked out on the four long tables. He noticed that most of the students had left or were leaving the Great Hall, presumably returning to their common rooms to read, study, and fraternize.

He envied them their freedom.

Ginny asked him, “What are you going to do between now and then? We’re supposed to be working together, you know.”

“Let me check my schedule.” He reached in his robes and withdrew a detailed list of duties and tasks to keep him occupied. Apparently, Professor McGonagall intended for him to have very little idle time.

“She’s got me slated to clean up in Green House #2 and #3 for Professor Sprout tomorrow afternoon and on Monday morning. If I’m done by then, why don’t we have ourselves a meeting after lunch that day? You know, just to see what you have planned for them as far as strategies go?”

“Can’t we do it at 4:00?”

“No. That’s the hour McGonagall has set aside each and every day for me to complete my studies. Says it’s essential if I’m ever going to ‘make something of myself’,” he added in a mocking tone.

“You’re studying seventh-year material on your own?”

“Sometimes privately, sometimes I meet with one of the professors. Either way, it’s rather tedious.”

“Still, with all that manual labor, it sounds like you’re training to be a house-elf instead of a wizard,” she said, trying not to laugh.

He quickly sat down next to her and latched onto her right hand, nearly making her spill what was left of her coffee. His expression was controlled but angry.

“Either way, it beats the shit out of living at Azkaban. It’s not the kind of place you want to go back to, if you can avoid it. When those Dementors stand just outside of your cell, reaching in and squeezing all the happiness out of it, you can feel them sucking the life out of you. It’s un—”

He stopped in mid-sentence. She could feel his hand shaking at the mere memory of it.

“I’m sorry, I . . . I was only joking,” she said.

She thought back on how tender he was with Delilah earlier that afternoon in classroom eleven. He was trying to change; wasn’t it painfully obvious?

Suddenly feeling very uncomfortable, Ginny started to free her hand from his. But something in her heart told her to reach up instead with her other one and cover their interlocked hands. “I-I know. I can’t explain how, but I know.”

“Ginny?” he began quietly then stopped again.

“Yes?”

By now, they were the only two people at any of the tables. House-elves were starting to pop in and out to remove dishes, cutlery, and half-empty serving bowls.

“Ginny, I wanted to – to thank you for your help in my trial. I wanted to tell you then, as we left the Ministry building, but it didn’t feel . . . I wasn’t ready yet.” He paused and blew out a breath. “I’m not used to accepting help. Demanding it, yes, but not . . . just accepting it, when it’s given freely.”

She smiled at him and shook her head in disbelief. “Why didn’t you say something right after we’d Portkeyed back to the school, or on any other day these past few weeks?”

“I don’t know. I guess I thought you wouldn’t believe me if I said it. But I am grateful, to you and to Dumbledore . . . and even to McGonagall for having the foresight to have him as my witness and you as his protector.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, mildly shocked.

“You can’t imagine how hard it was for me to tell you that.”

Then Ginny said softly, “I’m sorry for . . . for your loss. Your father and – everything.”

“Really? Or are you ‘joking’ again?” he asked with a sneer.

“No, I’m serious. Sure, we’ve had our differences – but everyone should have their parents for as long as they can.”

He couldn’t think what to say. He knew she hated his father, and with good reason, but it sounded like she actually . . . meant it. Thinking a simple ‘thanks’ would have sounded weak, he leaned toward her and swiftly kissed her cheek.

Something inside her fluttered. She looked the other way as her face colored.

Suddenly, Draco felt very nervous. He couldn’t see her expression; was she angry, annoyed, ready to rip his head off? He made a hasty apology.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that,” he began. “We should strive to maintain a professional working relationship.”

Unsure how she felt about the kiss, she replied awkwardly, “Yes, of course. I’d better go now. See you tomorrow?”

“Maybe,” he said, a bit coolly.

Ginny started to walk away. As she passed by one of her favorite house-elves, Chippy, she smiled at him. He ceased his cleaning and bowed to her. “Have a good evening, Miss Weezey.”

“See you in the morning, Chippy.”

“Oh, no, Miss. Chippy has the day off to rest.” He smiled as if he owned the world and everything in it. This simple expression of joy made her feel better, and she smiled at him again.

“See you Monday, then. Enjoy your day off.” He nodded and vanished to return to the kitchens.

Draco watched the interaction with skepticism. To him, house-elves were little more than vermin, and he would never understand the Gryffindors’ attitude toward them. He called out to her, “Ginny, wait!”

“What is it, Draco?”

His mouth fell open before he could stop it.

It was the first time she’d said his name without a sneer or disdain in her voice. And it wasn’t just ‘Malfoy’ or the snooty way she sometimes said ‘Mr. Malfoy’. Surprisingly, he liked the way it rolled off her tongue so easily . . . it sounded rather nice.

“Can I – walk with you to your quarters?”

“I don’t think we should be together unless we’re working. There are rules against, you know, fraternization between staff members.”

He scoffed. “What, you think because I gave you a little ‘thank you’ kiss and want to walk with you that I want to fraternize with you? Don’t flatter yourself, Weasley,” he drawled in his usual, nasty tone. “I was only going to go over what you’ve done so far with your pansy-arse team of little girls.”

Ginny glared at him and scoffed. “Pansy-arse little girls?” Arms crossed over her chest, she mocked, “I assure you, we’ve done more than play ‘I Spy’.”

He looked at her coolly.

“Now that was uncalled for.”

She pointed her finger straight at him and commanded, “Then don’t call them names. Some of them are going to be great someday.” They glowered at each other, neither of them wanting to be the one who looked away first.

Eventually, she sighed, turned around, and motioned for him to follow her. “Come on, this way.” After he caught up to her, she said, “You know, you’re not technically an employee or staff. So I guess the anti-fraternization rules don’t apply.”

“What does that make me?” he asked more or less to himself. It was as if the thought hadn’t occurred to him before.

“You’re basically property, just like a house-elf.”

Now he really was appalled.

“What? You’re equating me with a house-elf?”

She shrugged and nodded. “If that much.”

“How dare you . . . you take that back, Weasley.”

“It is what it is,” she stated matter-of-factly. “You aren’t actually employed here. You’re not paid, you can’t leave – McGonagall owns you for the next several months.”

He was flabbergasted, so much so that he stopped walking with her. How could she, a poor, Muggle-loving witch from one of the worst Pureblood families in history, call him property? He was fuming. He felt so angry, he couldn’t think what to say, what insult could possibly fit the situation!

Ginny stopped a few steps away. It sounded like she was gasping.

“What the—?” he started to say.

Then he realized she was laughing. At him! He walked toward her and was soon at her side.

“What. Is. So. Funny?” Draco demanded, enunciating each word. But she couldn’t stop laughing.

When she finally caught her breath, she answered. “I-I’m sorry . . . I just had to – oh, if you could see your face! It’s really red! I didn’t know it could have that much color!” she slipped in between giggles. But he failed to see the humor.

When her laughing fit came to an end, she explained, “I’ve been dying to say that to you. I was just waiting for the right moment.”

“I see. And was that it?”

Wearing a wicked grin, she nodded.

“Well, ha, ha, Weasley. You got me,” he said dryly.

“Honestly, I can’t believe you didn’t hex me!” She snickered once more then sighed. “So – do you think we can learn to get along, maybe even come up with a winning team, without killing each other first?”

He squinted his eyes at her and gave her a devilish smirk. “Not if you keep pulling shite like that, Weasley. But I’ll tell you something. It looks like you might have a bit of Slytherin in you.”

She shrugged and smiled shyly. “I don’t know about that. I’m just hoping that one day, I’ll be able to see what Dumbledore saw in you.” After they had walked a few steps further, she said, “Well, here’s my little room. See you tomorrow, then?” He nodded, and she turned around to go inside for the night.

If she hadn’t turned her back on him, she would have seen it coming.

“Petrificus Totalus!”

“Good night, Miss Weasley. See you at breakfast,” he said cheerily to her stiff, prone body. He locked and closed the door behind her, whistling as he walked down the corridor toward his meager yet peaceful and wonderfully warm room for a well-deserved night of rest.

~The End~