But for the metal shackles sealing his wrists to the armrests and his ankles to the floor, one would have been hard-pressed to tell that the young man sitting in the middle of the Wizengamot courtroom was put there against his will.

His countenance suggested indifference, bordering on insouciance, a quirk of the eyebrows here or a twitch of the lips there the only indications he was even paying any attention at all to the proceedings in front of him. He looked like a boy king, ensconced as he was in a makeshift throne of carved wood and biting iron, watching with disinterest the whole kingdom's jesters gamboling about like the fools they were paid to be, trying to extract a laugh, a snarl -- anything -- from his lips. And even as he watched, they knew he did so only because there was nothing else to see.

There was a lull in the questioning, and snatches of murmured conversations across the courtroom floated to his ears.

"So brave," one whimpered.

"Deserves it," said another gruffly.

"He's just a kid," chided someone else.

Draco supposed he should have taken more interest in his own trial, but the verdict seemed a foregone conclusion anyway, and it amused him more to cast his eyes about the room to see what others thought of the whole circus. Amusement would be difficult to come by, he imagined, once they locked him up. Not that there was much to miss, since he had been on house arrest for years while the others' trials had dragged on. Draco was near the last in line of Death Eaters up for trial with the Wizengamot, whose archaic court system made it impossible for multiple hearings to go on at the same time; it was only shortly after his twenty-first birthday that the Wizengamot had finally summoned him, nearly three years after they had ruled it wise to shut his father up in jail. Initially, Draco and Narcissa had been hopeful that the long wait would work in their favour -- perhaps after convicting so many before him, the thirst for vengeance would have been slaked, and they'd lean towards a more lenient stance, but Draco could see upon many of the council's faces that this was absolutely not the case. After the first day of the trial, he asked Narcissa not to come to the courtroom anymore; it would only upset her further to watch them cart him away, and he preferred not to have his last moment of quasi-freedom consumed with the sight of his mother quietly falling apart.

The courtroom was packed to the gills, standing room only now, here as much for Draco as they were for the final witness due to take the stand today. The Chief Warlock narrowed her eyes and frowned at the large crowd for their insolent noise, not for the first time that day. Draco couldn't recall which group it had been in the Ministry who had successfully lobbied for the war crimes trials to be publicly accessible -- it made the little people feel vindicated; he assumed the Chief Warlock had had nothing to do with it, though. If she had done, she looked as though she was desperately ruing it now. She rapped her gavel in irritation.

She directed her hard gaze to the witness stand on one side of the courtroom. "Mr. Potter," said the Chief Warlock. "Did he or did he not allow Death Eaters unlawful entry into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in June, 1997?"

"Yes, but only because he was under duress," Harry said, speaking the last part loudly and quickly before they could cut him off.

One of the Wizengamot, a shrivelled, bent old man, raised his hand. Upon acknowledgement, he directed his milky gaze at Harry. "What do you mean by 'duress'?"

"Well, Voldemort had his parents hostage. If he didn't do as he was told, his parents would have been killed," he said, exasperation colouring his voice; he had clearly told this story plenty of times before, to people who could never quite believe him in the end.

The courtroom erupted again in chatter, and Harry chanced a glance at the accused. Draco nodded briefly at him, indicating his appreciation of the effort, however futile. Draco knew that the testimony, impassioned as it was, would make little difference. The prosecution was out to make an example of him, just as they had with everyone else remotely involved in the Dark Lord's plans, and even the word of the Great Harry Potter was unlikely to sway them this time.

It would only be a matter of time before the Wizengamot proved him right.

---

Harry stifled a loud groan of protest, taking off his glasses and pulling the inside corners of his eyes together, the movement masking his face as he swore quietly under his breath. He needn't have bothered, as no one else did; throughout the courtroom there were cries of disbelief mingled among the satisfied noises of those who believed justice had been served.

In the centre of the Wizengamot, the Chief Warlock read off the litany of charges for which the Wizengamot had determined Draco Malfoy was guilty; there were several frivolous charges that had gone through anyway, and of the more serious, he would serve time for attempted murder, and being an accomplice to murder, and to breaking and entering.

Harry stood to one side of the courtroom, his arms folded tightly across his chest as people filed out past him. He watched as the courtroom guards freed Draco from the chains on the chair, only to cuff him once more as he stood. Clinking as he walked, Draco's face remained blank, and he disappeared behind a door to the bowels of the Ministry where he would be prepped for transport to prison.

Though his mouth was set in a grim line, Harry managed a hint of a smile as Ron and Ginny approached him on their way down from the public stands.

"Hey, Harry," said Ginny, squeezing his arm.

Ron shuffled his feet, noting Harry's deepening frown as his gaze returned to the door through which Draco had been escorted. "Is it really that upsetting? It's Malfoy, Harry. Total bastard, remember?"

"Yeah, he's an arse, but he did all that to protect his parents. If I were in his place, I -- It's just not right," Harry said, shaking his head.

"Sod 'right'," Ron muttered. "He got what he deserved, if you ask me."

"Most people don't have to go to jail for being school bullies."

"Harry, it's not like he was just going around pulling wedgies," Ginny interjected.

"I'm not saying he's sunshine and puppies, all right? Yeah, he did some really stupid and dangerous things," Harry said wearily. He was tired of being the only one among his social circle who didn't want to damn Draco to eternal suffering. "I just think that having to serve over twenty years for being forced to do somebody else's dirty work is a tad extravagant. And those of us who've had the misfortune of being close to Voldemort know how difficult it can be to resist him," he said, choosing his words carefully.

Ginny clamped her mouth shut, pressing her lips together tightly. Her eyes flashed with anger.

Sensing imminent danger, Ron cut in. "Well, mate, you've truly earned the title of Saint Potter today," he said, clapping Harry on the back. "Let's get some dinner, yeah?"

Bright light flooded his cell, turning the insides of his eyelids white. With a sharp intake of breath, Draco snapped his eyes open, mentally marking his twelve hundred and fourth day in prison. Noises of the other inmates' morning routines filtered in through the bars suspended in the small, square window of his metal cell door -- grunting, clanging, moaning; someone appeared to be in a whistling mood.

Pushing himself off the thin mattress and folding his blanket, Draco padded to the sink and splashed cold water on his face. As he went through the motions of his morning toilet, he heard the slide of a plastic breakfast tray being pushed through the slot at the bottom of the cell door. They didn't get metal trays anymore, not past his second year there, when a heated argument in the servery had resulted in one inmate beaning another with a barrage of food service items.

Draco settled himself on the concrete floor, his long legs stretching out in front of him, and lifted up a corner of a bread slice to check what jam they'd been given today. Blueberry, he noted with slight satisfaction. He hated marmalade days. Finishing the bread in a few large bites, he remained on the floor, swigging his milk and waiting.

Before too long, a guard came by, rattling his wand across the bars. "Yard?"

"Yes," Draco replied immediately, scrambling to his feet.

The guard nodded, ticking his name off on a list before moving on to the next cell.

Draco got to stand outside in a fenced area for an hour three times a week, soaking in the elements, rain and shine. It was in the yard that he learned a skill he'd never previously had a need for -- how not to draw attention to himself. He had been born a natural show-off, preening like the peacocks that used to litter the gardens of his now empty ancestral home, backed by generations' worth of wealth to excuse his arrogance and foibles. With much of that wealth now seized by the Ministry, tied up in backlogged legal fees and keeping Lucius sane in Azkaban, Draco had little protection to fall back on.

He almost wished he had been sent to Azkaban, too; there, at least, he was familiar with the company, even if he didn't care for it -- Death Eater after Death Eater, charged and prosecuted swiftly after the war, swelled the ranks of the ancient prison, leaving no room for Draco when he was finally sentenced as well. Instead, he'd ended up in a medium security wizards' prison in Scotland, where companionship ranged from thieves to frauds, none of whom were inclined to entertain the then twenty-one year old whose reported cowardice had triggered a war that had touched, if not them, then their families, in irreparable ways.

So he learned to stay out of the way, to master inconspicuousness, to move as a shadow. It was greatly to his benefit that Draco had always been a quick study.

Waiting for the guard to finish his count and to be let out, Draco made the short walk to the opposite corner of his cell, where he was allowed to keep a neat, if large, stack of mail. Sitting on the floor again, he picked the top letter off the pile, taking his time to draw the missive out of its envelope. His mother wrote him every few days; she made it a point to do so, even if just to tell him the mundane things she had done or seen that day. This particular letter detailed her gardening plans for the next summer at the Malfoy holiday home in France that she had turned into her primary residence shortly after he had been convicted.

He could hear Narcissa's voice in his head, going on as she was about wanting to grow strawberries on the property. He missed her, though they both acknowledged that the distance strangely made his incarceration easier to bear, as the one time she had come to visit him, they had both come away from it feeling more wretched than ever before. She moved to Normandy shortly after that, and he could find no fault with her for leaving the country that had imprisoned her husband and her son, and left her broken and alone.

His stomach twisted unpleasantly, and he fitted the letter back in the envelope and laid it carefully on top of the mail pile.

With a shrill screech, his cell door swung open, in synch with the several other doors of those inmates who were scheduled to be outside as well. Draco stepped out, falling into line, and marched outdoors, guards flanking the whole cohort and positioning themselves in each corner of the yard as soon as they were outside.

It was cloudless and sunny today, a rare occurrence; the sky boasted a startling shade of blue. As a former Slytherin, Draco thought that his being accustomed to the damp and dark would have worked in his favour during imprisonment, but then again, when he was a Slytherin, he'd actually had the choice of lurking in the shadows. Standing stock still on the ground, the sun's rays beating against his skin, Draco understood the meaning of simple pleasures, and silently cursed the circumstances that taught him to find enjoyment in the littlest, stupidest things.

He slowly became aware of being warm, uncomfortably so, and a bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face, as a fog seemed to cloud over his mind. He tried to clear it by shaking his head but that only made it worse. A dark, staticky mist encroached on his vision, and before he could ascertain what was happening to him, he blacked out.

---

Draco came to in the medical unit, lying on his back in a gurney. He pushed himself up, supported on his elbows, and looked around in confusion. One of the prison Healers was standing across the room with her back to him.

"What's wrong with me?" he asked.

"Nothing, as far as I can tell," she said, turning around to look at him. "You just passed out. Might have been too much sun."

"Oh," Draco said, frowning. It was just his luck for the one thing he enjoyed to screw him over.

"I've got to fill out your report before I send you back to your cell, so why don't you go sit over there? Have a drink of water," she said, gesturing to a meeting area just off to the side of the medical room, where there sat a long, wooden table surrounded by four chairs.

"All right," he said slowly, swinging his legs over the side of the gurney. He felt fine physically, but something was bothering him, and he had no idea what it was. Following instructions -- another skill he'd had to pick up in record time to keep himself alive and well -- Draco crossed the room, sat at the table and poured himself a cup of water.

All of a sudden, the room was plunged into blackness, as if it had been showered with Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder. Reflexively, Draco's hand flew to the side of his trousers for his wand; it wasn't there, of course, having been taken from him the day he entered this facility. Trying to ignore the pounding of his heart, he took a shaky breath, squinting futilely into the darkness, seeing nothing.

Then, without warning, the darkness vanished as quickly as it had appeared before.

Draco scraped his chair backwards in alarm, as, across the table, two well-dressed men looked appraisingly at him.

"Hello, Mr. Malfoy," said the one on the left with a toothy smile. He was short, a little on the plump side, with large, round eyes and deep dimples marking both cheeks, traits that made him look more like a cherub than a grown man. "Allow me to introduce ourselves. I'm Williams, and this is Webb," he said, gesturing to the man standing beside him.

Draco's eyes darted back and forth from one man to the other. Webb bobbed his dark blond head in greeting, apparently playing the strong, silent type to Williams' cheerful chattiness. To Draco's mind, Williams was probably the more dangerous of the two; unearned friendliness always made him uneasy.

"We do apologise for rendering you unconscious and taking up your yard time," Williams went on blithely, "but we thought this would be the easiest way to get to talk to you without running into too much interference."

"What do you want from me?" Draco asked, noticing out of the corner of his eye that the Healer, probably along with everything else, seemed to have been frozen in time.

"It's simple enough," said Williams. "We can offer you freedom, Mr. Malfoy, in exchange for your services."

"I beg your pardon?" Draco wondered if he could chalk this whole experience up to hallucination. Perhaps his milk had gone off, and he was ill and delirious.

"You see, we represent the Ministry Unit for Strategy, Intelligence and Counter-espionage."

"That's cute," Draco said blandly.

"We prefer to just go by 'The Unit' these days," said Williams, his mouth twisting downwards slightly. "We're an unofficial defensive arm of the Ministry."

"And what does that mean?"

"It means we're funded by public taxes, but nobody knows about us. The Minister himself is not aware that we exist. We run some very high-risk international intelligence operations, so it's as much for his security as ours that he and his cabinet remain unaware of our existence and are thus able to disassociate themselves and the official government from our actions, should we accidentally stir up any trouble. We don't, by the way. In any case, what the Ministry doesn't know won't hurt it."

Draco stared at him for a moment. "I think that's been disproven a fair number of times."

Williams tilted his head in consideration of Draco's remark. "In that case, what the Ministry doesn't know won't hurt us."

"How lovely for you."

"If I may be frank, Mr. Malfoy, I think it would behoove you to hear our proposition before dismissing us out of hand."

"I'm still listening, aren't I?"

"So you are. Now, as I said, we're offering an exchange. If you agree to work for us, we can guarantee that your prison term is effectively over."

"You want me to be a spy," Draco said, his tone wavering somewhere between a statement and a question, as Williams nodded. "That's preposterous."

"Is it?"

"Yes," he replied unequivocally.

"On the contrary," said Williams, "we think it's rather a good idea. We will provide training, naturally; we can't just send you out into the world as is. But we have been watching you for a long time. And for someone as unschooled in professional deception as you are, it certainly took a long time -- almost a whole year, I believe -- for anyone to catch on to all the little stunts you'd been pulling at Hogwarts. Ill-conceived plans, for sure, but the potential and skill are there nonetheless."

"What do you mean you've been watching me?"

"It's exactly what it sounds like. We have people everywhere," he said, inclining his head in an almost apologetic fashion. "In this prison as well, if you were wondering. And, by the way, our sources tell us that you have developed a delightful talent at making yourself seem invisible. With your hair, your looks, your reputation -- by all rights, you should be standing out like a sore thumb and getting daily beatings from the much larger and scarier inmates. And yet --" Williams let out a short, soft laugh, his hands gesturing surprise, as if he had just witnessed a remarkable transfiguration trick.

"So what?"

"So," said Williams, stretching the word out, "we believe it would be much more beneficial for all involved if you worked for us. You're wasted in here."

"Right. And, what, you'd just break me out of here?"

"Oh, my, no!" Williams laughed, his dimples creasing the sides of his face, and shared an amused glance with Webb, who snickered. "We like to keep things as clean as possible. And while no one has ever heard of us, we have much influence. Very much, indeed."

Draco raised an eyebrow. "What's your grand plan, then?"

"The Minister will pardon you on the grounds that not only were you a minor when the offences were committed, you also underwent an unjust and poorly managed trial, a victim of a political, overzealous witch-hunt, if you will. You will receive monetary reparations and be offered a mid-level job in the International Magical Cooperation sector in the Ministry. You will take this job. Your work will require long days away on travel, which, initially, will be time taken for your training, and will later serve as your cover for the overseas missions we assign you."

"And if I don't agree to your proposition?"

"Then we'll Obliviate you," he said, his cheerful tone just slightly undercut with an edge to it that strongly suggested Draco think twice before turning down their offer. "And you can serve out the rest of your perfectly sad twenty years in this lovely little hole."

"Well, you certainly drive a hard bargain," Draco said dryly.

"Are we in agreement, then?"

"You know, the last time I worked for someone, it landed me in jail."

"True enough. And frankly speaking, every one of our agents runs that risk. But if I may state the obvious, you really have nowhere to go from here but out. And we can get you there."

Draco knew he should take some time to think this over. He didn't know who these two men were, and had never heard of their organization; for all he knew, he'd just end up under some megalomaniac's thumb again, bound to doing terrible and illegal things just to stay alive. Not, of course, that death didn't occasionally have its appeal. He contemplated it every time he faced down a communal shower, or choked down dry bread slathered in marmalade, or felt disappointment when mail call brought him no mail, or imagined another piece of his heart harden and crack on visiting days filled with hope but no visitors. Usually, he tried not to think of all these things at once, but they were crowding his brain now, fighting for space, and they all pointed agitatedly to one conclusion: he had to get out of this godforsaken place.

"Well, Mr. Malfoy? What do you say?"

Draco swallowed thickly. "Get me out of here."

"We were hoping you'd see it our way," Williams said, smiling happily. He stood, and Webb followed suit. "Give us a week."

Draco sat back in his chair, slumping a little, wondering if any of that had been real and, if it had been, whether he had just made a very stupid decision. He barely registered the room going pitch-black again. When light returned a split second later, Williams and Webb were gone, and the Healer was scribbling serenely across her report form, humming a tune Draco didn't bother trying to make out. He leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table, and rubbed the heels of his hands over his eyes. Fear and hope made themselves comfortable in his gut, settling in for what would surely be the longest week of his life.

Draco lay in bed, harsh white light beaming down at him, staring at the ceiling without seeing. Not that there was anything of interest to see other than the occasional crack or water damage mark that could have easily been fixed with a simple swish of a wand, but for the prison board who believed that the bleak, bare-bones atmosphere made a strong, deterrent statement against recidivism.

He wondered, not for the first time that week, if he might be going crazy -- if, perhaps, the appearance and subsequent disappearance of the secret agents the previous week had been a very involved figment of his own imagination. Yet, the more he convinced himself that it had been, the more he felt his chest rise with the hope that he might actually be able to leave prison much, much earlier than expected, and he hated himself for it. By now, he should have known better than to let hope, that insidious beast, claw its way into his life again. Disappointment always hit hardest when you least expected it.

He could have conceivably gone on for the next twenty years here, unconscious with routine; but with the prospect of leaving now introduced into and tearing at his mind, his life here seemed nearly unbearable. Everything seemed more pronounced now -- food tasted worse; lights glared with a vengeance; noises that had once been a normal part of the prison climate now ricocheted off his eardrums like bullets and made him want to scream just to drown everything else out.

Time crawled by at a dying snail's pace, and even a letter from his mother brought him less joy than it had previously done, and he hated himself for that, too. It had been six days since he'd ended up in the medical unit -- he couldn't give the incident a real name; it wasn't a meeting or a conversation or anything until he could be sure it hadn't been a cruel dream -- and he had one more day to get through before he would either be let out, by some miraculous act of God or secret organisation, or he would finally make the transition from teetering on the jagged brink of insanity to actually losing his mind altogether.

---

The directive in her hands didn't make any sense. Ginny read it again, frowned again and looked up at her supervisor in confusion again. "Er, Brigid, does this actually say what I think it says?" she asked. "Do I need my eyes checked?"

Brigid Brennan, a petite blonde in her late thirties, adjusted her glasses. "Yes. And no, your eyes are fine. This comes straight from the top, Ginny. You can disagree with it all you like -- and unofficially speaking, I do, too -- but we need to get it done, or it's our arses on the line."

"I can't believe the Minister's pardoning Draco Malfoy. Unfair trial, my foot. So what if he was underage when he did all that stuff? He got what was coming to him," she muttered, folding up the parchment and pinching the creases together with more force than necessary. "And why do I get the dubious honour of carrying it out?"

"Because, my dear Miss Weasley, we're short on staff and the Minister likes your face."

"Yes, well, you know who doesn't like my face? Draco Malfoy. This is not going to turn out well."

"Just remember you're representing the Ministry and conduct yourself accordingly."

"Aw, that's no fun."

"You should have thought of that before you accepted a government job," Brigid said, smiling. "Now, go get everything together so you can set Malfoy loose on the streets tomorrow."

"Yes, ma'am," Ginny said and saluted her supervisor. Picking up the file that had been sent down along with the Minister's orders, she added with a sigh, "Merlin help us all."

---

Ginny rooted through her handbag, making sure she had all the papers and Portkeys she needed for the unsavoury job she was to do this morning. Satisfied with its contents, she dashed to her bedroom for one last look in the full-length mirror that hung on the back of her door. Nodding at her reflection, Ginny tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear -- up in a very professional french braid today -- and smoothed out an imaginary wrinkle in her skirt. She'd decided to wear a suit for the occasion -- it had been worn only once, at her Ministry job interview two years ago, and due to the fairly relaxed nature of the isolated sub-department in which she now worked, had never had a need for the ensemble again, until now. She knew she didn't have to, but some disgustingly insecure part of her wanted -- needed -- to look good, to look better than Malfoy had ever seen her. He'd always had the ability to cut her down with just one snide word, and she wasn't going to give him any fodder if she could help it. He might be in prison, but that was no guarantee that the shame of being locked up would have softened his acid tongue.

She slipped on a pair of sensible heels and headed back to the living room to pick up her things before activating the Portkey that would take her to the prison that held Draco Malfoy.

---

Draco paced the length of his cell; it was a short walk in either direction, and he was making himself slightly dizzy having to turn around every few steps to be able to keep pacing. Appropriately, he felt like a rat in a cage, and soon, he was probably going to go stir-crazy or fall over from motion sickness. In either case, he supposed, it would pass the time.

"Oi. Malfoy," said a guard on the other side of the cell door, peering in through the bars. "You've got a visitor."

"What?"

"I said, you've a visitor," the guard repeated loudly and irritably, unlocking the door.

"Who is it?"

"How the hell should I know? Some girl," he said, shrugging unhelpfully.

Some girl. That ruled out his mother, who hadn't come past the first time, as well as Blaise, who dropped by once in a while to regale him with stories of drunken escapades that Draco was sure were fabricated, or at least heavily embellished, though it meant he was able to live vicariously through his friend for the allotted hour. Could it be a mistake? In his three years here he had never had any other visitors, and this Some Girl, whoever she was, was dredging up unwanted feelings of brief happiness that would only be dashed again, and he did not appreciate being temporarily heartened by some anonymous person.

He followed the guard out of his cell and, led by an invisible leash, to the visiting area, where other inmates were happily conversing with their families and friends.

The guard undid the leash spell, and indicated to Draco his visitor. "There she is."

At a corner table, holding herself stiffly with her back ramrod straight, sat Ginny Weasley.

"Bet you're wishin' she'd come for a conjugal visit instead, eh?" Not noticing Draco's look of horror, the guard chuckled at his own remark and ushered his charge to the table.

On his approach, Ginny stood up, fighting a frown. "Mr. Malfoy," she said in greeting. "Ginny Weasley. I'm sorry for the very short notice of my visit, but I --"

"Who sent you?"

Letting the frown win out, Ginny said, "The Minister."

"They did it?" Draco murmured.

"What?"

"Why has he sent you?"

"If you'll have a seat, I can explain."

Draco realised they were both still standing, and his hands were gripping the edge of the table. Releasing his hold, Draco slid into the chair, which was upholstered in some kind of sticky, green vinyl and squeaked as he sat down.

"As I was about to say," Ginny went on rather pointedly, "I'm here on behalf of the Minister's Office of Communications' Public Liaison subdivision. Minister Trench would have liked to be here himself, but unfortunately he has other pressing matters to attend to this morning, so it has fallen to me to relay this message to you." Extracting a piece of parchment from a file stuffed in her bag, she read its contents aloud. "'I, Augustine Trench, Minister of Magic, pursuant to the pardon power conferred upon me by my office, grant a full, free, and absolute pardon unto Draco Malfoy for all offences against the wizarding community which he, Draco Malfoy, has committed or may have committed or taken part in during the period from 1996 to 1998.' You'll get an official copy of the pardon. You can frame it," she said, her voice the quality of sour milk.

Although his expression remained carefully noncommittal, Draco was inwardly elated at the fact that what he had almost convinced himself was a vivid hallucination had actually come true. Partially, he reminded himself quickly; until he was actually outside and miles away from this place, he would do well to keep himself in check. He was not so overpowered by his emotions and rapid-fire thoughts, however, that he missed her tone of voice. "I take it you're not entirely in agreement with the Minister's decision?"

"I do as my job requires," Ginny replied, sidestepping the question -- the answer was obvious to them both, anyway. Regarding him a little suspiciously, she folded her arms and leaned backwards into her chair. "You don't seem surprised by this news."

"Maybe I'm too shocked to react appropriately. Shall I squeal with joy? Would that meet your standards?"

She looked at him carefully. At a quick glance he appeared the same as ever, infuriatingly relaxed and ready to pounce with a cutting remark stated in such a way that made it seem as though he regarded his target with as much importance as a speck of dirt on the bottom of his shoe. Upon closer scrutiny, however, she was pleased to see tension roiling in his neck and shoulders, and noted with great, though perhaps slightly shallow, satisfaction that she was approximately a million times better dressed than he was in his prison-issued white t-shirt and ill-fitting navy trousers. Deciding to leave his baiting aside, Ginny said, "The director of this facility has been informed of your pardon, and as soon as we're done here, you will be released, with all personal effects returned to you. I will accompany you to your home and," here her voice took on a slightly harder edge, "be at your disposal during your transition back into society."

"At my disposal?" he repeated. They'd sent a Weasley to wait on him? Under the table, he pinched his own leg to check if he was dreaming. He'd have a bruise later, but he was fairly sure he was awake.

"Yes," she said acidly, as if warning him against taking any advantage of this revelation, and stuffed the Minister's decree back into her bag of tricks.

"Sounds delightful."

"Mm. Yes. Minister Trench has scheduled a press conference later this afternoon to announce his decision, and he requests that you be in attendance."

"Does 'request' in this case mean what it actually means? Or is it more along the lines of, 'Show up or we'll rescind the pardon'?"

Ginny leaned forward, resting her arms lightly on the tabletop. "You're a free man, Mr. Malfoy. You may do as you wish. As a note of caution, however, I would suggest you personally inform the Minister of the reason for your absence, if that is the case, and I will add that the reason had better be a good one. Ministers generally tend not to like having their generous gestures thrown back in their faces."

"Understood. But, you see, I'm out of practice with the media; I'm not sure it would really be in anyone's best interests to have cameras and recording devices shoved in my face the very day I'm released. It's a rather emotional time for me," Draco said flatly, his arms crossed, daring her to suggest otherwise.

"Yes, of course. I can see that," she said, clearly not buying what he was selling -- and selling poorly, at that.

"Well. Now what?"

Her eyebrows lifted slightly. "Now you pack up your things and go home."

Her words unexpectedly struck him like a blow to the gut. He was going home. This was really happening. Draco let out a soft, shuddery laugh before biting back whatever outburst was threatening to pour out of his mouth. Squeezing his eyes shut, he scrubbed a hand over his face. "Okay," he said quietly, his eyes cast towards the table.

Ginny saw his icy persona drop for a second and wasn't sure what to do with it. "Okay," she said.

They both stood, and Ginny hesitated for a moment before extending her hand to him. "Welcome back to normal life."

Reflexively, Draco reached his hand out, but pulled it back quickly when a guard from across the room called out, "No touching."

"Thank god," Ginny muttered under her breath.

Ginny stood in the reception area, the parcel containing Draco's personal things clutched under one arm, tapping a foot impatiently as she waited for him to change into his civvies. She frowned a little when he emerged from the bathroom, wearing the suit he'd had on the day of his trial; it was clear he had been keeping up some kind of exercise regimen, as his clothes, made for a thin, lean boy then, fit poorly now, as though they'd shrunken in the wash.

"Hm," he said, looking down at himself. Movement was awkward, and he could practically hear the seams of his shirt straining to hold themselves together. He wasn't sure if it was allowed to take the prison uniform out of prison, and he wasn't sure he wanted to ask, either. Having to keep wearing his prison garb on his first day out seemed like a bad sign.

"If you can lurch your way over here," Ginny said, walking to the wand check booth at the main entrance where she'd had to surrender her wand before going inside, "I can probably fix that for you. Wouldn't want you going around looking like the Incredible Hulk."

"Who?"

"Never mind; just try to get over here without flashing anyone, please."

Draco slowly made his way over to her, and once she collected her wand and they were both outside, Ginny cast several spells enlarging the clothes slightly so that he was no longer in danger of an involuntary striptease. As she considered the length of his sleeves, he gazed at her and their surroundings with a weird look on his face, which set her off talking just for the sake of it, a nervous habit she had developed over the years whenever silence was a little too uncomfortable. "Dead handy, these alteration spells. Mum taught me as soon as I was able to do my own magic, since I got a lot of hand-me-downs from my brothers, and I either had to fix them or go around with clothes that hung like tents off me," she babbled, cringing inwardly as her brain caught her up to the fact that she was talking about her upbringing to the one person who would deride her most for it.

He blinked at her, his brow furrowing slightly, as though contemplating the reason for her existence. "Do you mind?" he said finally. "This is my first step outside in three years. I ought to be having a special moment."

"Mm, right. Sorry, I forgot to bring my roll of red carpet for the occasion," she said, suppressing a scoffing noise and wondering whether he'd notice if she split the back seam of his trousers. Deciding that seeing his bum was not something she would like to experience, Ginny finished up his sleeves instead. Then, suddenly remembering the parcel she had collected on his behalf, she held it out to him. "Oh, here, it's the stuff they kept for you."

Draco opened it, a smile uncontrollably spreading over his face as he peered in. His wand was first to emerge, his fingers closing around the slender wood; it felt good in his hand, safe and familiar, like getting reacquainted with an old friend. His magic felt stiff and stale from years of being barred from using it, and he wondered if he even still had the knack for it. Taking it slow and easy, he levitated a pigeon feather off the ground. "Well, that's a relief," he said, letting the feather fall.

"Congratulations, you've achieved a first year charm. You must be so proud."

"You know, for someone whose job it is to be well-spoken, polite and diplomatic, you're awfully mouthy, Miss Minister's Office of Communications, Public Liaison subdivision."

"Oh, and here I thought you hadn't been paying attention. Do you want to go through more of your things or can we go?"

"I'll spare you the gory details of my personal effects. Let's get out of here. I never want to set foot in Scotland again."

"Good, that means I won't see you when the next Quidditch Cup's held here," Ginny said, and yanked her bag open to retrieve the Portkey that had been set to take them to Malfoy Manor upon activation. She held out a wooden ruler that had been snapped in half. "Hold on to this," she said, and when he touched it, she cast the spell to trigger off the Portkey.

Shortly, they appeared in the front gardens of Malfoy Manor. Even in its state of disuse, the property's attitude still remained haughty and imposing, but incredibly beautiful; the garden acreage was probably several times larger than Ginny's entire flat, and swirls of hedges and browning blossoms formed intricate, Victorian patterns around the paved walkway leading up to the main door. At the height of the Malfoys' good fortune, the sight would have been nigh on awe-inspiring. Ginny felt as though she ought to genuflect at the Manor's front steps, which were flanked by larger-than-life iron statues on high pedestals, of whom she assumed to be long-gone, revered Malfoy ancestors cast for posterity in some sort of ancient wizarding military garb.

Draco's feet reflexively propelled him up the white marble steps, breathing in rather than looking at the surroundings in which he had grown up. His hand curled around the front door's golden doorknob, Draco pushed the door open, feeling deteriorating magic settling over his shoulders like a damp blanket as he stepped over the threshold. The house seemed darker somehow; it had never been an altogether cheerful place, of course -- any building with that much history living in its foundations naturally exuded the sort of sedate air that made people talk in low whispers and look over their shoulders warily in the dark of night -- but devoid of any inhabitants and with much of the furniture gone, either taken to Normandy or confiscated by the Ministry during a zealous raid, Malfoy Manor now seemed more like a mausoleum than a home. Clearing his throat just to fill the oppressive silence, Draco heard his cough reverberate off the cold, stone walls and echo back to his ears, mocking his solitude. He stepped backwards and shut the door. He wouldn't live there again.

"What's the matter?" Ginny asked, looking at him curiously as he descended to join her at the bottom of the stairs.

"I'd rather not live here," Draco said, somewhat stiltedly.

"What? Why not?" she demanded.

Draco inhaled deeply, watching out of the corner of his eye a garden gnome scurry across a dry patch of lawn. "It's a bit large for one person, don't you think?"

"Since when do you have a problem with excess?" Ginny asked, a hand on her cocked hip.

"Now," he said, rubbing a finger along the base of one of the statues. The water repellent charms had started to wear off, leaving a light patina of rust. Draco brushed his finger off on a trouser leg.

"That's very nice for you," Ginny said dismissively, "but according to my notes, your family has no other properties in Great Britain. Where do you think you're going to stay?"

"I'll get by," he said vaguely. "Now, as much as it would warm the cockles of my heart to have you constantly at my beck and call, I don't actually need you to babysit me, so you're free to go back to doing whatever it is you normally do on a Friday morning."

Ginny cast a suspicious glance at him, and wondered if she should argue the point -- she was under orders from the Ministry, after all, to look after him -- or just let him be and take the easy excuse he was giving her -- he was a grown man, and who was she to say he couldn't take care of himself?

"Well, it's been fun. Bye," he said, making a gesture that strongly resembled a shooing motion.

When she was finished rolling her eyes, she narrowed them at him. "Yes, thanks, I can take a hint. Don't forget the press conference. Or at least --"

"I'll inform the Minister that I won't be attending."

"Fine. But don't tell him I gave you the choice," she said, fishing another Portkey out of her bag to get back to the Ministry. Along with this, she pulled out Draco's copy of the pardon and shoved it into his hands.

"Are you saying you were being nice?"

"As a matter of fact, I am. But I also happen to think that you don't deserve the attention, so it works out really well for both of us that you don't go."

"You're a very bitter woman, aren't you?"

"I wouldn't call it 'bitter' so much as indignant that someone like you is given a second chance that you didn't earn."

Draco shook his head and let out a soft, mirthless laugh. "Comfortable up there on your high horse?"

"Quite."

"You want to get off my property now?"

"I'm dying to." She tapped her wand on the Portkey and disappeared.

Draco let out a loud breath of irritation. Dealing with the Weasley girl was exhausting; he remembered it now from the handful of run-ins he'd had with her during their school days, which seemed at once like a past lifetime and just yesterday. She was one of that group of people too caught up in their own goodness to notice that they, too, looked down on those unlike themselves; she had, however, if he recalled correctly, some iota of good sense to know when fire was called for and when to back down, unlike her brother, who would shout himself blue at a brick wall for standing in his way.

Putting thoughts of school nemeses aside, he Apparated himself across the garden for practice. Once he had enough successful tries under his belt and was reasonably satisfied that doing it at a longer distance wouldn't get him splinched, Draco looked up at the sprawling manse he'd once called home, making a mental note to check up on the current property value, and Disapparated.

---

Blaise awoke to an unearthly commotion coming from somewhere in the area of the living room, which did not bode well for the hangover he was sporting. The sunlight happily pouring in through his east-facing windows did not much help matters either. Groaning as he felt his way to the bathroom, Blaise stuck his head under a faucet and ran cold water until he felt somewhat alive enough to then find the stash of potions he had brewed for just such mornings. He rinsed his mouth out to get rid of the feeling that a furry animal had set up camp and died on his tongue, and then downed the contents of a vial, perking him up instantly.

Hearing a loud squeal just outside his bedroom, he remembered why he had woken up in the first place. "Elba?" he called out tentatively, and yanked on a pair of pyjama bottoms that happened to be in reach. If he was being attacked somehow, he'd at least have the dignity of dying clothed. He had just grabbed his wand off the nightstand when the elf he had called for appeared in his room, her bottom lip quivering, yet somehow managing to exude joy at the same time.

"We're not under siege, then?" Blaise asked, his posture relaxing a little.

"Master must come and see!" said the elf, hopping from foot to foot, her hands waving excitedly.

"Did I accidentally order a girl in a cake again?" he murmured to himself and followed Elba out into the living room. His jaw dropped upon seeing Draco sitting comfortably on the couch, idly flipping through a magazine. "What the hell?"

"Hi," said Draco, setting the magazine down.

Blaise took a small step backwards, his mouth still slightly agape. "No," he said, twisting his wand between his fingers. "Who are you?"

"Draco," said Draco.

"Prove it," said Blaise, raising his wand.

"Try me."

"All right." He thought for a second, and came up with, "What's your middle name?"

Draco cocked his head to one side, shooting his friend a withering look. "That's it? That's the question you're going to ask to prove that I am who I say I am? Oh, come on, Zabini. Anyone who'd go through the trouble of looking exactly like me, breaking into your penthouse and waiting for your drunk arse to wake up would have done at least some basic research first before embarking on such a shoddy plan."

Blaise grinned widely. "Well. So it is you after all." He strode swiftly over to the blond and wrapped him in a quick hug. "And may I say again, what the hell?"

"I'm out of prison."

"I can see that. And how much time do you think I have before the authorities descend upon my house and accuse me of harbouring an escaped convict?"

"Do you really think I figured out how to escape from jail?"

"Well, if anyone was going to beat the system, it would be you. Breakfast?"

"It's almost eleven."

"All right," Blaise said, taking this information in his stride. "Elevenses?"

"Please."

"Elba," said Blaise.

The house elf came into view, practically shaking with delight. "Yes, Master Blaise! Elba will prepare snacks for the masters that is Master Draco's favourites," she sang, and disappeared into the kitchen.

"Hey," said Blaise, and slid onto the other end of the couch.

"It's because she likes me better," Draco explained rather smugly. "Possibly from that winter fourth year I holidayed with you and your mother in Switzerland, and I made her launder and iron my bed sheets every time she came to turn down the bed."

"Yeah, that'll do it. Now," he said, gesturing in a sweeping motion Draco's unlikely presence, "explain."

"It seems Minister Trench has been convinced that my trial was not much more than overzealous agitprop --"

"Too right."

"And he's seen to it himself to reverse my fortunes," Draco finished, and showed his friend the official pardon. He considered mentioning the visit from the representatives of the Unit, but thought better of it -- not only would he come off looking slightly crazy, but he wasn't entirely sure the organisation wouldn't disembowel him for talking about it to someone who wasn't in the know.

His mouth curling up into a smile as he read the decree, Blaise shook his head in incredulity and handed the parchment back. "That's --" he said, struggling for once for the right words. "This is bloody fantastic."

"Yes, I rather thought so myself," Draco said, matching the grin on Blaise's face. He let the sentiment linger while Elba emerged from the kitchen with tea and cakes enough to feed a large contingent and laid everything out for them before making herself scarce again with a happy squeak. Pouring tea for them both, Draco went on, "Well, other than sharing that bit of news, I do have a few favours to ask."

Blaise spread his palms, as if to say, 'Anything.'

"I need a place to stay for a bit, while I sort myself out."

"Guest bedroom's all yours, and you're welcome to stay for as long as you want. Here's the one house rule," he said, holding up a finger. "What's mine is yours, except for girls, my toothbrush, and my secret stash of Belgian chocolate."

"Just like old times, then."

"Well, yes, except this time I actually expect you to not pilfer my sweets."

"It's not my fault you didn't choose a more secure location than the secret compartment in the back of your desk drawer. Besides, it was Goyle who did the pilfering."

"Yes, and it was Goyle who discovered how to unlock the drawer, release the hidden spring catch, and lift and slide the correct panel away."

"He was a man of hidden depths," Draco said, taking a sip of tea. "Full of surprises."

"And you're full of something else entirely," said Blaise, amused.

"So they say. Well, if I promise to keep my hands off your chocolate, can I borrow a few changes of clothes?"

"Have at it. My tastes run a lot more to the colourful side, so you might have to stop dressing like you're going to a funeral everyday."

"Oh, you know, reflects the state of my soul and all that."

Blaise tilted his head, feigning surprise. "You have one?"

"If conditions are favourable," Draco replied lightly. "You have stationery handy? I need to compose a heartfelt and gratitude-filled letter to the Minister, and tell him why I can't come to his press conference today. Care to help? You always fit the bill of silver-tongued serpent more than I."

"My god, a compliment. How could I resist?" Blaise said, hand to his heart, and eased himself off the couch to fetch the necessary items. Returning shortly with parchment, quill and ink, he asked, "And are we going for sincere, or so saccharine he thinks it's sincere?"

"Does it have to be one or the other?"

"Since when do we do middle grounds?"

"Good point. Listen, when we're done with this, there's just one more thing I need to ask of you."

"Yeah?"

"I don't think my mother knows I'm out yet."

"Oh," said Blaise, stretching the sound out.

"Come with me to Normandy for a bit? I think there's going to be a lot of crying."

Ron turned the knob of his radio off with a snap, cutting the WWN news presenter off in the middle of a financial report. He fidgeted in his armchair, working himself up into a good stew and muttering darkly to himself while he digested the latest breaking news story. He had never really considered himself the kind of man to hold a long-term grudge, but he had just discovered differently, and he was putting the blame for this bit of character flaw squarely on the shoulders of the person who'd caused the grudge in the first place. If he was going to be resentful, he might as well go all the way.

"Ron," said Hermione, emerging from the kitchen holding a long wooden spoon with her free hand cradled underneath its bowl to prevent dripping, "taste this sauce for me?"

Doing as he was told, Ron licked his lips and said, "It's good."

Hermione hesitated. "Just good? Usually it's 'delicious' or 'fantastic'. It's your mother's recipe; I followed it to the letter."

"No, it's great," he said distractedly.

"What's the matter?"

"I just heard on the radio that Trench decided to pardon Draco Malfoy today. He's out of prison; probably eating a baby as we speak."

"He doesn't eat babies," Hermione said reasonably.

"Well, then, something equally dastardly," Ron huffed. "I know Trench hasn't been the best Minister ever or anything, but letting Malfoy go? He's gone round the bend!"

"He has a good reason, I'm sure," she said, not sounding sure at all.

"That's just the thing; I --" He was cut short by a series of knocks at their door and checked his watch. "Oh, that must be Ginny. Bit early."

As was her habit, enabled by Hermione and Ron's habit of leaving their door unlocked during the day, Ginny let herself in after knocking. "Hiya," she called out. After a brief pause, she added, "There's an alarming amount of smoke coming from the kitchen."

Hermione sped past, dashing off a greeting as she went by, along with an utterance that sounded like "all Ron's fault."

Ginny poked her head into the kitchen and helped to siphon off the excess smoke with her wand. Her weekly Friday night dinners with Ron and Hermione didn't usually run to this kind of excitement. "Need help rescuing dinner?"

"No, I think we'll be okay," Hermione said with a sheepish grin and prodded at a blackened bit of chicken. "I'll just... shave this part off. It was your brother distracted me; he's upset about something he heard on the radio."

"I didn't know the Cannons were playing today."

"Ha bloody ha," said Ron, coming up behind her and pinching her side, making her yelp. "Just because your team happens to be on some kind of ungodly winning streak."

"I always back winners," Ginny said, grinning. "What's got you so upset, then, that you nearly ruined dinner?"

"Malfoy."

"Oh, yeah, that."

"'Oh, yeah'? You knew about it and didn't tell me?"

"Well, it wouldn't have made a difference either way, would it? Whether it was me telling you or the WWN, you'd go all stroppy anyway. Besides, I only just found out yesterday."

"I don't get it. Why's Trench doing this?" Ron asked, frowning. Suddenly his eyes narrowed and his mouth fell open slightly. "Is he covering up something? Did Malfoy actually do a runner, and all you Ministry folk have to pretend you let him out on purpose so we don't lose faith in the prison system?"

"You're not very good with conspiracy theories," Ginny said, helping Hermione set the table. "You heard the press conference on the radio; Trench has his reasons, even if we don't think they're very good. And no one's done a runner; I can personally vouch for that. I was tasked with getting Malfoy out this morning, actually, and I was supposed to sort of help guide him back into normal life, until he dismissed me." She pursed her lips, still unsure whether she took offence at being dismissed like a common servant, or if she appreciated him recognising the fact that she'd only accompanied him out of obligation to her job and setting them both free of the other's dislike.

"Had an interesting morning, then?" Hermione asked, dishing out everyone's portion of the meal.

"That's one way to put it. The other is probably 'aggravating'. He hasn't changed much, if you can imagine," Ginny said sarcastically. "And he didn't turn up at the press conference like he was supposed to, so you'll have to take my word for it."

Hermione snickered. "You mean prison didn't turn him soft and sensitive? I'm astonished."

"You know, him not showing up this afternoon only fuels my theory," Ron pointed out.

"I was there, Ron; I'm telling you he's not on the lam. According to his letter to Trench, he's spending the day with his mother. Which, as far as excuses go, is fairly valid," Ginny conceded. "Anyway, it's official: Malfoy's a free man, and we'll just have to accept it."

Ron stabbed a piece of chicken with his fork. "What is the world coming to?"

"Well," said Hermione, "I wouldn't worry about it too much. Voldemort's gone, and all the rest of the Death Eaters and their spawn are either in Azkaban or have fled the country in shame, so I don't see what kind of mischief Malfoy would get up to on his own, other than being a massive prat."

"Yeah," Ginny agreed. "Besides, what are the chances he'll cross our paths again?"

---

He was having one of those lucid dreams, where he could hear himself tell his subconscious not to awaken just yet. Having a warm, comfortable bed was just a little too good to give up for the time being; besides, the prison lights would soon jolt him into full consciousness anyway, and he'd just as well make the most of his illusion. Draco pulled the goose-down comforter up to his chin, taking a deep, appreciative breath of the freshly-laundered scent, a light floral perfume that reminded him of safer, happier times. He waited for the lights to flare and cut into his dreams.

Instead, there was a soft knock at the door, followed by a pop and the light patter of flat feet across the floor. "It is time to be waking up, sir," said Elba, gently tugging at the comforter.

Groggy and slightly confused, Draco pushed himself up onto his elbows and gazed blearily at the house elf. "What's that now?"

"Master Draco says Elba is to be waking him up at eight o'clock for his full day ahead," said Elba, parroting his instructions from the night before back to him and lowering her wheezy voice at the last few words as though she was in on some kind of secret.

"Oh. Right," mumbled Draco, dismissing the elf with a short wave of his hand. He folded the comforter back and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, his feet finding a cool hardwood floor instead of the concrete he had gotten used to over the past few years. He jerked his feet upwards before quickly realising where exactly he was, and why Blaise's elf had appeared. Rubbing a fist over one eye, Draco took in his surroundings, nodding to himself. Being free would take some getting used to, apparently.

Hurrying through his morning ablutions as usual, Draco suddenly slowed his movements with his toothbrush sticking out of his mouth. He had no reason to rush; he was on his own schedule now, and he could brush his teeth for an hour if he wanted. He didn't, but knowing he had the luxury rather made his morning. By the time he dressed and made it out to the dining room, Elba had already laid out a large spread for him. Noting the single place setting, Draco asked, "Blaise still asleep?"

"Oh, no. Master Blaise left early," the elf replied, hovering as Draco picked up a rasher of bacon. "He is called out on emergency consultation," she added, referring to Blaise's freelance consulting work as a noted Potions authority specialising in Healing concoctions. Except for those who knew him well, his vocation frequently surprised people, which he found tiresome and had closed down his official practice to be a private consultant a few months ago so he wouldn't have to deal with such exasperations so often anymore.

Shovelling a forkful of runny egg into his mouth, Draco idly scanned the morning papers, wondering just how big a ruckus his release might have caused among the general public. He hadn't gone to the Minister's press conference the day before, of course, having spent much of the day in Normandy, so he wasn't sure what kind of reactions he ought to expect once people started seeing him out and about. He was both relieved and irked to find that his pardon warranted only a small, unobtrusive column on page three, next to an article about a lost cat that had found its way home hitchhiking by broom.

Having finished his breakfast, he took the paper with him into the living room and was startled to find Agents Williams and Webb standing at ease on Blaise's Oriental rug; Webb was, in fact, inspecting a glass case of priceless, exquisitely-made miniature figurines and clucking his tongue softly.

"Oh, good morning, Agent Malfoy," said Williams, coming forward to shake his hand while Webb straightened himself up and did his obligatory silent nod.

"Hi," said Draco, his handshake a little limper than usual.

"You were expecting to see us again, weren't you?"

"Yes. Although perhaps not in my friend's living room."

"We're very good at our jobs," said Williams, as if that explained everything. "Now, as was our deal, we got you out of prison -- you're welcome, by the way -- and now you work for us. We're in the midst of getting all the necessary parts moving so that you will be guaranteed a job at the Ministry, as we discussed, so in the meantime, we're here to get you settled into your artificially normal life."

"And what might that entail?"

"Well, we understand that you are looking to live somewhere other than Malfoy Manor," Williams began.

"How -- Does Weasley work for you, too?"

"Who?"

"Never mind."

Williams smiled, going on as though the interruption had not occurred. "Might we suggest taking up residence in a Muggle area?"

"Why would I want to do that?"

"Your unexpected early release has caused quite a stir among the wizarding community, you see."

"Has it? There's barely any mention of it in today's papers, and if there's anyone who's going to overreact to things, it's the staff of the Daily Prophet."

"That's true, of course, and given the time they've now had to mull the situation over, you'll find the evening edition telling quite a different story -- a page-long editorial, and quite a loud one, at that, devoted solely to you and how Trench has made the biggest error of his career in giving you an undeserved second chance," he said, his jovial tone somewhat inappropriate for the occasion. "I wouldn't worry about Trench, though," Williams added. "He'll bounce right back up in the popularity polls soon enough."

"It must be nice knowing things everybody else doesn't."

"Yes, sometimes it is quite satisfying," he said with a contented little sigh. "But let's get back to the issue at hand. We believe, that for our purposes and your interests, that you would be better suited to living among non-magical folk. For one, as I mentioned, you're a hot topic of conversation and debate at the moment, and attention will naturally draw itself to you in a wizarding area, which, we imagine, will get rather vexing, and just plain inconvenient. Living in a Muggle area, where most people won't recognise you, will significantly cut down on unwanted attention."

"If that's the case, then why am I going to work for the Ministry? Won't people there be just as -- if not more -- inquisitive and irritating?"

"Well, you ought to still have one foot in the wizarding world. Besides, I think you'll find that being in the Ministry's employ will make your real job quite a bit easier; it's amazing how much confidential information you can overhear in a government office. As for your other foot, some of your missions will be carried out in Muggle areas, using Muggle methods, and we want you to acclimate yourself to that kind of lifestyle, so that you move as naturally through the non-magical world as you do in the magical one."

"All right, fine," said Draco, who had a feeling their suggestions were less that than orders.

"We'll leave the house-hunting up to you; no mansions, mind. Muggles, just as wizards, tend to get nosy about rich people and their affairs sometimes."

"Indeed," Draco agreed, remembering quite well.

"Another agent will be in touch with you soon to begin your training," said Williams abruptly, and fished a thick roll of parchment out from somewhere inside his jacket. "You're allowed one Secret Keeper, who will be charged with not only keeping your identity safe, but also taking care of you should the Unit be unavailable to you for any reason. Choose wisely, and read the fine print."

Draco accepted the parchment, and Williams smiled brightly at him before taking his leave. Webb tipped two fingers to his head in a little salute, and the two agents let themselves out of the penthouse. When the door clicked closed, Draco found himself frowning. "Elba?" he called.

The elf pattered in quickly, ready for whatever orders he had to give.

"Did you let those two men in?"

Elba looked blankly at him for a second, and then followed it up with a slightly fearful grimace. "Elba did not see any two men, sir. Elba is busy with the washing. If Elba has done something wrong, sir --" She looked as though she was about to cry.

"No," said Draco firmly. "It's fine. Go finish your washing."

She slunk out of the room and popped herself in the head just in case she had done something wrong.

Reading the Secret Keeper contract carefully, Draco paced the length of the living room -- it was a fairly large area to cover, which made for satisfying pacing. Williams and Webb were clearly quite clever men, able to get in and out of places without anyone noticing if they didn't want to be noticed. He was sure they were capable of much more than that as well, and though it made him slightly uneasy, there was a part of him, too, that was more than a little eager to learn the skills they had to offer. Besides, they had kept to their word so far, and that went a long way.

The door swung open, snapping Draco out of his thoughts. Blaise stepped in, shrugging off his cloak and hanging it up on a gold hook next to the door. "Hey," he said.

Draco looked at the parchment in his hands, and then up at Blaise. It wasn't as if he was awash in options. Besides, if you couldn't trust your best mate, who could you trust? "Hey, Zabini. You're pretty good at keeping your mouth shut, right?"

Ginny stretched languidly, enjoying her Saturday morning lie-in. Lazily opening one eye, she noted the positioning of her alarm clock's hands and smiled to herself. It was 9:30; she could spend a few more minutes in bed -- not more than thirty though, because once the hour hand swerved into the double digits the whole day would officially be shot.

After falling back asleep and then snoring herself awake, Ginny rolled herself out of bed at precisely one minute to ten, her feet sliding automatically into the worn, furry yellow slippers on the floor, and lumbered to the bathroom. Halfway through brushing her teeth, she remembered that she had a lunch date with George later that day. Heading back into the bedroom, she used her free hand to grab the handbag she had used the day before and dumped its contents out, intending to transfer some of the more essential items into a different tote, when her eye fell upon a piece of parchment with the Ministry seal on it.

"Oh, hell," Ginny said around her toothbrush, her eyes raking over the information on the paper, which stated that, in addition to the pardon, the Minister was overturning the decision that had resulted in the government seizing the Malfoys' domestic bank accounts and most of their assets, and that all funds and property were to be returned to Draco immediately, with interest.

She groaned, obviously having forgotten to give Draco the document when she'd sprung him from jail, and without it, Gringotts wouldn't let him touch any of his own money. Ginny weighed her options for a moment, and then huffed at her own moral fortitude when she decided that it would be irresponsible, unprofessional and just plain rotten of her to let him go around without any means of monetary support, especially since it was her fault. She groaned again, louder this time, when she remembered that he'd chosen not to live at Malfoy Manor and had not deigned to inform her of his whereabouts thereafter. Not that he had been obligated to, by any means, but it would have been nice to have the information at hand.

Instead, she would have to go to her office and trace the owl that had come in the day before with his letter to Trench. Muttering somewhat disdainful things about herself, Ginny rushed through the rest of her morning routine, hastily put an outfit together and popped over to the Ministry.

It being the weekend, the place was quiet and dark, and the squeak of her trainers along the polished marble floors of the Atrium announced her presence rather adamantly. She was somewhat less tense, then, when she reached her floor, her shoes hushed on the patterned carpeting. She bypassed several dozens of desks on the way to her own; the Minister had quite a large number of support departments, but each sector only had a small handful of staff, so they all ended up clustered on one floor in an open space divided only by cubicle walls. The official reason for this design was that it kept the lines of communication open between all the staff of each department, though Ginny, who was chummy with the girls from Finance, privately assumed that their rather shoddy collective workspace had less to do with interdepartmental relations than a scanty budget and a few freewheeling department heads, who had their own offices and cared little about their underlings' work environment.

She rooted around the mess on top of her desk, trying to remember where she had put Draco's letter -- if she had saved the thing at all. As she pushed papers around and grunted in frustration, she heard a soft click coming from somewhere behind her. Straightening quickly, Ginny spun around to see who else was on the floor.

"Oh, hey, it's you," Ginny said, catching sight of her supervisor coming out of one of the department heads' offices. "Er, what are you doing here?"

"Oh, I just took some work home yesterday but forgot a file, so I had to come back for it," Brigid replied breezily, holding said file up.

"From Martin's office?" Ginny asked, surprised. Their department didn't often work with that of Policy Management and Research.

"Er, no," Brigid said, her face giving her away as well. "All right, I suppose if you must know, I was nicking one of his quills."

Ginny laughed. "Miss Brennan, I'm ashamed of you!"

"I know, but he always gets such nice ones, and the rest of us have to use the Ministry-approved kind that fall apart after a week," she complained good-naturedly. "Don't follow my example, by the way. I'm a terrible role model. Why're you here?"

"Because I'm an idiot and forgot to give Malfoy a very important document yesterday, so now I've to find out where he is, so I can give it to him. And I told you yesterday, didn't I, that he refused to live at the Manor?"

"Yeah, what a nut; it's a mansion, for god's sake! Who doesn't want to live in a mansion?"

"Exactly. Anyway, I don't know where he's gone now, so I have to trace his owl. And, of course, it's one of those confidential documents, so I have to then physically track the man down and hand it to him instead of just owling."

Brigid made a noise of disgust and sympathy. "Well, I'd help, but I'm meeting someone downtown in a few minutes, so I can't stay. Good luck," she called over her shoulder as she headed towards the exit.

"Thanks," Ginny said, smiling, and returned to her search. Seeing a corner of it peek out at her from underneath a dangerously tall stack of blue folders, she grabbed the parchment with a triumphant cry and flattened its creases out. In the top right corner was the information she sought: the delivery owl's registration number. With that number she'd easily be able to track the letter back to where it had come from, and from the looks of the combination of letters and numerals, the owl's owner lived in the London area. She shoved the letter into her pocket, silently thanking the Ministry mailroom protocol that never allowed any mail into the rest of the building before it was checked for security threats and tagged with a valid means for tracing its source, whether it was an owl number or return address. Quickly finding the Owl Registration Directory for London, Greater London and Surrounding Areas from a large shelf across the room, Ginny squatted on the floor while she flipped hurriedly through the thick log. Her finger landed on the name Blaise Zabini.

"Oh, balls," she said.

---

Ginny rapped her knuckles sharply on Blaise's door, and checked her watch. If Draco was around and neither of the boys gave her any trouble, she could still probably get back home in time to change and make it for lunch with her brother. With one foot mid-tap, she was suddenly faced with an open door and a house elf.

"Yes, Miss?" said the elf.

"Oh, hey. Er, is Draco Malfoy in there?"

"What is the Miss' business?" asked the elf. Her tone was not unfriendly, but she had obviously been properly trained in receiving and turning away uninvited guests.

"I'm from the Ministry; I've something to give him."

"Miss does not look like she is from the Ministry," said the elf, taking in Ginny's sweatshirt, tatty jeans and trainers.

"That's because it's Saturday, and they don't pay me enough to wear their puce-coloured robes on a Saturday," Ginny said, getting impatient. She wasn't in the habit of tackling reticent house elves, but habits always had to start somewhere, right? "Look, is he here or not? I just have to give him this thing, and then I'll be out of your hair and we'll never have to see each other again."

"Miss may leave any gifts with Elba."

Ginny blew a puff of air through her lips, wondering whether sweetness or threats would work better in this situation.

Meanwhile, Blaise, who had been sitting and reading in the living room just a few feet away from the door, was starting to get curious. Getting up to investigate, he waved Elba away and, upon seeing who was at the door, raised his eyebrows. "Sorry, we're all out of alms today."

Ginny was glad she had saved her strength for tackling this jerk instead. "Stuff it. Is Malfoy here or not?"

"That depends," Blaise said, leaning a shoulder casually into the doorframe, one hand propped against the opposite jamb, effectively barring her entrance. She wouldn't be able to get past the wards anyway, but he liked making himself clear. "What do you want him for?"

"I forgot to give him something yesterday, and it's important that he receives it personally. So, no, I cannot entrust it to the elf, or, worse, to you. Now, go get him, or tell me where he is, so I don't have to waste any more time on you."

Blaise sucked in a bit of air through his teeth, making as though he was wounded. "I say, Weasley. For someone who works in the Minister's Office of Communications --"

"Yes, I know. I'm very surly," Ginny interrupted. "Would it make a difference as to whether or not you'd fetch Malfoy to the door for me if I were unerringly polite?"

"No, I doubt it."

"Well, I'm glad I didn't make the effort, then. Here's the deal, Zabini," she said, taking a step forward. "Without me, Malfoy won't be able to get his hands on any of his seized money, so unless you're planning on pushing him into immediate poverty or supporting him until he does something as menial as get a real job -- his current vocation as Massive Prat notwithstanding -- you'd do well to produce him as soon as possible."

"Oh, there's money to be had, is there? Well, why didn't you just say so?" Blaise asked, a smile lighting his face. He turned around briefly to instruct Elba to fetch Draco. Facing Ginny again, he smiled at her as though they hadn't just had a mild altercation. Now that she had said her piece and had nothing else to do but wait and try to deflect his grin, she shifted her feet uneasily, which Blaise was pleased to note was the intended effect.

Shortly, Draco came into view, looking over Blaise's shoulder. "Oh," he said, taking his friend's place at the door. "It's you again. Didn't get your fill of me yesterday?"

"Yes, that must be it," said Ginny. "Look, I'm here because I forgot to give you something rather important yesterday. Before I do, let's make sure you're actually Draco Malfoy. What was the first spell you cast upon your release?"

"Wingardium Leviosa," he replied, and then called over his shoulder into the apartment to Blaise. "That's how it's done, Zabini."

Ginny heard a dismissive "Whatever" from the interior. Handing off the document to Draco, she noted, "You'll have to present it at Gringotts before you go through with any transactions, but it'll just be the one time. If you run into any trouble with the goblins, let me know and I'll sort it."

He uttered a nondescript sound that suggested he was listening to what she was saying, while he looked the parchment over. She had shoved her hands into the pockets of her sweatshirt, waiting for any further remarks, and Draco begrudgingly recognised her efforts to find him on her day off. "Thank you," he said, the words somewhat strangled as they emerged from his throat.

"Yeah," she said, thrown off. "You're welcome. Any questions?"

"No."

"Okay. Good. See ya." She turned to leave.

"Hey. Wait," Draco said suddenly. "How did you find me?"

Ginny gave him a lopsided smile. "We're the government; we know everything."

"Right," Draco said to her retreating figure, searching the recesses of his mind for the exact definition of irony. He shut the door and slid into an armchair, facing Blaise, who had been openly eavesdropping. "I'm rich again."

"Oh, good. Dinner's on you."

The pointing and whispering started as soon as Draco set foot in Diagon Alley. If he was being discerning, there was a fair amount of gasping thrown in the mix as well. Keeping his gaze trained above the heads of the crowd to avoid making eye contact with anyone who might take it as an invitation to speak to him, Draco quickened his pace, walking with a distinct air of purpose towards Gringotts.

Passing underneath the large, vaulted archway of the bank's front entrance and joining a short queue, he felt several pairs of eyes follow his every move. Although this was fairly standard practice for the bank's goblins, who were naturally suspicious of anyone who dared enter their marble hall, Draco had a very strong feeling that the security staff were not the only ones keeping an eye on him, though, thankfully, the whispers were kept to a minimum this time -- any side conversations that were not finance-related tended to be frowned upon mightily by the staff. While much of the wizarding community was still in the habit of regarding goblins as an inferior species, openly crossing the creatures who controlled the economy was generally not considered a clever move.

Draco stepped up to the counter, the parchment Ginny had given him in hand.

"Good morning," said the goblin teller, whose nametag read: Hornglum. As most of the others of his kind did, Hornglum sported a pointed beard, but looked uncharacteristically cheery for a goblin.

"I'm here to reclaim control of my family vault and withdraw some money," Draco said, passing the parchment over the counter and ignoring the woman at the next counter over, who was openly gaping at him.

The goblin made small noises of approval as his long, thin fingers ticked off several points on the Ministry order, reconciling them with some internal list he had in his head. "Everything appears to be in order," said Hornglum, the parchment disappearing somewhere beneath the counter, from which he then produced the small key that the Ministry had confiscated so many years ago. "The key to your vault, sir," he said, dropping it delicately into Draco's outstretched palm. "Now, if you will follow me."

Draco fell into step with the young goblin -- at least, he assumed Hornglum was young, judging by the bounce in his walk -- and they passed through the side door that led to the holding area for the bank's carts. He climbed in with little difficulty, though he thought he remembered the carts being somewhat larger the last time he had been down here. That had been years ago with his parents, of course, and Draco realised he had never come to Gringotts alone. With a jarring lurch, the cart rattled onward, soon dropping its leisurely pace in favour of its usual alarming whiz. The goblin seated ahead bobbed easily along with each bump and weave, while Draco, without feeling the need to impress his father with a show of stoic manliness this time, gripped his fingers over the sides of the cart.

As the cart came to a sudden halt outside the Malfoy vault, Hornglum gestured for him to unlock the door, and then folded his hands and waited patiently. Draco stepped out with as much dignity as he could muster while his legs threatened to give way. Regaining his balance by shreds, he inserted his key into the keyhole and pulled the vault door open, and was immediately greeted by heaps and mounds of gleaming coins, precious jewels and priceless artefacts. The sight, familiar and greatly missed, produced the same effect as if he were to have cast a Cheering Charm on himself.

Removing from his pocket a small velvet pouch, Draco filled the bag with about as many coins as he thought would last him until the memory of the careening cart became fuzzy enough that he would consider coming back to Gringotts a good idea. Shrinking the bulging pouch and shoving it back into his pocket along with his key, Draco shut the vault door and gave the goblin in the cart a slight grimace before stepping back in. "Surely there has to be a better method of transportation?" he asked without hope.

"Perhaps you wizards just ought to be made of sterner stuff, sir," Hornglum suggested, and set the cart going again. As it hurtled through the darkness, the goblin shouted over his shoulder, "Besides, what other job provides such thrills on the company Sickle?"

With the ride ended, Draco took a moment to regret eating lunch just before coming. Keeping the contents of that meal where it belonged by sheer force of will, he did his best not to blow the cart to smithereens, and tipped his head in thanks to the goblin, who quickly returned to his vacated post behind the counter. Had he the inclination to take over the world, Draco decided his first order as dictator would be to overhaul the Gringotts transportation system by exploding it all. Feeling slightly better, he marched out of Gringotts, coins weighing down one side of his trousers, and looked both ways before getting his bearings and heading towards Flourish and Blotts.

He had been fairly amenable to the idea of living as a Muggle during his brief ambush meeting with Williams and Webb, who had made some very good points in its favour, until he remembered very quickly after just how well and little he thought of Muggles. With parents who had had absolutely no use for the non-magical world, his exposure to that way of life had been very nearly non-existent until the Hogwarts elective class system made it impossible for him to avoid Muggle Studies any longer, having dropped both Care of Magical Creatures and Divination like hot rocks as soon as he had been able. Naturally, it had been that year that Professor Burbage obtained permission to take the class on an ill-advised, day-long field trip into Muggle Edinburgh, which had resulted in a lost child, Burbage going absolutely mental about it, Ministry interference and Draco being firmly convinced that there was no good to come out of intermingling with Muggles. He also remembered the place as being fairly dirty, which did not commend it to him any further.

However, with orders -- masked as friendly suggestions -- to carve out some semblance of normal life in the Muggle world, Draco realised he would have to put his dislikes aside and immerse himself in their lifestyle. Besides, for all he knew, the Muggles might have done some spring cleaning since his last outing there, though he seriously doubted it. Although there really was no better way to find out than to just pop in himself, in his better moments of clarity Draco had usually preferred to do copious amounts of research and observation first before acting on any impulses, and since he hadn't paid very much attention in Muggle Studies as Burbage had been one of those teachers who passed out Outstanding marks like sweets, his next best bet was Flourish and Blotts' Muggle section.

He had hoped, perhaps a little idiotically, that he might get in and out quickly without too much fuss, but halfway to the bookshop he was already being followed at a distance by a small contingent of curious shoppers, who giggled and shushed each other in high-pitched tones as though they were thirteen and had sighted the star who adorned their bedroom walls. He was beginning to see Williams' point about unwanted attention very well. Deciding to just leave it be for the time being, Draco slipped into Flourish and Blotts, and found a camera shoved in his chest.

"Whoops, sorry. You all right?" said the owner of the camera, whose hand shot out to make sure Draco hadn't been too terribly bruised by the contact. The mousy young man then inhaled loudly in a squeal of happy surprise. "Draco Malfoy!" he all but shouted.

Draco frowned and tried to get past him without getting sucked into conversation. Unfortunately, the man followed him around the shop like an overgrown puppy yearning for attention. Finally, Draco turned around and gave him a hard glare. "What?"

Undeterred, the young man stuck his hand out. "I'm Dennis Creevey! D'you remember? From Hogwarts?" he gushed. "Boy, it's been ages, hasn't it? Listen, you wouldn't mind if I got a picture, would you? I'm at the Prophet now, and this is just the kind of thing they'd want on their front page!"

Draco felt the words 'no, sod off' form on his tongue, but a quick look out the window, featuring the growing group of regressed characters who'd been trailing him, told him that he might be able to use the Creevey boy to his advantage. "Here's the deal," he said, ignoring the hand Dennis was still waiting to be shaken. "Keep those people away from me, and I'll give you a picture."

"No problem!" Dennis said, and ran to the shop door, locked it and hung up the 'Closed' sign. He beamed at Draco.

---

Ginny could scarcely breathe, her whooping laugh attracting stares from the other cafe patrons, as she clutched her side with one hand, and used the other to frantically wave at George to make him stop talking.

"Quiet down, Ginny; people are looking," George said in a fussy old woman's voice, which set his sister off in another round of laughter. The ancient fusspot who had accidentally eaten one of her grandson's Ton-Tongue Toffees and had arrived that morning to the shop in a fit of pique to harangue him about the danger he was putting everyone in with his horrible products was just ripe for impersonation, in George's estimation, and he had trotted the impression out in the middle of lunch, which was the reason why Ginny was in danger of falling off her chair in convulsions in the first place.

"Stop," she pleaded between breaths, wiping a tear off her face. Pulling herself together, with an occasional giggle bubbling up and escaping, Ginny managed to look appropriately apologetic to the other customers before directing a heatless glare at her brother. "You have to warn me before you do things like that," she said. "And best in private, too."

"You should've seen her. She shook her cane at me, Gin," George said. "You sure you don't want to come work at the shop? You could see all these things for yourself firsthand!"

"And have sticks shaken at me? I'll pass, thanks," Ginny said, smiling. "Besides, I like my job. Kind of. Most of the time."

"So, you weren't just complaining about the thing you had to do this morning for Malfoy?"

"That falls in the twenty percent of the time I think my job's crap. And if I never have to deal with him again, that percentage will lessen considerably."

"I'm telling you, you'd have loads more fun with me."

"Mmhm. And what would my wages be?"

"What's money between family?" George asked, spreading his palms and shrugging.

"Ha, I thought so."

George grinned and laid his napkin on the table. "Okay, I'll pay you in Weasley dollars. But that's my final offer."

The reminder of the complicated exchange system of chores, goodwill, prized possessions and the occasional dessert that the younger Weasley siblings had concocted as children made Ginny giggle. "You still owe me two garden weedings, one sweep of all the spider-webby corners and a chocolate pudding. Are you really sure you want to reinstate the Weasley dollar system? Because at the current exchange rate plus accumulated interest, I've already earned two weeks of skiving off at your shop."

George cast a sideways, suspicious glance at her. "Have you been hanging around Percy again?"

"I can be a smart-arse on my own, thank you very much," Ginny said, poking her tongue out at him. "And speaking of the dear, I have the perfect Christmas present in mind for him, and since I'm here I thought I'd pop down to Flourish and Blotts after this. Want to come?"

Checking his watch, George shook his head. "Nah, I've got to get back to the shop soon. Brian's off this week, so I closed it for lunch. And why are you thinking about Christmas? It's months away!"

"Because you boys are always so hard to buy for; I have to start planning for the next Christmas every Boxing Day, practically."

"What are you getting me, then?"

"Don't be silly. It's a surprise. Like every Christmas that's come before."

"Fine," George said with a put-out sigh, as they exited the cafe. "What're you getting Percy? I solemnly swear not to tell."

"That new book on the history of magical transportation. He'll like that, won't he? It's --" She was cut off by George affecting a loud snore, and she reached over to thump him on the arm.

"Hey, watch it," George said, rubbing his sore spot. "These are the limbs of a creative genius. You don't want to risk putting me out of commission, you know; how else will the youth of today get corrupted if I'm not there to provide them with the necessary tools of evil that'll lead them down the path of moral laxity?" he asked, slipping into his old woman voice again.

"Don't start again," Ginny laughed. "Don't you have a shop to tend?"

"How could I forget?"

Ginny pecked him on the cheek before they went their separate ways. As she neared the bookshop, she noticed a crowd gathering in front of it, a few people occasionally getting on their tiptoes to try to peer inside. Following suit, Ginny edged her way into the middle of the throng, wanting to see what the fuss was about.

Somewhere to her left, a voice shouted out, "Go back to jail!" A chorus of other voices followed this up with about an equal mix of approval and dissent.

"What's going on?" she asked the woman next to her.

"Draco Malfoy's in there!"

Ginny pulled a face. Him again. "So?"

"Didn't you hear me? Draco Malfoy is inside the shop."

"All right, no need to get in a bloody strop about it," muttered Ginny, put off by the woman's adamant tone. Raising her voice so the bystander could hear her again, Ginny asked, "So what's everyone doing out here, then?"

"We can't get in; they've just locked the door, so we couldn't follow him in!"

Ginny shook her head in disgust. It was one thing to let the man out of prison, pay him extra for having gone to prison and absolve him of any wrongdoing, but treating him like a celebrity and locking everyone else out of a public establishment just so he could shop in peace was beyond the pale. Well, she had Christmas shopping to do, and this would not stand. Sticking her elbows out, Ginny managed to get to the front of the shop, where, through the glass pane in the middle of the door, she could see the manager of Flourish and Blotts arguing with a smallish, camera-toting man. Said camera-toter, who looked very familiar and yet altogether unremarkable, seemed to be blocking the manager's path to the door.

"Oi!" Ginny shouted, pounding the flat of her hand against the glass.

Inside, the manager gestured angrily at the other man to the door, and pushed him aside to hurry over. Quickly turning the deadbolt and flipping the 'Closed' sign around, the manager shot Ginny an apologetic look as he swung the door open. "Terribly sorry, miss. Just a bit of a misunderstanding. Please, we cherish your patronage," he said, somewhat desperately, extending his look to the rest of the shoppers outside.

"Hallo, Ginny!" The familiar man bounded up to her, a bright smile stretching from ear to ear. Standing so close to her that she was barring the entryway now, he went on, "How've you been? Gosh, I haven't seen you in ages!"

Ginny looked at him, the brusque question 'Do I know you?' ready to burst forth, when she suddenly recognised the nearly manic grin. It had belonged to Colin Creevey, too, once upon a time. "Dennis," she said, managing to return a fraction of his smile and edging sideways slightly. "Hi."

Noticing her movement, Dennis slid over an inch as well. "Could you stay there just a mo?" he asked. Then lowering his voice to just above a whisper, he added, "Draco Malfoy's asked me to keep everyone away from him."

"That's silly, Dennis," Ginny said decisively and pushed forward, feeling the crowd in back of her follow her lead. Studiously keeping her gaze from wandering and accidentally lighting on Draco, Ginny headed straight towards the History section, intending to pick up Percy's gift and get out without so much as an acknowledgement of Draco's presence in the nearby vicinity. Unfortunately, getting to the History section meant that she had to pass the Muggle shelves, and despite putting mental blinders on, telltale white-blond hair caught her periphery attention, and her shoulders slumped slightly in defeat, recognising her fatal flaw of never leaving things well enough alone. Taking a detour, she marched down the aisle between shelves to where Draco was standing, reading the back of one book jacket with a critical eye. "What is your problem?" she asked.

"I beg your pardon?" he said, putting the book back.

"Making Dennis lock up the shop for you -- a shop which does not belong to him, I might add -- just so you can browse in privacy? Have you a big enough head, Malfoy?"

"Sorry," came Dennis' voice from the end of the aisle, as he peered at them around a shelf.

"Do you really think getting the little Creevey to be my bodyguard is my idea of a good time? Besides, we made a deal. Didn't we, Creevey?" Draco said, his hard gaze still directed at Ginny.

"That's right," Dennis said happily, loping forward and popping the cap off his lens. Adjusting the settings on his camera, Dennis then hoisted it up to eye level and directed it at Draco. "Smile!"

While Ginny ducked out of frame with a groan, Draco gave him a two-fingered salute.

"Oh," said Dennis ruefully, lowering his camera. "I don't think we can print that."

"Shame," said Draco. "You'll just have to make do. Our deal was your services -- not too well done, I should say -- for exactly one picture, which you now have."

Dennis frowned for a second. "Maybe I can crop it so it'll just be a giant head, glaring. That would still sell, right?" he asked hopefully.

"I don't know if a giant head would sell, but it's definitely appropriate for the subject," said Ginny sourly.

Draco shot her a contemptuous look, and absorbed the scene around him. There was a group of women circled around the bestsellers' table trying to look casual while actually eavesdropping and giving themselves away with an occasional titter. To Dennis' left, an old bag couldn't be bothered to pretend not to stare at him as though his head was afire. He couldn't think of a good way to salvage the situation that didn't involve a lot of wand-waving, so he did the next best thing: leave.

"Get out of my way," he growled, brushing forcefully past Ginny, Dennis and the aforementioned old bag. He was overdoing it a little, and wondered if perhaps that was not the best impression to give off his first day in public out of prison. Then again, if he was an absolute ogre to everyone, maybe they'd get the hint and leave him alone. Living among Muggles was starting to look rather appealing. He accosted the manager, barking out orders to give him a catalogue and an owl order form, and Apparated back to Blaise's place, where nobody would giggle his name.

Falling heavily onto the sofa, Draco emptied his pocket of the money he'd withdrawn, and, out of reflex, checked the other pocket. He was surprised when his fingers touched a piece of parchment he was sure had not been in there before. Unfolded, it read simply:

The Wembley Arms, Muggle Ealing. Tomorrow, 6pm.

Draco inspected the scrap of paper carefully, looking out for any additional markings that might tell him more, but there was nothing else to be revealed. It hadn't been in his pocket before he left the penthouse -- of that he was quite sure. That meant that someone had to have slipped it to him at some point during his excursion to Diagon Alley. He tried to remember all the instances in which someone might have had the chance to do so; most recently, he had come into some kind of contact with a handful of people at Flourish and Blotts, including the irritating Weasley girl, who had come marching up to him, eyes all ablaze with accusation, for no good reason. He felt fairly sure she hadn't been the culprit, however, as she was the kind of person far more prone to shouting at him on the spot than arranging for a clandestine meeting so she could shout at him in secret. Ruling her out didn't make it any easier to pin down the note-dropper, however. It had been rather busy on Diagon Alley, both in the cobblestone street and eventually in the bookshop, and he couldn't recall anyone who had caught his attention as being overtly suspicious.

Ordinarily, Draco might have just given the whole thing up as a mistake, a note accidentally fallen into the wrong place, like forgetful pygmy puffs who nuzzled up to person after person, thinking each successive one was its owner. The message meant little to him, after all, as he'd never heard of any place called The Wembley Arms, nor had he ever had the desire to visit a place as common and dull as Ealing sounded -- but considering his current circumstances as a newly-minted spy, which still seemed rather outlandish if he thought about it for very long, he should probably start learning to expect the unexpected, and roll along with every situation as it came.

There was also the regrettable fact that he had long been ingrained with a nasty curious streak that had gotten him into hot water a number of times, and this note was just the kind of thing that would eat away at him until he managed to pick through it and know everything there was to know, even if it meant finding out that there was nothing to know after all.

His first order of business, then, was to find out where exactly The Wembley Arms was located, followed soon after by looking up how to get there as inconspicuously as possible. Draco looked around the living room, sizing up his options as though they were laid out in front of him on the coffee table; Blaise was off gallivanting somewhere and having the kind of adventures only the Zabini heir could think up, while Elba, by the sound of it, was busying herself somewhere in the vicinity of the kitchen. Turning his head in that direction, Draco wondered if the elf might be able to do the research for him. After all, his day out had been short-lived and unfortunate, and he wasn't entirely keen on doing it again, not to mention possibly having to explain to random nosy parkers why he was exchanging perfectly good money for worthless Muggle currency, consulting maps of Muggle England and looking up how to use that 'tube' thing, the virtues of which Burbage had once endlessly extolled. This bit of Muggle Studies he had retained in his memory banks, as her enthusiastic chronicle of its workings had struck him at the time as being not much more than a glorified metal death trap, which, in his estimation, also served as an apt description of almost all other forms of Muggle transport.

Wishing for the first time in his life that he had kept his Muggle Studies textbook instead of hurtling it into the ocean that summer his family had holidayed by the seaside, Draco called for Elba. Blaise wouldn't mind him using the elf for non-household jobs; after all, the one house rule only covered women, dental hygiene and sweets, so by all accounts, Elba was Draco's to use as he pleased.

---

The next morning's front page of the Daily Prophet didn't feature him after all, which was happy news. Saved the trouble of stewing over a biased write-up and unflattering photo, Draco instead spent his morning filling up a very large owl order form for Flourish and Blotts, depleting much of their Muggle book stock, while the afternoon was occupied with bouts of antsiness as the hour drew closer for him to depart for Ealing. One part of his mind told him he was mental for thinking of going in the first place just because some anonymous note told him so, while another bit of his brain told the first bit to shut up because he was a spy now and this was what spies did. Yet a third voice snidely suggested that neither of them had any idea what real spies did, seeing as Draco hadn't done anything remotely involved with intelligence work other than getting ambushed by other agents all the time. For this reason, Draco had carefully neglected to mention his evening plans to Blaise, though he made the mistake of swearing Elba to secrecy when he sent her out on the research mission; precisely because he had told her to keep it quiet, she was acting far more fidgety than usual, as if someone had set off a switch to 'vibrate', and was given to the occasional burst of nervous giggling.

For all her disastrous attempts at affecting nonchalance, however, Elba had also been enormously resourceful, supplying Draco with a wad of Muggle cash, a handful of coins and a small map with colour-coded route options; the elf had also given him very thorough directions on how to find the correct underground stations and how to travel safely on the trains, which had really been his biggest concern.

Draco set off to The Leaky Cauldron quite a bit earlier than he needed to, just so he had something concrete to do before he drove himself up the wall. Moving swiftly through the bustle of patrons and waiters, who only belatedly noticed him passing through and therefore had no chance to gasp within his earshot, Draco pushed out of the front doors and found himself on a busy street, blocking the seamless flow of foot-traffic, surrounded by Muggles with places to go and no time to get there. Checking Elba's map as he inserted himself into the stream, he quickly found the Charing Cross station and its ticket office.

There was a gaggle of tourists with cameras and waist-pouches hovering about the ticketing area, and judging by the giant fake sunflower marked 'AF Tours' she was holding in the crook of one arm, the woman who stood just in front of him in the ticketing queue was their leader. Draco tried to watch the transaction carefully, which was slightly difficult, seeing as the woman was directly in his way. As she moved out of the line, Draco stepped forward to the ticket office.

"One to Ealing Broadway," he said clearly, hoping that was enough information.

A pink paper ticket emerged out of a slot, and tearing it off, the ticket officer said in a bored voice, "Four pounds."

"Right," Draco muttered to himself, fishing a fistful of coins out of one pocket. He picked out and dropped two coins onto the counter, feeling confident. This wasn't so difficult, and he was perfectly capable of managing a double life.

Looking at the coins and then up at him, the ticket officer screwed her mouth into a condescending frown. "This is four pee," she said, using two fingers to push the coins back towards him.

Behind him, the tour guide was handing out tickets to everyone in her group, the action accompanied by a loud and cheery pep talk. "You can't come to London without experiencing the tube at least once! Now, we'll take this train to Piccadilly Circus and transfer from there to Knightsbridge, on the blue Piccadilly Line, and then it's just a short walk to Harrods," she said in a voice that suggested she was talking to very small children, and if the group's response was anything to go by, one would not be faulted for assuming that they just might have been excitable toddlers. "Now, it might sound a little complicated, but the underground system is actually very easy to use."

Draco took it as a personal insult, scowling as he fumbled with his paper money. Finally finding a five pound note, he managed to escape with his ticket in hand, and hung back in the rear of the tour group for a moment, pretending to check his watch as though he was waiting for someone while he surreptitiously observed each person feed their ticket into the barrier machines. When he was satisfied that he had the motions down, Draco followed suit and passed through without difficulty, much to his relief.

Reaching his destination without further incident -- he'd felt quite happy with himself making the transfer to the correct line on his own, not to mention finding himself emerging alive after riding half an hour in the life-threatening contraptions -- Draco checked his map again and headed towards The Wembley Arms, which turned out to be a rather nondescript, though large, pub. There were tables and chairs set out for alfresco dining but as the sun was beginning to hang low in the sky, the temperature had cooled considerably as well, and the seats were left empty. The pub's windows were slightly frosted, whether by special window treatment or just by years of having gone uncleaned he didn't want to guess, and though he could make out some shapes and shadows within, Draco couldn't quite tell if there was a crowd inside or not.

Having found the place well before six, Draco wondered what to do with himself now. He hadn't narrowed his note-dropping suspects list down much farther since the night before, so he wasn't sure who or what to expect. There was also the very good chance that the note hadn't been at all intended for him and he had just come on a self-inflicted wild goose chase. Just standing outside would probably seem suspect, not to mention rather uncomfortable if he had to stand there for a while, so he decided to brave the unwashed masses indoors.

He was pleased to discover that The Wembley Arms' clientele was not as unclean as he assumed, few as they were. There were two old men chatting and puffing on pipes in the back corner booth, and two loners sat apart at the bar, nursing beers and watching an indecipherable sporting event on a large television set mounted high on the wall behind the bartender. Draco eased himself onto a barstool, keeping his eyes on the television as though he actually knew what the little fellows in white were doing.

Something exciting appeared to have happened, however, as one man sitting a couple of stools away suddenly cheered, and cuffed Draco on the shoulder, mistaking his fake interest in the goings-on as ardent fanaticism. "Yeah! Did you see that googly? Got 'im right out!"

"Oh. Yes. Rah," cheered Draco, not quite sure if the man had been speaking English. Lowering and pushing forward the smacked shoulder, he tried sneaking a glance to the point of contact to see whether he needed to have it cleaned.

The bartender ambled up, flipping a slightly stained dishtowel over his shoulder and saving Draco from having to decode any further sports-speak. "What'll it be?"

"Whatever you've got on tap," he replied, hoping it wasn't total swill. A sip of his dark ale was a pleasant surprise, and he took another, feeling more Muggle-ish already.

A middle-aged couple entered the pub, and headed straight for a booth, talking the whole way. They completely ignored his existence, which Draco took to mean that neither of them had slipped him the parchment. As he continued to try to make heads or tails of the game going on in front of him, Draco was only vaguely aware of the door opening again some time later, letting in a small man with windswept, dark brown hair. Draco did notice, however, when the man took a stool next to him.

"I'm glad you got my note," he said quietly, his eyes facing forward at the television.

Draco looked at his profile, and could find no apt words for his features, which were so generic that they were almost instantly forgettable. Had he been asked to describe the man's appearance, Draco would have only been able to come up with something along the lines of, "He has two eyes, a nose and possibly a mouth." Narrowing his eyes, Draco asked, "Do I know you?"

The man chuckled softly, his eyes cast downward in self-deprecation. "I get that a lot. Let's get a booth, shall we?" He stood, and then gestured to the bartender to bring him the same drink Draco had, and, with their glass steins in hand, moved to a more secluded area of the pub. Once they were settled -- Draco towards the outer edge of the seat just in case bolting became necessary -- the man gave him a sideways smile. "To answer your question: yes, you do know me. Does this help?" he asked, sweeping his messy hair into a side part and turning the smile into a boyish, enthusiastic grin.

Draco's expression hardened in recognition. "Creevey!"

Dennis Creevey toned down the intensity of his smile once more, transforming his face again into the more neutral expression he had come in and fooled Draco with. He took a short drink from his stein, and gestured with two fingers for an idling waitress to attend to them.

She sauntered up to the table, pencil and pad in hand. "What'll you have, loveys?"

"Fish and chips for me, thanks," Dennis said.

The waitress wrote down his order and turned to Draco expectantly.

"Nothing," Draco said.

"You really ought to," Dennis said, before the waitress could leave. "We might be here a while. The fish and chips here's right cracking, if you need a recommendation."

"Fine, I'll have the same, then," Draco said, still rather nonplussed.

Once the waitress left to put their orders in, Dennis leaned forward, looking slightly apologetic. "Look, would it make you feel better if I kept up the patented cheerful Creevey act? I mean, it's natural for people to feel more comfortable among familiar things."

"No," Draco said with some vehemence. "Just tell me what the hell you asked me here for."

"Didn't they tell you? I've been assigned to do your training."

"What trai-- You mean -- You're joking, right?"

"No, I'm afraid not," Dennis said, shrugging. "Word is, Upstairs thought you'd be better off training with someone you already knew, on account of all the trust issues you appear to have. I don't know that I entirely agree; you have to have trust issues to be good at this job, so I don't exactly see the point, not to mention you and I are really nothing more than two people who attended school in the same building and whose paths only very occasionally crossed. But what Upstairs says goes, so here we are."

Still stuck on the personality change, Draco asked, "What was the point of all that ...mucking about with your camera and 'gosh, haven't seen you in ages' bit yesterday, then?"

"I had to find some way to plant the message on you, didn't I? Besides, I do have a day job and it is with the Prophet, so why not kill two birds with one stone? I didn't submit the picture of you, by the way; it was awful. Anyway, suppose I were just to walk up to you and say, 'Hi, it's me, Dennis Creevey, one of the kids you used to purposely trip in the hallway; by the way, I'm a spy now,' you'd not take it so seriously, I'd imagine. Plus, the big reveal works wonders for getting people to realise I'm a little more formidable than I look, and that I'm not actually the impressionable little boy with floppy hair who runs around grinning like it's going out of style. Worked on you, didn't it? I think I've done quite a nice job of it," he said, still managing to sound modest.

"Yeah, I remember you as a kid; I couldn't stand how you laughed at bloody everything, even that time I did trip you. But you can't have been that good at playacting when you were twelve and affecting that exuberance all the time," Draco insisted.

Dennis looked at him as though he could see right through Draco's head, his features folding into an easy smile again, but otherwise appearing infinitely sad. "No. I was quite a happy child. But losing your big brother and best friend at fifteen does have its effects. My family was quite worried about me for years after that, said I wasn't the same. It was easier to start acting happy so they wouldn't try to talk at me and hug me all the time," he said, his soft-spoken tone drifting like a wisp of cloud. His eyes focused again on Draco and his smile became more grounded. "But we're not here to hear me prattle on about my life story, of course."

"Doesn't it get tiring? Pretending?" Draco asked, interested in spite of himself, remembering clearly his own troubles at projecting a casual front his final few years of school while dealing with internal turmoil.

"Not after a while. Sometimes it's like slipping into a second skin. In our line of work, it does come in handy. In some missions you're just a shadow, moving in and out without a trace; in others, it's imperative that you leave an impression. It helps with my job at the Prophet, too -- I'm very non-threatening and, therefore, trustworthy," he admitted without any hint of sardonicism. He let a beat pass before adding, "When it comes right down to it, when you take off all the bells and whistles, all you have is you. And frankly, I think being ordinary is often the best defence in this game."

The waitress returned with two plates of fish and chips, and Dennis dashed liberal amounts of malt vinegar all over his food. "Lovely," he said, chewing happily.

Slightly less enthused about the pile of fried things in front of him, Draco pushed his plate aside for the time being and leaned forward, steepling his hands over the table. "If I may be more conceited than usual for a moment," he began.

Dennis extended a palm, as if to say, 'Go on.'

"I don't tend to pass for ordinary. Look what happened in Diagon Alley yesterday."

"True, but that's Draco Malfoy speaking. As Draco Malfoy the intelligence agent, I think you'll find it a bit easier. See, it's just like how you were in prison -- it was difficult at first, wasn't it? Everyone knew who you were and why you were there, and lots of them were rather pissed off, weren't they? And then you learned to adapt and blend in, and it was like you weren't there at all," Dennis explained, waving a chip around. "As for the general public, frankly speaking, you're something of a novelty to them at the moment, and it'll wear off in time. It always does. Something shinier or someone more damaged will come along to catch their attention, and you'll be old news soon enough. Until then, though, we're keeping your intelligence work in the Muggle world, which is just as well, I think, since you obviously have so little experience with it. That's the other reason, actually, that I'm training you -- I'm Muggleborn, so I'm used to both sides, and I work both worlds, as well. Some Unit agents are assigned only to one or the other, but a few of us are a special breed who can traverse both." The corners of his lips quirked up in a conspiratorial fashion, and he lobbed a piece of fish into his mouth.

Although not very like the overly excitable boy he remembered, Draco noticed that in spite of his great loss Dennis still smiled a lot. He couldn't quite tell whether that, too, was an act, but he found himself hoping it wasn't. Constantly cheerful people usually irked him, and in his baser moments, he considered a slug to the gut a completely appropriate response to an excessively chipper attitude, but Draco didn't quite like the thought of giving them a reason to stop being happy altogether either. He picked up a chip and chewed thoughtfully, letting the white noise of the pub's activities settle over them, until his mind retreaded through the past few minutes and lit on what had initially appeared to be a throwaway line of Dennis'.

"I obviously have so little experience with the Muggle world?" Draco repeated softly, frowning. "You wouldn't have happened to have been following me today?"

"I have," Dennis said as a matter of fact. "Most wizards, unless they're very familiar with travel to and from each world, will go through the Leaky. You passed me by, actually, and I trailed you from there. Didn't pick up on it at the time, I suppose?"

Draco shook his head, trying to remember. He was usually quite good at noticing these things. After all, he and Harry Potter, along with their respective cronies, had spent many a school term glaring daggers at the back of each other's heads -- and the fronts, if they could get away with it, and years of having people trying to kill you with a look tended to make you a little more sensitive to being watched. He supposed that being in an entirely new and foreign place as he'd been -- and still was, come to think of it -- dulled that skill in favour of bringing to the fore more immediately important abilities like determining what point in space he occupied and not getting run over by the lemming-like stream of bodies moving with purpose through the streets in every which direction.

Dennis nodded in understanding, and clearly had not been expecting differently. "Well, there you are. That's your first lesson: always assume you're being followed. We all have some threshold of paranoia, and to work this job successfully, that dial has to be cranked up all the way to eleven. All the time."

The pronouncement was given in Dennis' low, calm tone, and the reference was rather lost on Draco, but it sounded somewhat ominous to his ears anyway. Letting the words linger in the air and sink in, Dennis continued working away at his dinner.

"Eat up," he said, gesturing to Draco's meal. "We have things to do after this." He gave Draco a meaningful look.

"Like what?" Draco asked, one step away from retracting his earlier charitable thoughts about the boy who would probably never really seem grown up to him and wondering if he should be afraid.

"Er, training," said Dennis, looking at him like he wasn't sure Upstairs had done such a good job after all with this latest round of recruitment. "I didn't ask you to come all the way here just because you're a delightful dining companion, you know."

He ignored the jibe. "What, now? Here?"

"It's always best done in the real world. No simulation is ever a perfect replacement for the real thing, of course, but we have to make do with the best conditions we've got, and what we've got here," he said, indicating with a tip of his head the street outside, "are busy roads full of busy people on a busy weekend, the perfect place to blend in, whether you're following or being followed. So if you're intent on letting that perfectly good meal go to waste anyway, we might as well start now."

"Well, you know, I ate two chips, and I think the grease is slowly obliterating my insides," Draco said, and drained his glass.

Dennis thought on this for a second. "Second lesson," he said, as they got up out of the booth. "Train your insides to be a little less delicate. There will be missions where you won't get much of a choice in food, so you can't afford to be fussy and expect to eat -- What do you rich people eat anyway? Endangered breeds of things?"

Shooting him an arch look, Draco said, "No, we keep those as pets and have betting pools on whose animal will go extinct first."

Nodding in a way that made Draco think he might have actually believed the sarcastic little remark, Dennis wended his way towards the bar and carefully placed a couple of folded bills on the countertop. "My treat," Dennis said with a smile, and led the way out of the pub.

As soon as they were outside, he produced a small map from his back pocket and gave it to Draco. "See where I've highlighted in blue? Follow that route and we'll meet again at the end, see, where that X is -- that's going to be right next to a fountain; you can't miss it. In the meantime, I'm going to cast a glamour on myself -- we don't use glamours for our real work, by the way; too unreliable -- and I'm going to tail you. See if you can spot the person following you, yeah?"

---

By the time Draco had gotten home, he was sure that no less than fourteen people had been secretly watching him, all the way from the fountain where he and Dennis had parted ways, through the blasted underground again and finally to the door of Blaise's penthouse. It was all Creevey's fault. Draco hadn't understood quite what he'd meant about paranoia thresholds when it had been mentioned at the time, but he knew now.

In the span of the ten minutes it had taken Draco to finish the length of the route Dennis had prescribed for him, the cat and mouse game the young agent had devised had nearly driven Draco over the edge -- almost everybody he passed in the street seemed suspicious to him, whether it was the man standing on the street corner smoking, or the backpacker with guidebook in hand trying to locate some must-see destination. In the end, he had been able to finger Dennis, who'd glamoured himself over as a plain, middle-aged woman, as his shadow, which was mollifying, but then he also had fingered about five other people as possible suspects.

Although the actual exercise had only taken less than a quarter of an hour, Draco found it exhausting, and he was all the more knackered when he'd finally reached home, as, at Dennis' behest, he hadn't turned off the switch that made him extra sensitive to the goings-on around him. It was like a Pandora's box, learning this single skill; once he knew he had to be on all the time, it was more difficult than he'd expected to just stop thinking about it and let the world wave facelessly and soundlessly past him as it had once been able to do.

The empty feeling inside his stomach no longer contented to be repressed and ignored, Draco headed straight for the kitchen as soon as he walked in, but not before taking a moment to lift an eyebrow at the ladies' jacket and scarf draped over the coat rack by the door. He instructed Elba to fix him a quick meal, and, uncorking a butterbeer, stood around in the kitchen trying to tune out the rhythmic pounding coming from Blaise's bedroom.

A thoroughly satisfied shriek rang out suddenly, startling Draco into spilling half his drink on the floor. Perhaps tomorrow he would start looking for a new place to live.

---

Ginny swept into her favourite neighbourhood coffee shop, the strong scent of life-giving percolation rousing her senses and perking her up enough to notice, with a worried grimace, the long queue ahead of her. She consulted her watch and calculated a buffer of approximately seven minutes between getting her coffee and being late for work. Normally, she liked to have at least ten minutes, but she'd have to risk it. It was Tuesday, the universally regarded worst day invented, after Monday, and there was no possible way she could get through the next eight hours without her requisite cup of liquid caffeine, nor did she even consider purchasing coffee from the Ministry's canteen, as their stuff tasted like someone had mixed brown paint and water and left bits of dried paint chips in it, and then had the audacity to charge six Sickles for the service of slowly poisoning you.

She bit down a groan upon hearing a woman at the front of the line give a needlessly long and complicated order, and shifted from foot to foot like a child with urgent needs. On one hop, she noticed, with a slight start, a light blond head in the middle of the line, and caught sight of sharp, sculpted cheekbones as the man turned his head just an inch. Ginny stopped moving and hung backwards a bit, wondering what in the world Malfoy would be doing in a place like this and why he kept turning up like a bad Knut in her life ever since she had the misfortune of springing him from jail. Taking another stealthy peek around the people who stood in front of her and getting a view of the back of his head, Ginny frowned to herself and decided it couldn't possibly be him, not in such a Muggle suburb and not in such a Muggle establishment and not ordering such an inexpensive, plebeian beverage as a white coffee. She was probably just imagining things, though why on earth her mind would imagine such a strange thing as seeing Draco Malfoy in her neighbourhood was beyond her.

The man moved over to the pick-up counter and retrieved his drink, then moved quickly past the shuffle of customers and out the door, Ginny staring at him out of the corner of her eye the whole way. Her mouth opened and shut again now that she had had the chance to see his face. There had to be a logical explanation, though it was very much out of her grasp at the moment. Although she considered her little area of the world a rather nice place to live, she suspected that, for Draco, even Buckingham Palace would be slumming, staunchly Muggle as the building was, and what he was doing here was a total mystery. Of course, she considered, it might not have been him at all; she had heard once that everyone had a doppelganger somewhere in the world, and perhaps his just happened to live in England, too. If that happened to be the case, Draco, naturally, would be the evil twin. Ginny spent the next minute contemplating what the good twin would be like, with Draco's features and a functioning soul.

She promptly forgot about it another minute later when a finished customer tripped over his own feet and spilled his coffee dregs down her shirtfront.

The morning had all the makings of the kind of awful day that got progressively worse and worse. Living in a Muggle neighbourhood meant that she couldn't Scourgify the stain on the spot, the hands of her watch hovering just to the left of making it officially nine o'clock meant that she hadn't the time to go home to change and the stain that had woven itself inextricably into the fabric by the time she'd reached the Ministry meant that the shirt was as good as trash, on top of which colleagues kept staring at her as if she had spent her morning getting friendly with a dumpster.

Well aware of the rules of Very Bad Days, Ginny was put out, though unsurprised, when the heel of one shoe broke during her weekly afternoon walkabout with the Minister as he dictated things he needed done to the circle of subordinates trailing him with pads and quills scribbling down his words verbatim. A quick tap of her wand to the shoe salvaged the rest of the stroll, and the other shoe at least had the decency to keep itself together until the Minister went back to his office, at which point Ginny had had to deal with her second broken heel of the day, along with an embarrassing pratfall and a sprained ankle.

It was on her way back from the Medistaff's station that Ginny thought she spotted Draco Malfoy standing by the lifts in the Atrium, and she briefly considered limping back to the resident Mediwizard to ask for a psychological evaluation.

---

Draco was feeling in fine form. He had gotten an early start to the day -- a conditioned habit as yet unbroken, conquered the underground with a minimum of fuss and managed to purchase a rather good coffee from a quaint little cafe without looking a fool in the Muggle suburb in which he had arranged to meet an estate agent. He then spent much of the day bullying the hapless realtor into chauffeuring him all around London, Greater London and its surrounding areas and inspecting several homes for sale, including a number of properties she wasn't exactly authorised to show, and Draco was pleased to discover that he still had quite a firm grasp on the gentle art of persuasion.

He hadn't gone asking for mansions, of course -- Williams had warned him against it, plus if Draco had wanted to hear his own voice and footsteps echo his seclusion back to him he'd have camped at the Manor -- but he wasn't looking to slum it either. Although prison had forcibly weaned him of attachment to material, superficial and superfluous things, the Spartan quality of his three years there hadn't exactly endeared minimalism to him either. If absolutely necessary, he could go without many luxuries in his life, and did, in fact, draw some measure of strength from knowing it, but now that he had the choice, he could see no reason to deny himself some trappings of the wealth recently returned to him. What was money, after all, if not made to be spent? And with the Galleon to pound conversion rate as favourable as it was, he would be daft to settle for a shack when he could thrice over afford properties much more suited to his tastes and demeanour. Besides, he figured he would catch enough flak as it was once people found out he was living among Muggles, and having a house that plainly illustrated just how much more well off he was than his naysayers would shut them up nicely enough, or at least reduce the snide mutterings to those of envy.

The day was wearing on into late afternoon by the time Draco deigned to release the poor estate agent, and it was with a touch of reticence in her voice that she told him to feel free to give her a ring any time if he had any questions at all or wanted to shop around some more. She dropped him off in the heart of downtown London, putting on a brave face for the start of the rush hour traffic jams she was about to endure, and drove off, quickly getting stuck behind a long, torpid row of cars. Smoothly picking his way through the crowds, Draco found a narrow, unfrequented alleyway and slipped in unnoticed, and disappeared with a soft 'pop', no one the wiser.

His destination was the Ministry of Magic, and he checked his pockets for the letter he'd received the day before from the head of International Magical Cooperation -- an invitation to interview for an open position in the department, along with a metal-plated visitor's pass, without which he would not be able to get anywhere past the entrance. Security measures had been beefed up considerably at the Ministry some years ago as a result of a failed, but too close for comfort, assassination attempt on the then-Minister's life. From then on, only Ministry employees were allowed to move freely in and out of the premises, with identity checks conducted every now and again at random intervals; unescorted visitors were few and were required to request advance permission for entry. The decision, and its subsequent execution, had ended up in a small employment boom, as the call for heightened security meant more officers on duty. Several more staff were required as well for the processing and approving of visitor's passes, and therefore creating more unnecessary red tape along the way. It was bureaucracy at its finest, and Draco was well on his way to bask in all its stuffy glory.

Easing himself into the red telephone box that constituted the visitor's entrance, he fed his visitor's pass into the slot that had once freely dispensed visitor badges. A pleasant and professional voice welcomed him to the Ministry as the telephone spat his pass back out, and Draco grabbed for it before the box chugged its way downwards to the main floor. At the conclusion of his descent, the doors slid open, and Draco was stopped at once by two hulking guards.

"Hold it there, sir," said the one on the right, pushing a vertical palm forward. The other shuffled a little more slowly to his colleague's side. The slightly vacant look in their eyes told Draco that these particular guards had been placed there more for the virtue of their brawn than cunning in the hopes that any visiting scoundrels with nefarious purposes would drop their plans to avoid being tackled by two very large men. "Pass, please."

Draco produced the item and waited for them to finish inspecting it with their wands.

"Clean," said the second guard with a lilt of disappointment to his voice. They lumbered aside to let Draco through, and after a brief consultation with the floor directory, he headed for the lifts with a fluttering feeling of being watched.

---

The quiet, tinkling melody floating in the lift was drowned out as soon as the doors opened to Level Five, and Draco had to stoop quickly to avoid the rush of interdepartmental memo aeroplanes hovering just outside the doors, claiming the lift for their own as soon as the opportunity presented itself. Straightening, he took a brief moment to survey the scene before him -- the floor, divided into sections by department and by glass walls, was a flurry of activity; brightly coloured memos were merrily zooming overhead, the sound of quills scratching against parchment were magnified by dozens of people writing in unison, employees were doing their best impressions of panicked speed-walkers.

A tall woman with a strong Roman nose and greying hair strode forward, a gleam in her eye as she caught his. With an outstretched hand, she smiled. "Mr. Malfoy. Right on time, I see. Thomasina Quigley. Ms. Quigley, if you please," she said, elongating the sibilance of her title in a bee's drone. She had the sort of sharp, plangent voice that lent itself well to the barking of orders that needed only to be barked once.

In an instant, Draco was suddenly aware of the absence of noise -- it was jarring, actually, the way dozens of quills fell from fingertips and clattering heels arched themselves into tiptoes. Even the paper airplanes trailing across the ceiling seemed to decelerate, moving at the interminable pace of people passing by a magnificent wreck. There were a number of workers unabashedly staring, and the silence was dotted with the sound of curled hands cuffing the backs of heads, blows dealt to colleagues by the slightly more sophisticated among them, to whom staring was decidedly beneath the station of a Ministry employee.

"Ms. Quigley," said Draco, playing by the rules and pretending there was nothing amiss. He pumped her hand firmly, twice. He wondered how exactly the Unit had orchestrated getting him an audience -- most likely a job -- with this woman, the head of the department, who did not look as if she suffered fools. The thought did occur to him that she was part of the Unit as well, but he certainly wasn't going to bring it up, and she didn't appear the sort of person to offer such information wantonly. "It's a pleasure to meet you. I was rather surprised to receive your letter."

"Yes, well, let's talk in my office, shall we?" she said, indicating with a quick sweep of her eyes that if they continued to stand out there in the hallway, in front of the whole department, no further work would be accomplished that day. "Follow me."

Normalcy, Draco decided, was just one of those things destined never to cross his path. It had eluded him from birth, an event which, if his mother was to be believed, had been heralded by a string quartet who found themselves backing away from the business end of Lucius' wand shortly after they launched blithely into the first movement of Schubert's Death and the Maiden. It had given him a wide berth as he grew up, a ridiculously spoilt child whose birthday parties routinely put all coronations throughout history to shame, and it had run screaming when Draco was handpicked by a dark lord to murder one of the most powerful wizards of their time.

Now, as Draco heard himself being handed an absurdly easy job on a silver platter, he imagined Normalcy must have long ago given him up as a bad job and gone on permanent vacation. He had never had to go through a job interview before -- there was that sticky wicket of being imprisoned -- but Draco was fairly sure what he was sitting through currently bore very little resemblance to a job interview in anyone else's reality.

Of the two questions posed to him thus far, one of them had been, "How are you today?", and the other, technically not a question, went something along the lines of, "I understand you speak fluent French." Ms. Quigley, now outlining the responsibilities of the job while Draco nodded at the appropriate intervals, apparently did not care to hear about his strengths and weaknesses or what assets he could bring to the department, and certainly did not bother letting him bumble through an explanation of why he deserved the job when he had absolutely no work experience or qualifications.

He could see why the Unit had reserved this job in particular for him -- it involved a lot of travel to countries where no one knew him, and required very little actual work, but gave him a respectable cover. Specifically, he was to play assistant to one of the diplomatic ambassadors to the French-speaking countries with which the Ministry was mostly friendly. Said ambassador, however, had been installed in the position at approximately the turn of the twentieth century, had gone from occasionally amusing to officially dotty around the mid-'80s and retained no more than three of his original teeth. As Draco understood it, Cyrus Ogletree was such an institution that no one had the heart or courage to fire him from what for the last few decades amounted to nothing more than a very cushy sinecure in which he got to travel to exotic places, eat rich foods at somebody else's expense, natter on about how things were done "back in his day, when men were men" and retire to bed in a luxury hotel before the sun went down. Meanwhile, the Ministries visited often either had their own doddering version of Ogletree or needed the British Ministry's support too much to make a fuss, and so treated the man much like one would the eccentric, elderly granduncle who gets tipsy and longwinded at family functions. Draco's job, then, was to make sure the old codger got to where he was going in one piece, translate when necessary, cover up for any gaffes and bring along a spare set of teeth on every trip, after which he would generally be free to roam, spy and steal important government information. The last bit was really implied rather than stated, but implied so firmly that Draco didn't infer her meaning so much as felt it etched in his bones.

A neon pink piece of paper chose to squeeze itself into the office just then, flattening out and oozing inch by inch through a crevice in the doorframe as though going through a wringer. It fluttered exhaustedly on a nonexistent breeze and landed carefully on Ms. Quigley's desk, facing Draco. He pushed it towards the woman, who slid it right back.

"I think it's yours," she said meaningfully.

Draco, who was getting tired of meaningful, knowing looks that made not a lick of sense to him, glanced at the paper, on which was printed: Wanted: Manic unicorn seeks ideal companion. Floo 2733839 for a good time. His brow furrowed; it was clearly one of those useless, nonsense advertisements that only the most thick-headed of the population paid heed to, a persistent shill that somehow always managed to infiltrate even the most secure mail systems.

Tilting her head at an angle so she wouldn't have to read the message entirely upside-down, Ms. Quigley quirked a corner of her lips upwards. "Usually they don't make that much sense."

"I see," said Draco, glancing up at her. "Some kind of code, then?"

She smiled, pleased. "It's meant for you, so it will only respond to your magic. A simple revealing spell will do; no need for complicated messes when it's already guarded against everyone but you."

Draco did so, and the letters jumbled themselves, morphing into other characters and finally forming a coherent message. Once he'd read it, the letters then began to fade away, and the paper ripped itself into shreds so miniscule they might as well have been dust motes. Ms. Quigley, apparently well-seasoned to this kind of behaviour from mysterious notes, produced a rubbish bin from underneath her desk and swept the remnants in.

A thin, reedy sough filtered into the office -- someone trying to whistle nonchalantly and failing on both counts. One of the department's employees ambled by, strolling down the hallway and taking an occasional sip from a coffee cup. Ms. Quigley's was a corner office, and through the floor to ceiling glass panel that made up the wall between her office and the corridor, she and Draco watched the man try to listen in, tipping himself ever so slightly in their direction, and make an abrupt turn as he ran out of hallway through which to casually saunter. Realising he was being studied, the man, with the expression of a child caught with his hand in the biscuit tin etched all over his face, bounded out of view back to where he came from.

"Glass walls," Ms. Quigley lamented in a tone that said she would have the last word on it. "That was the fourth person to try and peek in, wasn't it?"

"Well, four and a half, if you count the little one with the glasses who lost his nerve halfway," Draco said.

"Not a shred of stealth between the lot of them," she said almost fondly, "but they're cut from a different cloth than we are, and normalcy suits some better than others, after all."

Draco's mouth tilted up as she gave voice to his earlier thoughts.

"Anyway, I trust you won't find babysitting Ogletree too strenuous of a task; he's a lamb, really. A sandwich short of a picnic these days, certainly, but he won't give you much trouble," Ms. Quigley said, and waved her wand. A light blue swirl emerged from the tip and bounced on the air before zipping out the office and down the hall with precision. "My secretary will be here shortly to help you with all the necessary paperwork and to give you a tour around the place. We'll see you back on Monday."

She stood and shook his hand, and Draco was left without a doubt that he had been officially dismissed.

---

The massive pile of redundant paperwork was the hallmark of a well-oiled government machine, while the frothy exuberance of Ms. Quigley's secretary proved decidedly less so. While she was helpful and, in her own spirited way, efficient, no less than three times did she ask to see -- or worse, touch -- his Dark Mark, and no less than four times did he seriously consider stabbing her with his quill to give her a dark mark of her own. Perhaps, at the very least, it would put a temporary halt to the "I can't believe you're really going to be working here!", followed by the "Eee!", which made fire alarms sound positively soothing in comparison.

There was no sense in getting fired just hours after getting hired, however. As he signed and dated his last piece of parchment and handed the stack to the girl, Draco managed to rein in the more satisfyingly violent thoughts and reminded himself of Dennis Creevey, for whom good cheer served as a mask for something much deeper. Draco himself preferred a shield laced with bitterness and cynicism, but perhaps he indulged in so much scowling on his own that bad humour might be in short supply for everyone else.

Not, of course, Draco thought to himself as he stepped into the lift and locked eyes with a familiar face, that there weren't a select few special snowflakes who seemed to have an endless well of their own to draw biliousness from. "Hello, Weasley."

The look of surprise on her face was quickly shoved away by that of scorn. "What are you doing here?" Ginny asked.

"I don't recall retaining your services as my keeper, Weasley," he said evenly, his eyes trained just above the lift doors on the pointer as it moved slowly from one floor number to the next.

"So you've something to hide, then, if you can't answer a simple question?"

"Are you always this suspicious?"

"Are you always this evasive?"

"What if I am?"

"Then it means I've a pretty good reason to be suspicious."

Draco smirked, but remained silent. She could jump to her own conclusions, which, if he knew Weasleys, were most likely highly improbable scenarios that involved complicated conspiracies and Draco laughing maniacally whilst stroking a white cat. Plus, the part of him that housed his sense of self-preservation told him it would be more beneficial for his health if he just let her take the time to sort her thoughts out rather than continuing to provoke her in a very small, enclosed space with no witnesses around.

The lift came to a halt with a polite 'ding!' on the Atrium floor, and Draco did a mocking half-bow, gesturing with one arm the primary rule of gallantry: ladies first. The laws of chivalry had been instilled in him ever since he had been old enough to push another baby over, and just because he was dealing with a Weasley didn't mean that he could put aside years of training; however, dealing with a Weasley also meant he didn't have to do it quite so properly.

Ginny swept past the doors with a haughty look on her face, and Draco noted, with some disappointment, that she hadn't swished her work robes dramatically as well. He followed her out of the lift, and headed for the visitor's entrance.

The two guards who had admitted him earlier that afternoon were still on duty. "Return your pass, please," said the quicker one.

Draco tossed the card to him, and as they let him pass through, he suddenly stopped and turned. "Oh, Weasley?" he called, as she made her way to the Floos. "See you on Monday."

"What?"

"I work here now. Did I not mention that?" he asked airily. Without waiting for a further response -- her mouth agape was quite good enough -- Draco spun on his heel and left the building. He, on the other hand, knew how to make an exit.

---

Dennis was waiting for him a few feet away from the telephone box, looking very engaged in working his thumbs on a small, black, rectangular object. He looked up as soon as Draco began his approach, and lobbed the item towards him. Snatching it out of the air handily, Draco looked it over.

"I got you a mobile phone," Dennis said, as they fell into step with one another. "It's not activated or anything; dead handy, though, when you're just standing around in a Muggle area and want to look busy. Everyone uses 'em nowadays instead of talking to one another, so you'll blend right in."

"Thanks," Draco said, still inspecting the phone. "And I know just what number I should call first. For a good time. Although, I can't say you're really my type, Creevey."

Dennis snickered. "They won't always be that, er, exciting. But now you know one of the ways we can get messages to you; it's important that they look rubbishy, so no one will pick them up. Like how we do Portkeys that won't attract Muggle attention."

"Fair enough, my manic unicorn. Now what?"

"Now you tell me what glamour I had on when I was following you today, and after that, we're going to switch roles, and I'm going to tell you everything you did wrong," Dennis said, sounding a little too cheerful at the prospect.

"Oh, will the fun never stop?"

Her salad, ragged and riddled with holes, was beginning to wonder what it had ever done to deserve such a vicious series of stabbings, while Ginny, oblivious to her lunch trying to stage a very limp revolt, continued to poke at it while pretending not to stare across the canteen at the Ministry's newest employee. He was unforgivably handsome, finely chiselled and formed in an alabaster glow by a skilled artist's hands. What made it unforgivable was the miserable disposition that had been tacked on at the end, infusing each slope and vein, as ruinous to the whole effect as if a deranged vandal had come by and doused the masterpiece in tar.

One could learn a lot about another person simply by staring at him, while pretending not to, for the better part of three weeks. By now, to most others in the Ministry, it seemed Draco had already lost his shine, the new toy discarded to the rest of the pile, simply by dint of being a government employee, and, therefore, being totally uninteresting. He was conscientious enough about his work and drew little attention to himself, had not dazzled or charmed or bullied anyone into doing anything unconscionable, nor had he made any overtures to superiors whose boots were considered prime for licking. All these facets of things he had not done combined, for Ginny, into something of a Venn diagram, where the intersecting parts very boldly suggested that he was up to no good.

And so, while the rest of their colleagues accepted him into the fold without fanfare, much as a single stitch gets woven into a swatch of fabric as a matter of course, Ginny instead was struck with the compulsion to keep an eye on him. Surely Malfoys didn't just roll over and get regular, middle-class jobs and actually do their jobs.

This Malfoy also ate the Ministry canteen's hazardous orange ravioli without complaint; Ginny wasn't sure if that bit was him being too preoccupied with plotting to notice he was ingesting something that boasted a colour commonly associated with toxic waste, or if his tastebuds had just surrendered and died his first morning at the Ministry when he'd made the mistake of drinking its coffee.

Watching him was made rather convenient by the fact that, although they worked in different departments on different floors, they seemed to have the same schedule, even when one of their routines went off-kilter. They usually arrived to work within seconds of each other, and once, when she had been running late, he had dashed in just slightly ahead of her, swearing under his breath, from the looks of it. More than once they had shared a lift, after the fun of timing the exact moment to push the button that would close the doors in each other's faces had worn thin. They took lunch at around the same time, sitting in opposite corners of the canteen, and regardless of what time she left her office for the day, knocking off almost always meant seeing him in the Floo area. Neither of them verbally acknowledged this issue once it became clear that running into each other constantly was going to be a recurring problem; once the seal was broken it would mean the precedent for small talk would be set, and they'd end up mired in obligation to speak to one another when all Ginny really wanted to do was occasionally scowl in his direction if she felt that the status quo needed some re-establishing.

Watching him was also made rather easy by the fact that she was usually good at doing it without being seen. Although she had occasionally hogged her fair share of the spotlight as the baby of the family, growing up with six brothers and then hanging about with The Boy Who Lived naturally meant that there were times when there was no alternative but to stand on the sidelines and quietly observe the goings-on. And with said six brothers who sometimes didn't want a girl interrupting their manly playtime, and with the now defunct Order of the Phoenix often having grown-up meetings behind closed doors, Ginny had developed some talent in quiet observation over the years.

---

The prickly heat on his skin was the first sign that he was being scrutinised. The second was that Weasley, frowning at a spot directly above his right shoulder, had been pushing the contents of her sad lunch around instead of eating it for the past ten minutes. Actually, that in itself hadn't been much to go on, since she seemed to drape herself in bad humour almost every time they crossed paths, but Draco deliberately caught her eye this time, and the frown that deepened as their eyes met indicated that it was she who had been making his skin crawl.

It was a feeling not unfamiliar to him. People often watched him almost everywhere he went, out of curiosity or suspicion, or sometimes just because he was nice to look at. He didn't bother hiding himself here; after all, he needed to establish himself in the wizarding community as, if not an upstanding citizen, then at least a contributing member of society, and he would be doing his public persona no favours if he flew so low under the radar that he was totally undetectable. Besides, attending spy school with Dennis almost every night was so strenuous in its intensity that not having to be a shadow during the day was quite a relief. And if people wanted to waste their time watching him do scandalous things like fill out paperwork and steep cups of tea, then that was their problem.

Draco cocked an eyebrow at Ginny, a challenge he knew she wouldn't pick up. They seemed to have an unspoken understanding that speaking to one another would only cause trouble that neither of them had the time or inclination to deal with; as far as he could remember, they had managed to have a civil conversation approximately once. She was tiresome when she thought she had the upper hand, and when she knew she had the upper hand, as had once been the case during his fifth year at school, she was just plain violent.

From the corner of his eye he registered her departure as she got up, deposited the remnants of her lunch at the tray return area and left the canteen. Draco took a leisurely swig of his juice and checked his watch, opting to wait a full three minutes before heading back down to his office as well, so there would be less chance of running into her in the Atrium lobby and having to fight their natural inclinations to, well, fight.

As he rounded the corner out of the canteen and towards the lifts, Ginny emerged from the ladies' bathroom, and Draco heaved a quiet sigh to himself, their gazes catching and turning into barely concealed eye-rolls. Whether he intentionally tried to avoid her or not, she always seemed to turn up anyway to breathe his air and occupy his sight and space. And the way she looked at him suggested it was he who had the cheek to exist in the same hemisphere as she did.

The best laid plans of mice and men, Draco thought idly as he pushed the 'down' button for the lifts, often go to shit.

He let her enter first, because he was a gentleman and because he knew it made her uneasy. Behind them, an airborne memo swooped in like a bird of prey, and hovered, jittery, a few inches from the ceiling of the car.

The lift's smooth descent was interrupted suddenly by a deep, sinister creaking. They only had a second to worry about the sound, as it was quickly succeeded by the lift juddering to a halt. The lights flickered for a moment, but, to Ginny and Draco's good fortune, opted to stay on. Above their heads, the paper airplane, charmed to be time-sensitive, panicked.

Ginny, taking her cue from the memo, began a low chant that consisted of a string of 'No's', and scrabbled at the wall with one hand, while the other drew her wand out of her robes, as she wondered how well it would stand up to prying the doors apart.

"Calm down, Weasley," said Draco, trying to keep a stranglehold on his own composure. "You're just making things worse."

Prodding the red panic button at the bottom of the front panel, Draco had the wild suspicion that the universe, the grand high master overseeing the chess game of life, was enjoying itself at their expense.

"Why's it stopped? It runs on bloody magic, for Merlin's sake!" Ginny exclaimed.

"Yes, because all spells last forever," Draco rejoined sarcastically. "We don't have a Maintenance department for nothing, you know. Just like that dilapidated shack you call a home would collapse in a grubby heap if no one were there to mind its upkeep. What's it called again? The Rathole, isn't it?"

"You know perfectly well it isn't," Ginny snapped, and elbowed him aside to push repeatedly at the help button.

"Whossat?" asked a sticky voice.

"We're stuck in the lift," Ginny called out.

"Which one?"

"The one that's stopped working!"

"Six," supplied Draco, indicating with a casual tip of his head the lift number on the side of the entrance framework. From the opposite corner of the lift, he crossed his arms over his chest and radiated smugness.

"Six," hissed Ginny.

"Nothing doing, then," said the voice, which had developed a rather happy pitch to it. "That there is Reggie's department, an' Reg is unavoidably detained at the mo," it explained, carefully enunciating the polysyllabic words with puffy importance.

"And when might Reg un-detain himself?" Ginny demanded in a tone that might have frosted the Sahara over.

"Dunno," said the voice, oblivious. The body attached to the voice probably would have shrugged if they could see it. "Whenever he finishes eating, I suppose. I'll tell 'im you called." There was a soft click, and the voice spoke no more.

Ginny jammed her fist against the help button.

"All Maintenance lines are busy at the moment. Please try again later," said a soothing voice, which produced quite the opposite effect.

Ginny made a sound that couldn't decide if it wanted to meet the world as a grunt or a wail, and cast her eyes wildly about the enclosure in the hopes that an escape hatch would suddenly and miraculously materialise. It didn't.

Draco almost felt sorry for her, but he was saving his sorry for himself; he wasn't much for small spaces either, caged and trapped indefinitely at someone else's whim, be it a biased legal council or an indolent repairman. But there was no sense in the both of them losing their heads over something neither of them could control. Besides, he figured that between Weasley and the memo overhead, which was currently molting confetti, his share of panicking was well covered.

"I spy with my little eye," he said slowly, "something that needs to get itself together and calm the hell down before I have to Stun it for the sake of my own sanity."

"Well, you'll have to forgive me if I don't enjoy being trapped underground for god knows how long with morally ambiguous men!" Ginny shot back.

"Morally ambiguous?" Draco repeated thoughtfully. "I'm shocked, Weasley. Aren't I completely depraved after all?"

She frowned. "I misspoke. I don't know what I was thinking, speaking so highly of you like that."

"Just so we're on the same page."

"You were probably off drowning kittens when they handed out compassion and empathy," she muttered.

"Well, what with you and the rest of the Weasley spawn crowding the trough..."

"Compare me to a farm animal again and I guarantee this wand goes so far up one orifice it'll come out another."

"Right, right, I forgot who I was talking to for a second there. Silly me," said Draco, wondering where his sense of self-preservation had gone off to, and whether it intended to come back for him. He forged on without it, the benefits of the distraction of sparring with Ginny outweighing that of standing in silence and going mad from claustrophobia. "Well, you know what they say. Violence is the last refuge of the incompetent."

"What? Who says that?" she interjected, and realised belatedly, and with dissatisfaction, that the time for objecting to being called incompetent had passed in her haste to make him warrant his claims.

Draco shrugged. "Muggle fellow. Wrote weird books," he said. At her increasingly suspicious look, he added, "I had a lot of time on my hands in prison."

"Oh, prison," Ginny said. "You know, you're living proof that the penal system doesn't work. You came out as awful as you went in."

"To be fair, I was removed from the premises prematurely, by you, no less. Who knows what kind of great philanthropist I might have become but for your untimely intervention? One might say this is partially your fault."

Ginny scoffed. "Please. If I'd had the choice, I would have definitely not been the one to let you out."

"Oh, there's always a choice," Draco said airily, tilting his head upwards, his gaze following the dejected trail of the paper airplane, which had given itself over to a bout of depression.

She shot him an impudent look. "I don't remember that being your defence in court."

"I chose to save my parents. Although with one now living out the rest of his life in jail, the other still struggling to mend a broken spirit and me trying to rebuild some semblance of a normal life as an ex-convict, perhaps I should have refused to obey the Dark Lord's orders. Of course, we'd all be dead, but it wouldn't have been a bad deal, in all, when you come right down to it," he mused.

Ginny blinked and gaped at him as his words sunk in. "Are you saying you'd rather have left your parents to die at Voldemort's hands?"

"No," he said evenly. "Which is why I didn't. But perhaps now you appreciate the complexity of that little dilemma. The choice is always there, though sometimes you end up losing everything no matter what you do." His mouth twisted in a frown. He ought to have felt the thrill of scoring a direct hit against her rigid ethical code, as she looked more than a little perturbed, but he hadn't allowed himself to dwell on that memory, and its resurfacing now brought with it a pain that still felt distressingly raw.

The tinny melody of a Warbeck classic wafted through once more as the lift staggered and sputtered to life, giving Ginny no chance to respond, though she would have been at a loss for words anyway, and giving Draco no need to backtrack to surer footing. Ascending a couple of floors, the lift opened its doors to reveal the Atrium lobby they had just left before getting stuck.

"Well," said Draco, trying for nonchalance. "I guess Reg came off his lunch break."

They both exited the lift hastily, neither really wanting to take their chances again at the moment with that particular contraption. They stood side by side for a moment, feeling unsure of the next step; something had shifted during their entrapment -- a marker gradually and reluctantly pushed along the spectrum of love and hate, one notch away from abhorrence and towards neutrality. Much of their forced time together had been spent being rude to each other, but they both recognised the welcome distraction the other provided against their own fears of confinement, even if it was in the form of insults; being grateful didn't seem an appropriate thing to do, not without revealing more of themselves to each other, but it didn't feel right to just leave it hanging in the air, either.

"I think I'm going to take the stairs," Ginny managed finally, and walked off uncertainly.

"Good," said Draco quickly, just to have something to say and to have the last word to close the conversation.

He looked around the Atrium, noting, not for the first time, that aside from the visitor's entrance, the only points of entry and egress in the Ministry were the Floos; Apparation was heavily regulated within the building now for security reasons, and not wanting to have to explain himself to thick-headed guards, Draco made his way to the visitor's telephone box, gathering the remains of the calm he hadn't spent in the lift from trying to maintain a stiff upper lip and figuring he had enough left to endure a short stint in the small box that would take him outside.

Draco pushed out of the telephone box as soon as it clicked into place on the Muggle pavement and took a great gulp of air. It was cold and had the perpetual tinge of petrol fumes and cigarette smoke that hung like drapes in the middle of the crowded city, but it felt fresher than any air he would have breathed underground inside the Ministry. He usually didn't mind being inside the building, as the weather scenes charmed outside the windows by Ministry Maintenance tricked his brain into believing he wasn't working several floors below street level -- six feet under, his mind now interjected helpfully. However, after prison, he had not only developed a very healthy appreciation for the outdoors, but also a strong dislike of staying too long in small, enclosed spaces; getting trapped in the lift only brought that discomfort further to the forefront of his mind, and trotting back down to his underground office like everything was all right was not something he could successfully process just now.

Instead, he leant gingerly against a wall that had been tagged so many times with all manner of paint, torn posters and dried glue it was beginning to look like a giant, carefully fashioned mosaic, and watched the Muggles go about their business; they paid no attention to him, mostly because he didn't want them to.

He heard the quiet rumble of the telephone box bringing someone else up, and didn't bother to work up the feeling of surprise when he saw Ginny step out.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, spotting him right away.

Draco looked at her wearily. "Don't let's start this again."

She let a few beats pass. "I just needed some air," she explained, though he didn't see why she felt the need to, and came to stand against the wall as well, an arm's length away from him.

The musical cacophony of Muggle city life was enough to fill the silence that loomed between them as they each willed their anxieties away on the drifting wind. In that moment they had more in common with each other than they had ever done in their entire lives, and Draco felt oddly glad for her presence, even if she was a Weasley.

Fingers absently stroking his jaw, Draco took his time inspecting the contents of his wardrobe -- a veritable rainbow of hues ranging from dark green to black -- and picked out a few shirts for Elba to pack for him. He watched the elf speedily fold and arrange everything in his suitcase in the perfect show of happy efficiency. He'd definitely have to get an elf of his own once all his home ownership matters were in order, which, if all went according to plan, would be quite soon.

For now, though, he was putting real estate out of his mind, as his attention was needed on his job -- both of them. Officially, he was accompanying Cyrus Ogletree to the Belgian Ministerie van Magie for a few days for a standard visitation to ascertain whether the status quo could still be considered as such, in much the same way as nosy witches used to go around borrowing cups of sugar from their neighbours as an excuse to peek in their houses and make sure they hadn't upgraded their furniture sets. A discovery in the affirmative would set off a sudden and urgent demand for newer, grander furniture sets all down the row of houses in which sugar was regularly swapped, and an escalation of armchair races would go on until all parties came together to agree that they were being silly and everyone's sofas were equally lovely. The sentiment would last until someone next needed to borrow an egg. International Ministry relationships often operated on the same basic principles, if on a slightly larger scale.

Draco's primary purpose in being dispatched there, however, was to conduct Unit business. It was his first assignment, and although Williams had told him it wouldn't be anything particularly strenuous, and Dennis had assured him that he was ready to be set loose, Draco was feeling just a bit anxious. He wouldn't be getting the details of his assignment until he got there, and he hoped that whatever it was, he wouldn't cause an international incident. People tended not to look well upon those -- nor on him, come to think of it, and he couldn't imagine botching his very first mission would be very helpful in that regard.

Blaise sauntered in, casually throwing a disapproving look at the monochromatic theme of Draco's wardrobe before asking, "Will you be getting free time to explore the city or anything?"

"I'm not sure," said Draco slowly, trying to decide between two identical pairs of grey trousers.

"Well, if you do," said Blaise, holding up and rustling a piece of parchment to get his friend's attention, "I would appreciate it if you could purchase a few things for me."

Draco took the paper, an eyebrow lifting as he read the long list of renowned Belgian confections. "Oh, for Salazar's sake, Blaise. You and your -- I'm surprised your teeth haven't all rotted off yet." At this, Draco was treated with a dazzling grin. He rolled his eyes. "Why don't I just buy you a chocolate factory instead, then you could have your very own endless supply?"

"And eat all my profits? Are you mad? That's no way to run a business. Besides, I like this way better. It makes me feel as though I've worked a bit to deserve the chocolates you're buying me."

"Work? You're just standing there with your hands in your pockets, asking me to buy you seventeen different kinds of sweets."

"Yes, and have you any idea how difficult it is to get a favour out of you?"

"In fact, I do. I work very hard at crushing the dreams of those near and dear to me." He tossed several pairs of socks in the house elf's general direction.

"You're a monster," Blaise accused in a tone that wouldn't have been out of place in a conversation about the weather. "Shouldn't you be out menacing small children?"

"You know there aren't any in your building. Besides, they might ruin my robes. They're just so sticky, what with those tiny, grubby hands of theirs, the little buggers..." Draco trailed off, the beginnings of a frown forming on his face as the image filled his head, and he wondered just how people like the Weasleys managed to live with themselves.

A moment of silence passed as Blaise contemplated something of the same. Shaking the thought off, he asked bracingly, "So, you'll do it, then?"

"Was there ever any doubt?" asked Draco.

---

Draco had never had much opportunity to experience the flush of embarrassment; his lineage simply would not allow it. True to the long line of proud and distinguished Malfoys who had come, seen and conquered before him, Draco had brimmed with haughty confidence from the day he had managed to convey lordly self-satisfaction while simultaneously stuffing a chubby fist in his mouth. Surrounded by flunkies with a vested interest in remaining in the good favour of his family, what breaches of good social conduct he had committed were usually quickly and quietly swept under the rug or attributed to the fey, forgivable whims of the insanely wealthy. Of course, it helped that Draco had received a good amount of training from his parents so that such gaffes were few and far between, and rarely gave himself reason for discomfiture. That unfamiliar feeling was circling him now, however, searching for the perfect spot in which to settle, and he pressed his lips together, as Cyrus Ogletree's snores whistled across the room.

Ogletree appeared to have embraced ignominy as a bosom friend. He wore robes so traditional that the Museum of Magical History would have fallen over itself to procure and display them; the worn cloth -- a patterned silk -- probably boasted much richer colours about five hundred years prior. An incongruous plaid trilby hanging precariously on the corner of his chair provided the only indication that he had partaken in relatively modern times. He snored lightly at the head of the table where representatives of the Belgian Ministry had laid out a full meal of local culinary delicacies for him. Ogletree was bent in the usual geriatric way, his spine curved to approximately the same degree as the handle of the cane that aided his perambulation. His waxy, bald head, with its half-crown of tufty, snow-white hair, hung low enough to be in danger of being frosted with strawberry mousse.

Draco, subordinate and seated to his right, grimaced in chagrin as proxy, feeling the mortification the old man should have, were he not contentedly and obliviously slumbering in front of a dozen robust Ministry men. A furtive nudge of Draco's elbow only caused Ogletree to snort and mumble, bristling his thick, white moustache, and slip a fraction of an inch further down.

The others didn't seem to mind, as Ogletree was cut from the cloth of old men who got away with all manner of bad behaviour simply by dint of being so ancient that everything they did was perceived as harmless, and, often, entertaining.

There were a few chuckles around the table, and the Belgian seated next to Draco leaned over with a knowing smile. "Never mind," he said in lightly accented English. "Let him rest; men of his age tire easily. Tomorrow we can get to work, but tonight let us have a good time."

The pronouncement was met with cheers from all corners of the table, the convivial clamour failing still to penetrate Ogletree's ears, from which white hair sprouted like spider chrysanthemums. As the evening wore on, Draco watched the other men consume bottle after bottle of wine, segue shoptalk into comparisons of the sizes of their secretaries' bums, trade dirty limericks and turn many interesting shades of red, and he wondered if he just might have the most ridiculous fake profession on earth.

By the end of the dinner, while Ogletree continued to content himself with his hours-long nap and Draco had moved dessert away from the old man's gradual downward trajectory, the others were sufficiently inebriated enough that they didn't notice that Draco remained sober as ever, even though he'd exchanged many a "Salut!" with them throughout the evening.

It had been one of those unsanctioned skills he'd honed in school, when a group of them would get together with bottles of contraband and toast the worst possible things they could think of, just to be contrary, like everyone thought Slytherins were supposed to be. And Draco, who fulfilled somebody's idea of a big brother whether he wanted to or not, usually ended up being the one stepping over prone bodies and cleaning up the sick before the house elves got wind of the mess and reported them. He wasn't a caretaker by nature, but with everyone else drinking themselves to oblivion, the burden of being responsible had to fall on someone's shoulders, and Draco had taken it up without much argument. Truth was, he just didn't like drinking all that much -- at least, not to the point of forgetting himself. His life had been out of control in so many ways -- having to assassinate his headmaster, for one -- that whatever tenuous grasp he had on himself he wasn't willing to give up.

The chief representative of the Belgian Ministry staggered to his feet and managed to close the evening without stumbling over his words or himself. Draco took his cue, and roused Ogletree in time to shake hands with everyone and make as though he'd been awake all the while, spouting things like, "That's an interesting stain on your shirt, my dear Lambert; was it from the third course?"

When goodbyes had been repeated to everyone's satisfaction, Draco and Ogletree Portkeyed back to their hotel, the old ambassador smacking his lips softly.

"Nice chaps," said Ogletree, as he shuffled and Draco walked through the corridor towards their rooms. "They do a good mousse. Wish it had been chocolate, though. Give my right eye for good Belgian chocolate." He pointed exaggeratedly to the eye that cataracts hadn't laid siege to years ago.

"I know someone who'd get along famously with you," Draco said, deciding that when he had time to run out for Blaise's shopping, he'd get an extra box for Ogletree.

"Is it a lovely young lady?" the old man asked hopefully, coming to a halt in the middle of the hallway.

Draco shook his head.

"Then I don't think I'm interested," Ogletree said, and fumbled in his pockets for his room key, producing it after a few false starts of butterscotches, coins and a paper clip.

After making sure Ogletree was safely ensconced in his room, Draco walked on to his own. Upon opening the door, the crunch of paper met his ears as he trod on something that hadn't previously been present in his hotel room. Stooping, Draco picked up a slim parcel from the floor; it was unmarked save for his footprint. Unknotting the twine, Draco discovered a thin, clear plastic case containing a disc that caught the lights at every angle, and two pieces of paper with ragged edges, as though they'd been torn out from a book, were attached, small typeface featuring two characters called Beatrice and Benedick trading barbs. Draco had been in this business long enough not to waste time and effort wondering just what this snippet of a play had to do with him, and tapped his wand on the pages, turning the words into the details of his assignment.

---

His target location was, fortunately, quite a short walk from the hotel. Shrugging out of his business robes and into clothing that would blend in well among Muggles, Draco slipped out of his room, and into the street, drenched in the orange-yellow haze of streetlamps trying to ward off the dark of night.

He wended his way along the road, the hard macadam pounding the city's heartbeat through his soles. The Muggles paid him no heed, each with only a destination on their minds as the temperature dipped and settled in for a frost.

Having made sure to acquaint himself with the area upon arrival, the map in Draco's head served him well as he rounded corners and glided over zebra crossings with ease, reaching his target location without any trouble. He purposely walked past it first at a leisurely stroll, studying the place out of the corner of his eye. To his benefit, the little boutique hotel was fitted in the front with a large glass pane, and he could see directly into the reception area, where a young woman was seated behind a counter of wood and frosted glass. Estimating the night receptionist's age in the early- to-mid-20s range, Draco quickly formulated a plan to glean information from her that she was not allowed to give.

His hand slid into his right pocket, feeling around for both his wand and the mock mobile phone Dennis had given him, and stealthily transfigured the hand-phone into a small velvet box. Drawing the box out to check that its contents had been changed correctly, Draco slipped it back in his pocket, and pushed the front door open, approaching the reception counter with a friendly smile.

"Bon soir, madamoiselle. Er, parlez-vous anglais?" he asked, allowing a smidgen of hesitation to creep into his voice. If he were being modest, Draco would have rated his French-speaking skills somewhere between flawless and impeccable, but for the moment, being a hapless yet charming Englishman would probably work better in his favour.

"Yes, how can I help you?" the receptionist asked in thickly accented English, her smile and demeanour the perfect mix of deference and proficiency.

"Well, you see, er, it's a bit embarrassing," Draco said, a self-deprecating and winsome flush colouring his cheeks as he leaned forward, resting his arms on the counter. "My girlfriend is staying here for a bit, and I wanted to pop in and surprise her, but I've gone and forgotten her room number. Would you be so kind as to look it up for me? Her surname's Martin. Sarah Martin."

Thankfully, the name listed on his assignment sheet was an easy one to remember, and he didn't have to worry about mispronouncing his fake paramour's name. What Sarah Martin looked like, however, he wasn't completely sure, having only been given a short, written description, nor did he know if that was even her real name or just an alias. He was even further at a loss as to how his handlers had known to send him to this particular area, at the precise time she was there. He had a vague idea of the Unit having a massive research team sequestered somewhere out on the wild moors or in underground caverns, scores of bespectacled men hunching over gas lamps and furiously deciphering code after code. He'd asked Dennis once how Williams and Webb seemed to know so much about everything, and in his usual gentle and amiable way, Dennis had pointed out that Draco wasn't being paid to ask questions.

The receptionist glanced at her computer and hesitated. "I'm sorry, sir, but it's against hotel policy," she said apologetically, her fingers hovering above the keyboard.

His face fell. "Oh, no. Oh, god, of course, of course. Hotel policy, right," Draco said, nodding in disappointment.

She gave him a sympathetic half-smile, the ends of her eyebrows pulling downward as he slumped slightly against the counter, momentarily stymied. "I'm very sorry," she added.

"Well, I -- of course I don't want to put you in a tight spot, but -- Well, could you just this once? Normally, I wouldn't dream of asking, it's just that --" He leaned forward, eyes shining with hope, and dropped his voice to a conspiratorial level. "See, I was planning to propose tomorrow, and it would just be beyond fantastic of you if you could..."

She bit her lip, her eyes darting around the lobby. "I don't know..."

His eyes flickered to her nametag. His tone lightly cajoling and just dipping an experimental toe into flirty, Draco pushed forward. "Please, Annemarie, you could make or break what could be the happiest day of my life. Look, I have the ring with me and everything." He fished the ring box out of his pocket and popped it open, the fake diamond glinting madly under the fluorescent lights. Draco tried not to look smug at the results of his transfiguration skills, and kept the shiny, hopeful look on his face instead.

"Ohh," the receptionist breathed.

"Think she'll like it?" he asked, as though he genuinely cared about her opinion.

Her mouth widened in a smile, and she turned to her computer, her fingers flying over the keys. "Room 231," she said quickly. "But I did not tell you, yes?"

"Of course, of course," Draco said, beaming as warmly as he could without making himself ill. "Thank you. Annemarie, you are absolutely brilliant."

She smiled again, blushing slightly, and Draco took his leave, his first objective accomplished.

It looked like his cell, felt and smelled like it, too. But where there had once been a door facing his bed, there was now none, just four silent walls of brick and cement and peeling paint hemming him in. He scrabbled at one wall, trying to find a false panel or a loose brick or a hollow spot; he had obviously gotten in somehow, and logically, there must be a way out as well.

Logic, however, had no intention of staying put. Three walls went by without so much as a chink to be discovered, and panic was beginning to make itself nice and comfortable, looming larger than seemed possible in the small confines of the cell, and by the way, was he going insane or did the room just shrink? He tore his fingers uselessly at the last wall, losing hope with each passing second.

"Come on, come on," he muttered, pushing his fists against the wall, his energy and optimism flagging while his chest constricted with the crushing terror he'd been trying to keep at bay. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad to just give up, accept his doom and lay down to die.

A throat cleared behind him, impatience and irritation evident in the voice. "Look, Malfoy, do you want to get out, or what? I don't have all day, you know."

He whirled around, placing the voice before he even saw her face. "What? How did you get in here?"

The girl Weasley shrugged, and held out a hand. "Well, come on, then. Let's go."

There was something odd about the scene, but he accepted her outstretched palm anyway, and followed her lead. A door had, apparently, materialised again while he had been contemplating his death, and she easily pushed it open a crack, flooding their faces with light.

Draco awoke to an unfamiliar room, his heart pounding to an insistent drumbeat, as the residual shudders of dream panic rolled in little waves off his skin. As his consciousness jogged forward to catch him up with reality, he puffed out a short sigh of relief, and uncurled one tight fist from the duvet. Draco forced his breathing to even out and reminded himself that he was in Belgium on assignment, still a free man.

A shaft of morning light forced its way through a slim space where he hadn't closed the damask curtains properly, bringing the memory of the end of his dream careening to the forefront of his mind, the image of Ginny Weasley reaching out to save him clear as crystal. He supposed his subconscious had conflated truth and fear somehow; though she had been operating under orders at the time, she had been the one to physically fetch him out of prison, and it was understandable, though unfortunate, that some poorly functioning part of him might consider her his saviour. He hoped she didn't think the same of herself, however; the girl seemed to have enough of a superiority complex as it was.

Letting the remnants of his dream flit lazily away like dandelion seeds on a summer breeze, Draco sat up and checked the bedside clock. It was still early enough that he had quite some time to carry out the second part of his plan before having to accompany Ogletree to his mid-morning meeting. He sped through his morning ablutions, pulled on a pair of dark denims, a jumper and trainers and slipped a jacket on, stuffing the little disc he'd received the night before in its pocket. Stepping out of his room, Draco decided to forego the lift; he was still slightly mistrustful of the contraptions, and in any case, Draco figured that jogging down the stairwell would be helpful in getting his energy and adrenaline levels up and running. His plan was only half thought out, and if he was to follow it through, he needed his mind and body to be sharp.

The city looked vastly different in the daylight, a wild mix of architectural styles living side by side. Still, Draco had little difficulty following the route he had taken the night before, easily finding the boutique hotel again. The receptionist he'd conned was gone, her shift over, and replaced by an olive-skinned young man who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else in the world as he gazed out the large front window at the street.

Draco entered the lobby, sweeping past the reception area with a short, friendly nod to the young man, who returned the gesture with a mandatory smile, assuming Draco was a hotel guest. As he pushed the lift button up, Draco chanced a peek at the receptionist, who'd returned to people-watching. You could get away with a lot of things if you just looked like you knew exactly what you were doing. Draco entered the lift, keeping his mind on his objective as it chugged upwards.

A pleasant trill announced Draco's stop on the second floor, and he walked down the carpeted corridor towards room 231. The corridor was empty, and he flattened himself in a position against the wall next to the door so that he couldn't be spotted through Sarah Martin's, or any other guests', peepholes. From his pocket Draco produced a thin string, one end of which he fed through the gap at the bottom of the door; it was a more sophisticated version of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes' Extendable Ears, but not by much. As much as he had regarded the Weasley twins as nuisances, he couldn't deny their brilliance in creating products meant to put other people out.

From the other end of the string held up to his ear, Draco could hear the television broadcasting a morning news channel, and the sound of running water. It was enough evidence that the room's inhabitant was up and about, and hopefully on her way out. He wound the length of string around his finger and pocketed it once more. Then, wand in hand, Draco cast a tracking spell above the door. It was a particularly tricky one, and had taken him a fair amount of time to master. If he had done it right, once the door opened and Sarah Martin stepped out, it would settle around her without her being aware of it, leaving him a bright, clear trail to follow. He hoped she planned on leaving the room quite soon; such complicated magic could not sustain itself for long.

Leaving the hotel, Draco crossed the street to a coffee-shop diagonally opposite his target, where he could maintain a good view of the hotel's front door. He bought himself a cup of coffee and picked up a discarded newspaper from one of the tables, settling in for what would hopefully be a short wait. Though he still had some time before he needed to head back to fetch Ogletree, Draco really had no idea how long this mission would take, and whether his overt obligations to the old diplomat would end up making him fail his assignment. Although it was helpful to have a legitimate cover for all the travelling the Unit wanted him to do, having to accompany Ogletree to his myriad meetings and dinners was rather a hindrance as well to his real work.

Luck seemed to be on his side for the time being, however, as he hadn't been seated more than fifteen minutes before he was alerted to his tracking spell activating. Hoping it hadn't been a very early and industrious member of the housekeeping staff that tripped his spell, Draco kept a keen eye locked on the hotel entrance, and was soon rewarded with the sight of his target. She was a petite brunette with a ruddy complexion and a pair of thin-rimmed glasses perched atop her sharp nose. The most striking thing about her, however, was the ball of green light that bobbed above her head like a buoy, though no one else in the street seemed to notice it, least of all the target herself, signalling to Draco that he had gotten his spell exactly right.

Draco tamped down a pleased grin, and leisurely folded his newspaper. Binning his coffee cup, he stepped out of the cafe and began following Sarah Martin. The light above her head was beginning to fade as the spell's potency gradually wore off; it was no matter to Draco, however, as she was well within his line of sight, and he was well enough trained in simple tracking techniques that he needed no magic.

After picking up a large, pink bouquet from a nearby flower shop, his target moved swiftly down the street, occasionally peering behind her; whether she knew she was being followed and was trying to catch him out, or if she was just very paranoid, Draco wasn't sure. She wasn't exactly doing it with confidence and skill, however, and he suspected she hadn't been doing this kind of work for long. That makes two of us, he thought charitably, though his spirits were further buoyed knowing that he wasn't dealing with an accomplished spy, and, given that, his chances of pulling off his first mission successfully had increased considerably.

The woman, looking slightly nervous, walked a winding route that eventually led to an old cemetery. The main gate swung blissfully in the wind, hinges wailing. Many of its gravestones were overgrown with uncut grass and weeds, though a caretaker pottered around nearby. After appearing to have some trouble finding a particular tombstone, Sarah Martin finally lit upon one and knelt before it, carefully placing the truss of flowers over the grave. Partially hidden behind an ostentatious mausoleum, Draco watched as she picked up rocks from the ground and built a small cairn at the base of the tombstone, which, his handlers had informed him, was the signal that she was leaving something important there for someone else to pick up. She stood and brushed her hands off on her jeans, and looked around carefully before heading back out of the cemetery.

Draco waited until he was reasonably sure she was far enough away before getting into action. A cursory glance told him that whatever she had left was hidden inside the bouquet, and he felt his way around its opaque cellophane wrapping, his fingers coming up against a small, hard object near its base. He peered in, catching sight of the item in question despite the mass of stems and leaves shrouding it, and carefully reached a hand inside, trying not to disturb the arrangement. If he was going to make a good switch, he'd have to make sure everything stayed as pristine as possible, so that whoever was supposed to pick the object up wouldn't suspect it had been tampered with. With two fingers, he secured the item and gently slid it out. Following this, Draco removed the disc he'd stuffed in his pocket earlier that morning, a perfect replica of the item he had just procured, and dropped it into the bouquet. Then, putting the flowers back in place, Draco pocketed his newly acquired disc and made his way back to his hotel, his senses on alert, as there was always the chance that he himself was being watched and followed.

There appeared to be no threat, however, as Draco made it back without incident and without picking up anything out of the ordinary in his surroundings. Pushing the door to his room open, Draco started slightly as he caught sight of someone sitting comfortably in an armchair next to the window.

"I hope you're not planning on making this a habit," Draco said, though he had already come to accept Dennis' surprise visits as a staple in his life, and shut the door behind him.

Dennis smiled. "Too late. Plus, I rather like picking locks. Keeps the brain sharp." He tapped a forefinger at his temple. "Now, what are you supposed to say to verify my identity when you see me in an official capacity?" he coaxed in a didactic tone.

Draco narrowed his eyes at the other agent. "Semper ubi sub ubi."

"Illiud Latine dici non potest," he replied happily.

"Do we really have to use nonsense Latin for code phrases?" Draco asked, sounding suspiciously as whiny as he had in adolescence when he'd demanded why in the world he needed to learn Divination when it had absolutely no relationship with reality.

"No," said Dennis, "but we have to make our own fun somehow, don't we? I'll let you pick next time; don't want to keep the same phrase for too long anyway. They're pretty easily sussed out and traced. For the same reason, I wouldn't recommend picking anything easily associated with you. So, no dragons or snakes or sex gods."

"Flattering, Creevey. Really," Draco said dryly, pulling a face as Dennis laughed. "But where in the world are you getting your information from? It's very suspect."

"Didn't you know? Some of the girls were mad about you in school. Wouldn't shut up about you."

"Jealous?" Draco smirked.

"Very," Dennis said, feigning adamance. "But I haven't come all this way just to inform you of ancient gossip, of course."

"Right," said Draco. It did make sense that, on his first real assignment, the Unit wouldn't let him go without supervision, and backup, if it had to come to that. His assignment had gone about as well as could be expected, and although it had given him quite a boost of confidence to know that he could pull it off, it was still rather reassuring to know that Dennis, younger, but wiser and more experienced, was around and had his back. "And how did I do?"

"Rather well, actually," Dennis said encouragingly. "You got in and out without any fuss, and it didn't occur to anyone to suspect you or keep an eye on you. Besides me, of course, but you knew that already."

Draco nodded, having long gotten used to Dennis' shadowy presence whenever there was any Unit business to be done.

"Do you have the thing on you?" Dennis asked, leaning forward with his elbows balanced on his knees. "Upstairs wants it earlier than you're scheduled to return, so they've asked me to take it back in your stead."

"Oh. Yeah, sure," said Draco, fishing the disc out of his pocket and handing it to the other agent.

Dennis inspected the jewel case closely, a wry smile forming on his face. "Lesson number," he paused, having long ago lost count, "oh, let's say, 348. Don't trust everything I say."

Draco's eyebrows knitted together. "Bit late for that, isn't it?"

"Mm, yes," he conceded with a shrug. "Fortunately, I just so happen to be a trustworthy and reliable ally, but for all you know, I could be a rogue agent who's gone and defected to the other side, and you've just given me a vital piece of intelligence that could bring your government to its knees. You haven't, of course, and I'm not. Anyway, my point is, you report only to your controllers -- in this case, Williams and Webb -- and any information you collect on the job is for their eyes only, no matter how convincing a story any other agent might tell you. Or how fetching they happen to be," Dennis added with a wink, and lobbed the disc back into Draco's waiting grasp.

"Got it," Draco said, not bothering to check the amusement in his voice. He pocketed the disc. "And what if one of my controllers defects?"

"Then you can't really be held accountable, can you? What your controller says, goes, so it's Upstairs' problem then, that they didn't catch the problem to begin with. Now, let's review. You've just collected a piece of intelligence, I turn up and say there's been a change of plans, and Williams and Webb want you to give it to me instead. What do you do?"

"Kick you in the shins and run," Draco said dutifully.

"A mite barbaric," Dennis noted, "but I suppose it'll do."

---

There were obsessions, and then there were obsessions. She was too old to be having anything to do with the latter. She was lodged squarely in the elderly end of the 18-24 demographic set, and she ought to know better. Her jaw set, Ginny carefully took no notice of any of the other Ministry employees in the canteen as she discarded her lunch. Straightening her spine and directing her gaze firmly ahead, she exited the room and tried making a swift beeline for the stairwell, keeping her arms tucked in prime position for the employment of elbows if the need arose.

She was just beginning to congratulate herself on her strength of focus about halfway through her trek when the part of her that often got her into trouble as a child -- the part that told her to do things she knew she wasn't supposed to do, like write in a cursed diary, for instance -- reared its impish little head, and Ginny found herself searching the Atrium for Draco Malfoy. A quiet, resigned groan escaped her lips as she realised what she was doing. The trouble with having a nemesis, apart from having to come to terms with being the sort of person who acquires nemeses in the first place, was that one felt somehow incomplete when one's personal scourge of the earth wasn't around to be scowled at.

It had taken her quite by surprise just how fast she got used to Draco's presence during the work week, despite their being in different departments. And when he hadn't shown up on a Tuesday morning, Ginny had noticed immediately. To make things worse, not only had she noticed, she was so thrown off by it that she spent most of her break times on a stealthy mission looking for him, as if his absence had severely tilted the balance of the universe.

Tilted your brains right out, more like, the still-rational, but increasingly tiny part of her mind complained, in a tone disturbingly similar to Hermione's disapproving voice.

It was now Friday, and though Ginny had discovered in the interim that Draco was overseas on a diplomatic visit with Cyrus Ogletree, the news hadn't stopped her from making sure, when she arrived to work every morning, that he hadn't returned early to plague her with his existence again.

She was pure madness, and she knew it, and it was clear other people were beginning to catch on to her compromised mental faculties, too.

Ginny wasn't sure how long she had been at her desk, reading the same line of a report over and over without processing any of its meaning, when a shadow loomed over her desk and emitted a polite cough.

"Er, Ginny," said Brigid, handing her a folder from atop the small stack in her crook of her arm, "you do know that when I asked for the file on the bridge refurbishing project, I did want the file on the bridge refurbishing project, and not the new Ridgeback reserve, right?"

"Yes. Sorry. Sorry," Ginny said, cringing so hard her whole body would have crumpled in penance if it could have. Personal insanity she probably could have managed with willpower and a few self-help books, but having it affect her work was a new level of wretchedness. "I have it right here. Sorry."

"Are you okay?" Brigid asked, accepting the correct file. "You seem a bit... distracted."

"Yeah, I'm fine. Better than fine," Ginny said quickly. Taking note of Brigid's cocked eyebrow, she added, "Really. Just fine. And sorry. About the file. Really. Sorry."

With an expression that brooked no argument, her supervisor said firmly, "Stop apologising; you're allowed to make a few mistakes once in a while. And anyway, you can make it up to me by helping me deliver this after work." She riffled through the stack of papers and files she was carrying, and produced a sealed envelope. "I'd do it myself, but I've got to go see my mum; she's feeling rather poorly."

Ginny's brows furrowed in sympathy. She took the envelope and placed it on top of her bag. "Tell her I said hello, will you?"

"Yeah, of course," Brigid said. She hesitated for a brief moment before moving a few papers towards the centre of Ginny's desk, so she could perch on the edge of it, and leaned forward solicitously. "And if there's anything bothering you, you know you can come talk to me, right?"

Ginny gave her a grateful smile. "Yes, I know. Thank you. But I really am all right. Maybe I'm just getting a bit sick; it's all this weather," she said, her vague gestures matching her words.

"Ooh, I hope you haven't caught that bug I had these last few days. Absolutely vile. I hate missing work, but it practically rendered me immobile," Brigid said with an unappreciative shudder. "Anyway, the invitation stands, whenever you need it." She slid off the desk, her expression turning mischievous, and added, "Especially if it happens to be about a boy. I could use some vicarious romance in my life, you know."

Ginny grinned, glad to have the mood lightened. "Believe me, if there was a boy in my life, I would not be keeping quiet about it."

Brigid laughed. "Yes, that does sound more like you."