It grew quiet in the halls as he strode through them. The languid walk he’d had before was gone, and his eyes shifted through the crowds as he got closer to the door. The air was putrid, and the lights were low; he was reminded of the dregs of London, the rotting buildings he’d spent so many hours hiding in.

The hospital was small, and no nurse came to assist him. He imagined behind the door a large bed – a bed and a pitcher of water. His arms began to hurt, and his chest heaved to aid him through the last few steps.

As his hand reached for the knob, he thought he saw her. He halted, one stride away from the door, eyes glued to the pale woman by the wall. She stood alone, folded into herself and watching him with wide eyes, but she was too tall. Too thin. Too unreadable.

Tossing one last sneer behind him, he stepped through.

The room was barren. He’d imagined he’d see a family there, that a rowdy group of redheads would encircle him, asking to see their boy. He’d thought the room might be brighter, and warmer, but that wasn’t how things worked anymore. Most of those who grew up before the Dark Lord’s hateful existence no longer yearned for a life of safety and happiness, so they held on to the last shreds of peace.

The last he’d heard from his own parents was that morning, but the hours made decades in his mind, stretching on forever in blankness. His head was filled with endless assignments, all twisting around him until he was reduced to a microscopic dot in a homogeneous landscape.

Fresh out of the Battle of Hogwarts, neither he nor his mother was prosecuted. After a tedious trial, Lucius had been shoved into a small cell in Azkaban and released several weeks later. The Malfoy image, over the past decade, Draco had scrubbed spotless. Though his freedom and reacceptance required lots of sizeable contributions to the wizarding world, most of what he was to the public came from self-isolation and a respectable employment.

Because his father's bank vault was emptied upon entrance into prison, Draco had finally fumbled to turn his life around.

No one of significant stature had dared to offer him anything, and his former alliances were rarely ignored even in casual settings. The money his father had given him, though plentiful, only supported his living, and five months crawled by before passersby began to meet his eyes. Travers had approached him in December. It didn’t bode well for former Death Eaters to associate, he had said, and their contact had to be limited at best. By mid-January, he had received his first job.

What he did now was no different from what he did then. He reasoned with himself that it was for the good side, for the side that could not blame him for ruthlessness, the side which itself created this job – but lives were lives, and he continued to take them. The first case was of a notorious murderer of Muggles, and it had been simple. It only took one spell to Stun him, and then the responsibility was on another man’s shoulders. The assignments had progressively worsened after that, with the most recent one ending in the murders of twenty armed men who had kept children in a tomb, teaching them to kill one another. When he’d gone down to the vault to get them out, all of the children were gone – frozen to death by the flip of a switch seven minutes after he had attacked. It had been his hardest chase yet. He’d started to wonder where it all would end.

Precisely two weeks before was when it all began. Travers was unusually severe when he had handed him the file. Draco still remembered the day, often wondering if some sort of fate decided to spare him. The office had been pristine, all metal and glass, but Draco saw the picture frames on the desk and the small trinkets only a little girl might send. Travers allowed himself one moment of empathy, shaking Draco's hand and smiling, but it was gone once he glanced at his desk. "You fail to do this, and you're fired. So get your head on straight or give the case to somebody else," he'd muttered, shoving him out of the office.

Earlier that evening there had been a party, a celebration one might call it, of the victory of the good side over the evil, eight years to the day. The soiree was organized in February, and the full spring season was a busy affair. Kingsley Shacklebolt had invited him, thinking him for his faithful service to the Ministry, and it took incomprehensible willpower not to laugh in the old man's face. Loyalty had nothing to do with his life, or conversion. He had not changed.

But he'd had nothing to do and thought his presence might elicit good feelings from the higher-ups, so he had arrived on time and left when the Minister did.

Sometime throughout the evening, a girl had approached him. Her small hand had wrapped around his, and he followed her onto the floor. The whole event was awkward, with uncomfortable touches and uneasy glances, and she refused to speak until the dance was over. They seated themselves at the low tables in the corner of the hall, and she grinned. "You don't remember me."

His eyes traveled over her, and for the life of him, he couldn't. Generic face, typical freckles, but her choice of dress was staggering. He blinked and looked away. "No."

She piled some food onto a plate, setting it in front of him, and reached to fill her own. "You'd better pretend you do, then," she murmured as she glanced around the hall, "and I'll give you a fourth of my earnings."

He sat back, narrowing his eyes. It was common for people to gain things at his expense, and he was used to it. No one, however, had ever told him about it before.

She saw him watching her and rolled her eyes. "You're somewhat of a rogue creature in all the gossip rags, you know. People want to touch you to make sure you're real. My friend bet one hundred galleons that you don't know me."

"Do I know you?"

"Do you?"

He smiled, taking a swig of pumpkin juice, and stood. "Now you've got your money, then, and I can go."

He was ten paces away when she called, "Malfoy!" Most of the celebrators who heard turned to stare at him, watching every move, and he did not stop. He realized he may have been bitter and that she realized it as well, but none of it mattered to him when compared to the abomination that the public now considered him to be. He did not see her the rest of the evening.

Hours later, as he stood outside Travers's office with the file, he read Bill Weasley's name. The connection did not form until he read the anticipated list of casualties, and the girl's face hovered before him. He stood still through a lifeless second of apprehension, then he snapped the papers closed and forgot all about her.

..........

Before the flames erupted, he knew. Just as he knew the meaning of a jet of green light headed for him, he knew the fire would start. His papers lay helplessly on his desk, black and oily, orange inferno burning up their words and licking at the air hungrily. His mind raced, torn between saving himself and saving the papers, mind aching at the thought of a year’s worth of work vanishing before his eyes.

A cold sweat dampened his clothes, and he ran forward, throwing spell after useless spell at the fire, watching numbly as the table itself began to tremble. His hand fell to his side, motionless, and the wand toppled from it to the floor as he stared. The flames lapped higher with every second he didn’t move, and soon a dark brown circle chipped at the white paint of the ceiling, growing twice wider within moments.

A familiar desperation rose within him, pulling at every muscle, every nerve, until he felt his hands shaking. He breathed slowly and with difficulty as his feet carried him backward, and leaned against the wall heavily, feeling his eyelids droop. He thought he spotted a dragon’s face and tail at the nadir of the flames, and then they disappeared again, and it was only him, alone and inept.

“Bloody – what is this?” a shout came from beside him, muffled by the thickness of the air. “Reducio!”

Immediately, the fire shrunk, transformed into a pitiful putter of burnt parchment on a halfway broken desk. Clawing his wand from its spot on the floor, he pointed it weakly at the remaining flickers of light and breathed, “Aguamenti.”

There was a thump as the back of his head connected with the wall, and he took two silent breaths, shuddering.

“Dare I ask?”

He cracked one eye open, watching as the voice took on a form, sitting itself down near the fragile-looking desk gingerly. Red hair tumbled from her head in large waves, and he watched resentfully as she pulled it over her shoulder, watching him over the tall back of the chair.

He unbuttoned his shirt, airing it out, and walked silently to the window. The streets seemed as they always did, busy and loud. He pocketed his wand as he gazed at the clear sky, and turned around. “What did you need, Weasley?”

She looked taken aback as she began to speak, her eyes widening at the sight of him, but she smiled. "So you do remember me." He ran a tense hand over his temple, pushing his hair from his face, and slowly seated himself on the dragonhide chair across from her. His pulse continued to travel sporadically beneath his skin, and he averted his gaze self-consciously, aware of her steady gaze.

Ginny leaned forward, clasping her hands around one knee, and made as though to speak. A short pause later, she looked down, and then up again. “Malfoy, what did I just walk in on?”

He snorted. “An act of protest.” He leafed carefully through what documents were still salvageable, and cast the rest away with his wand. The woman before him watched, unspeaking and unmoving.

When he caught her eyes, there was a look of utter incredulity in them, bright and puzzled. “You mean to say – you believe someone – a person in your office did this?” A brief wave of her hand drove his eyes to the embers drying between them.

He didn’t respond, staring darkly into her eyes, and set his jaw. A moment passed before she sat back, a deep sigh wrenching itself from her. They didn’t speak while he moved about the room, setting things in new places and casting ward after ward on the door. When he returned to his seat, she was still gazing over his shoulder absently, trailing one foot just above the ground.

“You're a hard man to track down, Malfoy. I came to give you this." A small satchel landed softly on the desk.

A nasty smirk contorted his face. “Twenty-five galleons? Weasley, do yourself a favor and keep them. I'm sure it's more than you've earned in your lifetime."

“That's fine,” Ginny pursed her lips, taking the coins back into her hands. "I only offer because I told you I would. I'm also giving you one week's notice."

He narrowed his eyes, but didn't budge. "Of?"

“The search of the Manor. The Ministry has received tip-offs of recent Dark Magic fostering in your home, and I'm the leading investigator. You have five days to clean it," she stood, watching him, "immaculately."

"What exactly did the tip-off concern?"

She opened the door, pulling her pea coat on, and glared at him. "If I knew that, I would not be here."

..........

Monday morning, she was walking up the path through the gardens as he watched from his window. Her orange hair was ablaze in the sun, and he gripped the sill with white knuckles as he thought of what the investigators might weasel out of his home. He watched her mane grow slowly duller as it was drenched in the shadow of the mansion, and called for the house elves to let her in. He would remain cooped up in the mansion all day if he had to, but he would not let her take anything from him.

Though he threatened to throw up all the wards to toss the wankers out of his home, and though they all knew he would be fined for it, they let him stand only at the outskirts of each area that was processed.

Sometime past midday, Weasley ordered the others to get themselves a lunch somewhere, and saw him glaring at her.

Slowly, she approached. "Look, I'm as miserable about this as you are. Give us a few days of peace and we'll be out of your hair before you know it."

"No, Weasley, you won't. A former Death Eater will always be investigated, and it doesn't matter for what. You and your little friends with rob me of my possessions, and I'll continue working quietly in the dark, where the general public won't fear me. Isn't that right?"

She took a step back, glancing around the room. "Well, we've examined seven rooms so far, and your possessions in them have remained intact. Unless any of the rest contains connections to Dark Magic, you needn't worry. And no, Malfoy, you're not being investigated for pure entertainment of the wizarding community. My department received information, and as I actually do my job, it will be investigated. Who you are does not matter to me any more than what might come out of this search, so open your tiny eyes and accept that what you have you made for yourself." Her chest heaved with the effort of her speech, and a bright pink blush colored her cheeks. As a worker exited the room, the sunlight fell onto her hair, and he thought then that she looked like fire. She took a deep breath, still glowering.

He sneered. "Well, since you're so righteous and professional, you won't mind my ordering you to get the hell out of my house until the investigation resumes."

Towards the end of the day, he was reading his assignment, staring at Bill Weasley's name. With the way Travers's department dealt with things, there was no way to go about getting rid of the maniacs at Gringotts without somehow injuring Weasley's brother, and something within him did not want to do it. He thought bitterly of the Aurors, who were handed their work on a silver platter; the cases Draco was forced to deal with required outright murder of people, and that was not so simple as war. In war, there are no humans, there are only enemies, and none of the criminals of the good side on the battleground are ever put to trial. The Aurors spent decades perfecting the secrecy and calm with which they got rid of bastards like himself. The dirty jobs, where everyday citizens must be caught, were thrown to people like Travers. But he was being paid more than his father ever donated to the Dark Lord's dealings, and he was living free.

He turned to put the file onto his desk and saw her standing there.

"Is there a problem?"

She snapped out of her reverie, holding up a stack of papers, and stepped forward. "These are the objects you own that are on record, and what we have found in our investigation so far. This will explain which rooms we will need access to, and the approximate amount of time we will need to complete our work."

"Why do I - "

"It's standard protocol. Please allow your parents to view these as well, and let them know what time we will return tomorrow."

He nodded, setting them heavily onto his desk, and sighed, rubbing his face. The office - an antechamber to his bedroom - was littered with papers, quills, and photographs from his old case files, a sort of salute to his work. The window was swung wide open, letting air rush past his skin, and he walked to it to gaze at the grounds. He thought she'd left when she spoke again. "If it's any consolation, we've gone through twenty one rooms today, and not a single one contained artifacts from the list of forbidden possessions."

He turned around, watching her serenely. "I know."

..........

The following morning, she didn't come. Fifteen nosy pricks snooped around his house, but she didn't come. He'd even asked several of them if she knew where he was, but none did, and the work had to be done by Friday with or without her. The day continued much the same as the previous one, and he forced himself to put other plans on hold. The rooms being cleaned out were larger and more delicate, and he thought his mother might have liked for him to be there.

At quarter past one, Ginny rushed in, hair and limbs flying. She tore off her shoes, tucking them into her handbag, and began to sort through papers. Merely nineteen items had been taken past her when she announced an early lunch break, but she didn't leave. When the others were gone, Draco approached her. "Why are you still here?"

She looked up. "Oh - oh, I wasn't here for most of the morning, and thought I'd make some progress while the others are gone. I - I hope that's fine with you." As he looked at her, he noticed what hadn't been there before - her baggy eyes, her tangled hair, her wrinkled clothes.

He chose not to respond, instead wandering to the door. Near it lay small white pillowcases and sheets, from when he had occupied the room years earlier. Toys and clothes decorated it, and he stared at them all silently, remembering what joy he'd used to find in everything. As he was about to step into the hall, Weasley called, "Actually, Malfoy, do you mind having a brief lunch with me? There are some things we need to go over."

They didn't speak all the way to the main hall, and there were several minutes of uncomfortable silence even there as they chewed on their expensive food. The hall was breezy, illuminated by the sun, and her exhaustion was even more apparent than before.

"What was it you needed to discuss with me?"

"Three objects so far have been confiscated today. I'm sure there was some sort of mistake, however, and they'll be retested toward the end of the day."

He raised an eyebrow. "Is that all?"

"Would you like us to confiscate more?" she snapped back.

As he sipped his water, he watched the clouds outside the windows, watched her. Her hair got into her way, grazing the plate, and she huffed as she shoved it over her shoulders. He sneered in spite of himself, watching her over the rim of his glass.

“This is a very nice hall. Do you still hold banquets here?”

“No,” he responded, sending the empty dishes to the kitchen. “We lost that right when the war ended.”

Ginny gazed at him steadily. “Do you wish you hadn’t?”

“Not particularly. I never attended any revelry. Perhaps if I had siblings, it might be more meaningful.”

When he looked up, he saw her lip begin to quiver. It was so unlike her that at first all he did was stare.

"I - " she broke off. Her eyes were lowered, glued to her plate, and she sat slumped in her chair, breathing deeply. "My - "

He lowered his hands, watching her, but did not speak.

Finally, she sighed. "I found out this morning that my brother's been listed as an object of interest in your department's papers. My - my brother Bill, who's just had his second baby. I - " Jerkily wiping her hands over her face, she looked up at him with clear eyes. "Have you heard anything about it?"

He was surprised how little effort it took for him to say, "No."

She laughed shakily, setting her fork down, and swallowed. "If you do, could you - could you let me know? Just - so I know."

"I will."

..........

“Where are your mum and dad?”

It felt strange that she referred to them as such. He never did. “They spend most of their time at a private beach home on the continent. Since incarceration, my father’s valued my mother’s presence a bit more.”

Ginny smiled. “That’s sort of sweet. Do you see them often?”

“Every day.”

She smiled and nodded, shuffling her foot over the smooth marble floors. “That’s very good. I don’t see anybody so much anymore. Ron and Hermione are bogged down with children, and so are the rest of them, really. I’m the only one who’s thrown herself into work. But so have you.”

“And that’s important?”

“Well, I feel less alone. It seems all anybody does nowadays is arrange family parties and get married, but I’ve never found much value in justifying my lifestyle with a bit of signed parchment.”

He helped her set the couch back in its spot, using the distraction to watch her. Waves of thick hair fell into her eyes, and she lifted them over her shoulder effortlessly, gazing about the room. Her eyelashes were a thick, startling red, and when she looked at him he thought he might burst into flames. She looked immensely tired.

“Do your parents not work anymore?”

“The organizations they set up before the war are still in full manageability, and that’s enough money to last a lifetime.”

She snorted. “As though they need it.”

He looked up, puzzled by her candidness. “No, they don’t. But it’s nice to be secure in your existence, is it not?”

She looked at him seriously, a strand of hair falling gingerly next to her cheek. “Do you feel secure in your existence, then?”

“I don’t.”

She laughed. “Neither do I.” As she watched them slowly move the furniture about the room, she murmured, “And we never will.”

..........

Ginny tilted her wand, carefully adjusting the picture frame silently. One man came to help her, and after a moment’s struggle, they both stepped away. “Looks good,” she grinned, and with a pat she turned away.

“Is that the last of the portraits?”

Ginny turned to face him. “Yes. Are they valuable?”

“Quite.”

After watching him curiously, she turned to continue inspecting the carpet, shining an otherworldly light onto it in search of spells. “Really,” she said, still gazing at her work, “you don’t speak loads.”

He looked at her, amused. “But you do.”

“Yeah,” she smiled, meeting his eyes. “We sort of set it even that way. Bill used to – “ Before he knew it, she was staring at the floor again.

“Have you told him your worries?”

There was a long pause before she answered. Her face was tense, and her hand was frozen in a small arch beside her body. “I don’t want to stir a panic. But I’m scared out of my wits. He has not done anything illegal. I’ve never even seen him angry. I don’t understand it.”

“There are always innocent bystanders.”

“That’s cruel, Malfoy.” She looked sadly up at him.

“It is. It’s sobering. But Weasley, even in war it’s an ugly thing. People who don’t deserve to die do. And nobody deserves to die.”

Her face contorted for a split-second, and her thin wand quietly fell to the ground. “You’ve killed.”

Although taken aback, he didn’t attempt to silence his “Yes.”

“How many?” She seemed to have forgotten about her job. She looked so worried, so utterly concerned, that he wanted to filter himself as he spoke.

“I’ve lost count.”

She reassessed him slowly. Her eyes lingered on his hands and face, and she suddenly awoke. With a start, she grabbed her wand from the ground and whispered the spell again. It was silent as he watched her move forth.

“You’ve not – heard anything, have you?”

He looked at her emptily, watched as she fumbled with her papers, and said, without a second thought, “Not a thing.”

..........

"What're you doing?"

She swiveled around and smiled, lifting a soft plush bear off a shelf. "I had this toy when I was little. It was tattered and worn, but it feels just the same when I hold it." She pulled it away, appraising it once more. She squinted at him. "This one's barely been touched."

His gray eyes did not change as he slid his hands into his pockets. "Not everybody's got ten siblings to pick up after."

She pursed her lips, hugging the bear to her chest, and reached to put it onto a shelf. There was a small click, and the fireplace came alight. He didn't think he was scared so much as caught by surprise, but he jerked back nevertheless. His wand was out of his pocket in moments, his eyes hard and unfocused. Ginny stepped in front of him suddenly, leaning forward to catch his gaze. "Put it down."

He frowned, gaze flickering to his wand, and drawled, "What?"

Without response, Ginny slowly put her hand onto the wand and pushed it firmly to his side. They stood for a moment, staring at one another, as the flames beside her danced wildly. Ginny crossed her arms, watching him, and he slowly pocketed the wand once more. "Malfoy, your whole body was tensed. You looked ready to kill." She took a step closer to him. "You still do."

"I was startled, Weasley. And with the life I've had for the past ten years, my precaution should be understandable."

She turned around, gazing at the fire with him. “Do you see things? Is that what it is?” Her arms were crossed, and she seemed enthralled in the vision before her. The embers jumped around wildly, warming the nippy room, and he nodded, because he knew she wouldn’t know.

“But there’s nothing there, you see? It’s never leaving that block of bricks.”

He looked at her from the corner of his eye, calmed by her calmness. She ran her hand through her unruly hair absently, tangling it, and turned to him with a small smile.

“That’s what I thought eight years ago.” He glanced at the hearth again. “But it did.”

Ginny stepped even closer. Her eyes didn't leave his, and he had nowhere else to look. They were muddy brown, barely tinged with color, and they were sad. "How many people have set fire to your office, Malfoy?" Her concern was obvious, and it repulsed him, because she'd never know what it was like, and he'd never be rid of it. For the rest of his life, he knew, he'd be jumping from flame to flame and nothing would change. Her soft voice cracked through the silence, "And why did you let them?"

He felt his cheeks grow warm and closed his eyes to control his embarrassment. Her small arms wrapped themselves around his waist, and he opened his eyes to the sight of her hair. It began to flow together with the embers, the same shade and consistency, and both she and the fire began to grow more and less threatening with each breath he took. For the life of him, he could not push her away.

..........

Two days later he received a summon to the central office of affairs in Paris. Madden and Haggerty walked him through the plan for the following morning and the people who would come into his path. It had been affirmed prior to the meeting that everything would go according to plan, and no officer or goblin would come across him. As the meeting came to a close, Madden looked at him sharply. "You're the best agent Travers has on the force, Malfoy. You'd better make this good."

With a small smirk, he stood, tossing his Portkey onto the table. "Always do."

There was a pleasant chill outside, and the city glittered enchantingly. As he flitted through the streets, he thought. Bill Wesley's death did not concern him, and whether he or another man took the job, Weasley would be killed. He pondered his responsibility to Ginny and how much she needed to know, but he came each time to a standstill.

He wanted to take her to Paris. Merlin, he wanted to take her anywhere, so that the anticipation would disappear, and he might stop feeling as though he were driving a large knife slowly into her back. He was scared more of what would happen if she knew - whether she'd leave and he'd lose the person he considered his only equal or whether she'd stay, her face swollen and weary for the rest of her days.

..........

“That’s an expensive piece of art, Weasley. Make sure it’s in good hands.”

She turned, a small smile flitting over her face, and shrugged. “I was going to.”

Forty-two rooms were left for the investigating crew, but Draco knew he would not be there to see it through. Travers had given him barely three weeks to prepare for the next job, and Draco’s days had been filled with Ginny. There was a large chance that this would be the last time he saw her before he carried out his chase, and the thought sent needles through him.

It was now or never.

In the relative privacy of the bookshelves between which they stood, he said, “I’ve been assigned to – get rid of your brother.”

Her head jerked up, and her jaw dropped. “You?” She stumbled back. “You?”

He reached to steady her, but she wrenched herself away. “How long ago?” When he paused in his response, she shrieked, “How long ago?”

“That isn’t important.” He followed her as she began to dash away, and caught her finally by the door to his study. “What’s important is that there’s nothing you or I can do.”

Tears began to flow down her face, generously and without abandon, and he winced as he watched them fall from her chin. She pounded her fists against his chest, voiceless and hot, and he pushed her further into his chest to stop her.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I’m sorry.”

..........

He’d just placed Weasley’s body onto the bed when he felt his knees give way. He lurched for the wall, balancing himself against it, and watched as three doctors traipsed in to assess the damage.

The large redhead was unconscious, one earring dangling just above the pillow, and a needle was promptly inserted into his arm. The man’s blood was smeared all over him and Draco, crimson and sticky.

One nurse approached him, questioning the events that led to their appearance, and they came out of him clear and concise.

“Are there any family members we can call?”

He produced all the addresses that came to mind, clutching his head in his hands, and was promptly wheeled off for examination.

It was exactly two and a half days later that he stood in front of a warm fire by the foot of his bed. He was blinded by it, but it hurt to look away. His feet were cold on the concrete floor, and he hands were bunched in his pockets.

“What do you see?” a voice asked.

Her, her, her, he thought, staring morosely forward. “Things. People.”

“Too bad. I thought I’d cured you.”

He turned around. The sight of her shocked him into silence, and his lips parted without sound. Her smile was teary, and her face was red. It reflected a golden glow from the fire, but it was red, and he forced himself to stand still.

“You saved him.”

“And I was fired.”

Her face fell. “Why?”

“I didn’t follow orders. And I knew my orders all along.”

She moved forward. “But he wasn’t one of the people who needed to be killed.”

“But I broke my orders.”

Time stretched between them. He turned to watch the fire numbly, his right side throbbing. He couldn’t see them. Not Potter, or Crabbe, or the dragon. It was empty save for her and her hair, and the flames made her clearer as they lapped at one another gently.

“You injured yourself helping him. I want you to know how much I, and my whole family, appreciate it.”

He shrugged.

“The doctors have released you both as of ten o’clock tonight. We’ll take Bill to a wizarding hospital now to treat more lasting wounds, but you’re free to go.”

“I know.”

“Hey,” she pushed his shoulder gently. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

It made him pause, the certainty with which she said it, and the smile that decorated her face when she did. “What do you mean?”

She was almost out the door when she turned around. “We haven’t inspected even half of your terrestrial grounds yet. I’ll be seeing you around all week, I hope.”

When he nodded, she waved and walked away. As he listened to her quieting footsteps and listened to the crackle of dying cinders by his feet, he smiled.