CHAPTER 1

Saying nothing... sometimes says the most.
Emily Dickinson


Late August, 2004


“I'm pregnant,” I say when we sit down to eat.


Meals are always quiet affairs in our household, just like everything else, and I try to blend in. My unruly locks are tightened into a sensible bun, but I refuse to do anything about the colour. I know it annoys Draco by the way he sometimes looks at it.


My husband seems to be ignoring the announcement, but by now I know him well enough to tell that he's shocked. He is thinking of how to react; it's what he does. He has grown out of his wham-bang mentality and not once during our eight months of marriage have I seen him throw a fit like he used to in school. Even if it's me that's being unreasonable. It's weird. Sometimes I think I've married a block of ice.


“Did you hear what I said?”


I know he doesn't want red-headed Weasley children, but I'm not having an abortion. I'm not having an abortion. I'm not having an abortion. I don't care what Master Icicle thinks. I'm not having-


“You are not having an abortion,” he says calmly as ever, but his words are hard and authoritative. I bang my hand on the table.


“What do you mean, I'm not having an abortion?” I shout. “It's my body and my life! I'm not having your child!”


I know I'm not being very sensible. I blame hormones. Draco takes a napkin and presses it daintily to his lips, like a dandy at a soiree, but I know it's one of his anger management techniques.


“You are not having an abortion,” he repeats quietly.


I kick back the chair as I stand and storm up to my rooms.


O*O*O


I want children. I do. But I've also always wanted a happily ever after with Harry. And I don't exactly hate Draco. Considering he didn't really choose me either, he has been surprisingly decent to me. Even when he's vindictive, it's mostly a habit that I can crack a joke at. It's not always so difficult to defuse the situation. Now, though, we're having this cold war that I just know I can't win. War of silent reprimands.


I hate the silence even more than his 'let's be adults about it' voice, which drives me nuts. I wish he'd just yell at me and get it over with, but I'm the only one who raises voice in this house. It's almost like a contest of who can get the other one to shout first, except I'm the only one who's competing.


On the third day of the battle I tell him that I've decided to keep the baby. (Not that I even knew where to find a Healer who'd preform such a procedure – for a pureblood couple it's against the law.) Expecting to see gloating, I'm surprised when his shoulders sag in relief. Later when I go upstairs there's a pale pink rose on my pillow. It's a thank you, but it's also an invitation that I'm too tired to accept. I never go to his rooms when I'm having a period, so it wouldn't be unheard of for me to turn in today, either.


August 29th, 2004


“Don't call me that,” he says quietly but with force.


It started with a simple comment I made about an article in the prophet, and Draco of course, being male, felt the need to share his infuriatingly rational explanation for the world poverty. I kind of agreed with him at first, but then somehow, we ended up talking about the Death Eaters and it went out of hand.


“I'm just saying.” I shrug, although I know I'm being vindictive. “You know, a spade's a spade, a Death Eater's a-”


“A Weasley's a Weasley. Yes, I can see that.”


His lips are in a hard line but he's nowhere near to blowing his top and I let him be for the evening. I spend my time in the winter garden doing the Charity paperwork and feeling guilty. I had to bring work home today because a trainee had turned her project in too late and as a supervisor, I wanted to look it over before letting her hand it over to the boss. I used to hate working at home, but now, living in this mausoleum I do that quite often.


I put the document down and sigh. It's no use reading; I can't concentrate. Perhaps an apology is in order, but when was the last time he apologised? He will realise that I didn't mean it when he calms down. I know there is a difference between Draco and his father, of course I do.


The people who have over time taken all the important posts in the Ministry don't call themselves Death Eaters nowadays. The Pureblood Society for Better Britain has declared the whole 'Voldemort-phase' to have been a mistake and it's all just politics. So of course the Carrows, the Lestranges, Lucius Malfoy and a number of other more vicious Death Eaters are still convicted criminals and fugitives by default, but everyone knows that they were just allowed to relocate to their tropical islands, or where ever else they wanted to retire. The Death Eaters in power now are all quiet idealists who had no guts to fight before, but have the brains to make and enforce laws that give purebloods all the rights and privileges they have ever dreamed of. It's Draco's dream come true.


The country is ruled by the Minister Terence Higgs, a pureblood from an old powerful family. He too, was in Slytherin, but some years before us, I think. Theodore Nott is his right-hand man (Foreign Secretary), and Draco (Home Secretary) is the left, so to speak. Officially there are other Secretaries of State who should all be of equal power, but it doesn't really work that way. There are the arse kissers and there are 'kissees'. Draco is one of the latter. How exactly Draco Malfoy managed to get his position I can only guess, but somehow during the short few months of the total turnabout in England's political scene, he was right there every day: in the papers, at the memorial openings, meeting foreign officials, cutting ribbons, kissing orphaned babies, and so on and so forth.


Anyway, for all the power Draco has as a Home Secretary, none of it has saved him from the unwanted marriage either. When the Marriage Law first came into force, I thought it was a joke that no one would be taking seriously, but then the mass arrests and deporting started (legal or illegal no one even knew) and people fell in line. The idea, as explained, was that the purebloods with fertility problems were encouraged to marry those who had no problems procreating. If one chose to marry someone 'inadvisable' heavy fines had to be paid, and those refusing the government-approved suitors might even face jail time. Most people were too scared to try the difficult route. Some people left England in hopes that their families would be left alone. Sometimes they were.


Funny how with all the new privileges the purebloods gained, they totally lost control over who they marry. You'd think that the elite would have cried out in outrage, but over the generations they seem to have developed different coping techniques. Money started changing vaults even more rapidly and 'political influence' was thrown around as never before.


And, of course, not for a moment had I thought that the silly law could have any impact on my life. What I didn't realise then was that the law would also be used to keep those pureblood families that might start causing problems in line. Of course the only Weasley daughter had to be married off to one of the top dogs. (All my brothers, with exception of Charlie who's still living abroad, got lucky by being already engaged or married by the time the law was passed.)


Draco has never said it like that, but I know that he received his 'marching orders' straight after the law was passed or maybe even beforehand. When I first got the Ministry sealed proposal, I laughed. It was just so ridiculous, but by then I already knew that refusing such a proposal would be treated as harshly as treason. Nevertheless, I had every intention of refusing, but then Harry... I don't want to think about that now.


It's midnight and I ask a House Elf if Draco has turned in yet. Just as I thought, he's still in his study, so I head there.


Draco's sitting on his beloved 'throne' (I think it was his father's or even grandfather's) behind his desk. He looks utterly unapproachable, but as a Gryffindor and a Weasley I don't let it bother me. I squeeze myself between him and the desk, perching my lovely derrière on his lap. He looks at me and my pale grey nightgown, his eyes surprised. The first tiny kiss on his jaw doesn't have much effect but after the third one Draco's important work is forgotten. It's already morning when I realise that I've forgotten to take a peek at his papers.


September 18th, 2004


We have a function to attend this evening. I feel tired, but I'm not in the habit of admitting weakness to my husband, so when he knocks on my door, I step out. He looks as perfect as always.


“You look lovely.”


I don't answer, since we are not talking. His colourless, polite words don't count as talking, so I just take the offered arm and we head off.


We had a row after supper yesterday. Or rather, I ranted at a rock that just went even more rigid and then I left to sleep. He's been very tolerant towards my mood swings since I told him about the baby, and it drives me absolutely bonkers.


I glance into the hall's mirror as we start the descent from the master staircase. Did I say he looks perfect? He doesn't. He's not even handsome or tall. And there's this birthmark near his left temple that I know he doesn't like (Ron over-heard something in Quidditch changing rooms a hundred years ago at Hogwarts).


His hair is too long again. I know it irritates the hell out of him (he told me so, when I asked why he visited the barber every two weeks). It brushes his collar and he has a habit of scratching his neck when he forgets himself. The longer cut actually suits Draco better but I don't tell him that either, just to be contrary. Or maybe I should, just to annoy him.


Draco's a meticulous person; him skipping the barber must mean he's under more stress at work than usual. No wonder, tensions are running high, I think that the underground movement is planning an uprising. They don't tell me anything, just in case. We don't know if Draco is a Legilimens or not, though I'd vote not.


Suddenly there's a sharp, unbearable pain in my belly and I almost fall. I can see Draco's mouth move, but his words are just noise in my ears. Vaguely I register Draco gathering me into his arms and Apparating to the hospital, but I already know it's too late.


O*O*O


I don't get out of bed for three days and for the most part Mum is with me. I'm grateful that just as always, Draco has stayed away from my rooms. He held me when I first started crying, but left when I asked for Mum. I know he's uncomfortable with tears. He probably cast a silencing spell on the door too; I'm pretty sure my crying would have been heard to his adjoining bedroom. Or maybe Mum did. She's still not totally reconciled with me marrying 'that terrible Death Eater'. She wouldn't call him that to his face (not any more, anyway), but she would want some privacy while here.


Mum is good to me like only mums know how and it helps. I finally leave the room after a week while alone at the Manor. Draco's at work as usual. Quietly, I open his study door. I just want to have one more go at discovering the secret door I know must be somewhere in Draco's office, although I'm useless at spying. Sneaking down here has just turned into something comforting by now. Familiar.


I know I'm supposed to be our 'man' behind the enemy lines, but it's like with diplomats. The other side knows you're a spy, so how can you spy? All the documents I've managed to get my hands on have turned out to be unimportant. Draco doesn't trust me and can anyone blame him? It would take years to earn his trust and that's only if I managed not to aggravate him on every turn.


The thought of what I could find if he let me makes me shudder. Don't get me wrong, I don't think he's doing anything really terrible like his father, but these days you don't become a Secretary of State by being an honourable man. And then there are times I get him so furious I think he wants to hit me. It hasn't happened yet.


His office chair is comfy. I only leave it when I think he might be home soon.


O*O*O


We went to Egypt and France for our honeymoon. (Was it really just nine months ago?) I cried for the first week and Draco let me be. Then we went sightseeing and we got on pretty well by avoiding all the touchy subjects. The thing I was afraid the most of – sex – was actually the easiest part. Draco turned out to be a pleasant and skilled lover. The physical closeness made us appreciate each other better and I think we even liked each other at some point. Those were the good times.


It doesn't help that Draco's very authoritative. He knows how he likes things and I just have to abide by him. In case you were wondering – I don't. Abide by his wishes, that is. I'm my own woman and it drives him absolutely spare, which suits me well, since he drives me spare too.


Late October, 2003


After a deep breath, the exasperated man informs me, “This is only a preliminary session, Ms Weasley. Next week we’ll need a final fitting, and then in a month, we'll need another session. I‘m not even going mention the spring wardrobe right now. You cannot be wearing any of these dresses more than once, can you?”


I quirk an eyebrow and try to share my amusement with my husband-to-be, but Draco seems to be so immersed in his important-looking documents, that he hardly even notices anything else around him. I wonder why he's in the room at all.


“Why ever not?” I ask, putting on my best naïve-country-girl-look.


The stylist sputters again and although Draco still seems to be reading, I don't miss the faint smirk on his lips.


I'm being equipped for being a Malfoy bride. This is apparently a high-profile task which needs a professional touch, so Draco got me a stylist. What a great way to tell a girl that he likes her just the way she is! All in all, I think I'm being a pretty good sport about all the proceedings. Even when Draco suddenly raises his head and utters, “The other one's better,” and the shop girls rush to remove the offending item, I just roll my eyes.


It's only when the hairdresser asks Draco what style I should be going for that I decide I’ve had enough.


“Shouldn't you be asking me about this?”


Draco ignores me. He simply turns to the hairdresser and says “long” before leaving the room.


In the end, I get what I want, but only because it doesn't contradict the boss's instructions. I'd get it all cut off just to spite him, but I don't really want to, so Draco has this small victory.


Mid January, 2004


After the honeymoon's beautiful scenery and sights, real life is less colourful. My husband and I only meet during meals and at the boring social functions we are required to attend.


“What a lovely little dress you have, my dear,” an old spinster says while trying to fake a cordial smile.


“Thank you, Mrs Benjamin.” I fake the smile just as well, so neither of us is in doubt as to where we stand with each other. “I hope you're having a nice evening.”


“Yes, I am. Thank you, dear,” she says and we drift apart.


It is not the most unpleasant exchange I have during the course of the evening, neither is it the most boring. When Draco was invited to one of these typical upper-class dinners, he had no choice but to bring the wife. I'm not sure which of us hates the evening more.


First, Draco and I circle the room as a couple, then for the actual dinner we are seated as far away from each other as possible (which results in a starved-looking wizard with a ridiculous perm hitting on me). After that, the men leave and I'm left to chit-chat with a roomful of female piranhas. Though it does have its entertainment value, up to a point.


The third prize for the most inane conversation I have that evening goes to the perm-guy who manages to whisper to me between soup and duck, “You see that pimply waiter across from us? He's actually an ex-Azzy. I heard that he got caught stealing meat from the market. He said it was for his starving siblings. Ha! Like that's even believable! He was a half-blood, of course.”


The second prize would have to go to Daphne Greengrass with her, “They say that Mrs Macatta has fake teeth, have you heard?”


The first prize, though, goes undoubtedly to Pansy Parkinson-Goyle. I'm just moving past a wall-size mirror towards the loo when she, apparently forgetting any class she is supposed to have, gives me a 'psst' from between two potted plants and then hisses, “Your dress is tacky and Draco and you deserve each other!” She's gone before my brain even starts to process what I just heard. I cannot be sure one hundred percent, but I really hope that Parkinson's drunk. I really hope so. Otherwise she's even more pathetic than I thought.


The next second, though, I forget all about it, because I see Draco looking my way from the other side of the room. Only he's not looking at me, he's looking at Astoria Greengrass just a bit to my left. He's near enough that I can clearly see the intense regret and sadness in his eyes. It's so different from the sharp bitterness and hopelessness I sometimes spot in Draco's eyes when he directs his gaze at me, it hurts.


No wonder he disapproves of how I look. The beauty and grace displayed by Astoria could never be matched by someone like me. It's a shame Greengrasses are as infertile as Malfoys. The memory of that look haunts me for days.


September 29th, 2004


“I'm sorry about the baby,” Draco says politely one morning, as if talking about a nasty case of flu.


His words startle me as much as the tone; it's been almost three weeks since the miscarriage and I've been avoiding him except for dinners at home that he misses half the time anyway. I suppose he's at work, but even if he spent this time with a lover, I couldn't care less.


“It happened several times for my mother too,” he continues despite my silence.


“And it makes you the expert how?” I bite back.


He draws a deep breath before speaking. “It doesn't. But I know it must be hard for you.”


“Sorry,” I finally reply just to say something. And it's possible that I actually feel a tiny twinge of guilt for snapping at him.


He nods and continues, “I know you never wanted my children. That's fine. I never imagined my life turning out like this either.”


He's so calm and detached, I could hit him. If only he knew why I really agreed to marry him! Sometimes I daydream about telling Draco how it was all Harry's idea just to see his reaction. It wouldn't be the complete truth though. But I don't really want to think about that right now. The thought still makes my insides burn, however sternly I tell myself that I'm over it. I am. I must be.


*To Be Continued*

CHAPTER 2

Spiteful words can hurt your feelings but silence breaks your heart.
-- Author Unknown


October 8th, 2003


The first discussion of our marriage takes place a week after receiving the written proposal and just a couple of weeks before the wardrobe session. It is still warm for October and the day is disagreeably beautiful. My Dad and the Malfoy lawyer are present too, but mostly it is Draco and I who speak.


Draco is very calm and composed, but the tension is oozing from every fibre of his being, so I know he’s less than happy with the situation.


“I am well aware that what many people are doing right now is entering into formal marriages to appease the Ministry,” Draco starts, “What I am proposing, however, is a real marriage.”


I open my mouth, but he cuts me off.


“Yes, I know it cannot be a marriage of affection. At least not at first.” My snort goes unacknowledged. ”A lot of marriages start out that way but-”


“In your circle maybe.”


Dad cringes at my biting tone. “Now-now, Gin, there's no need for us to be rude.”


“It's no use, Dad, he's not going to take the proposal back.”


For a moment there's a tense silence which Draco interrupts with, ”I'm afraid your daughter is correct, Mr Weasley. At this point neither party can withdraw without severe consequences.”


I keep from pointing out that it was he who started the whole mess in the first place and he continues unperturbed, “You, Ginevra, are correct too in pointing out that in my circle arrange marriages are, indeed, quite common. But I believe that such a start shouldn't be seen as an impediment, but rather an opportunity. Since we are not in love, we have clear heads on our shoulders. We are both intelligent people and have at least a modicum of respect for each other. Perhaps in time, we can learn to... appreciate each other's company better, too.”


I give him a look of utter disbelief at that, but not because the mutual respect he speaks of isn't there. It is and has been for a couple of years now. It's just that his practical approach to marriage seems disgustingly rational.


At length, we discuss our concepts of marriage, my determination to continue working even after nuptials, agree on separate personal quarters, and no lovers unless discussed beforehand (his words). By then, we both know that the Ministry will allow us to divorce, if we so wish, after ten years of marriage, or if we aren't able to conceive, in five. Neither of us brings up the matter of kids since we know that the law will not allow any birth-control anyway.


October 21st, 2004


Sometimes he looks at me as if he hates me. As if he tries not to, but there's nothing he can do about it. It can't be possibly because of the baby, can it? Maybe he blames me for losing it? But I'm not thinking about it and men don't really care about thing like that much, do they? It's probably something much simpler. I think it's because I'm... me.


At first it didn't bother me; I didn't care what he thought of me, but now I tend to be self-conscious about myself. I tell myself it doesn't matter, but it's just so unfair that in the dark of his bedroom he has no problem with my hair (he strokes it when he thinks I'm asleep), but during the day he can barely look at it.


The clothes I wear now are nice, expensive and they suit me very well. I know I look better than ever before, and I see how other men look at me, but Draco seems to dislike me on principle. What really pisses me off is that back when we both worked at the Ministry, he even used to favour me with his approving eye from time to time. (He worked; I was still in training for charity and social work.) I can't but wonder if it's because of Astoria somehow, but nothing's really changed since then, has it? Is it really the case of grass always being greener on the other side of the fence?


Today I don't even bother with pleasing Draco; I pull on my old jeans and a deep blue top, which, I'm sure, would be deemed too 'plebeian'. After a quick bite, I trudge along the southern corridor towards the main fireplace to Floo to George's shop, where I'm supposed to meet Angelina and Luna. Just as I reach the library, I hear distant sounds of yelling. With astonishment, I recognize Draco's voice. The last time I heard him raise his voice was years ago, so it's a bit disconcerting.


I sneak down a bit closer and stop just behind the library doors. Suddenly, it's oddly quiet and I barely have courage to breathe.


“This is the last time you've put the plan into danger, you imbecile!” My husband's voice is only a low hiss now, and I realise that situation can turn violent in a heartbeat, if the 'imbecile' won't make himself scarce.


“You do something like that one more time, you are finished, you hear me? And when I say finished I mean really finished, if you know what I mean.”


There's a heavy pause before I hear a faint “yes sir.”


There's a sound of Floo activating and then silence. Disappointed that I was unable to find out anything yet again, I start to creep away, when a sudden crash from the parlour makes me jump. Unfortunately, I'm too close to a huge Chinese ceramic urn and I hit my ring stone against it with a resounding clang. Before I can even think about running, the door opens and I slowly turn to face the music. Draco's standing in the doorway, his posture rigid and his face unreadable.


“Going somewhere?” His words are slow, precise and quiet.


“I was just leaving for Diagon Alley.” I try to maintain a calm façade. “You startled me. Did you break anything?”


He looks me up and down and the disapproval in his face deepens.


“Going where, exactly?”


“I'm meeting the girls today. At the shop? Luna and Angie?”


Slowly, so very slowly he nods, as if unsure if he should agree with me going. But I'm already moving to escape. We both know I was eavesdropping and there's nothing to say about that. Fortunately, he lets me leave.


November 2nd, 2004


I hear that Astoria Greengrass got married to some East European steel manufacturer last week. Draco must feel awful. I'm extra nice to him that evening and it seems to help.


November 5th, 2004


“I'm leaving for Madrid tomorrow.”


“Tomorrow?” I ask, feeling uneasy for some reason which, naturally, makes me sound like a fishwife. “Why didn't you say anything earlier? And what's in Madrid anyway?”


He ignores my tone and calmly answers, “Unofficial meeting for Europe's Home Secretaries and various ambassadors.”


“You waited to tell me this late about it on purpose.”


I'm an irate fishwife. I'm being ridiculous and we both know it; I can already see Draco's temper rise.


“What do you care when I leave anyway? It's not as if my presence has any real impact on your life.”


I don't refute it. I tell myself that he's right and shrug. It doesn't matter. Really.


November 18th, 2004


The thing with people is that you get used to them. It doesn't really mean that Draco's growing on me. Except that maybe he is, just a little. He was supposed to be in Madrid for a week, but now it's been almost two and the knot in my stomach tightens by the day. Something must be wrong. I mean, I'm not missing him, or anything. And planning for a child together- but I'm not going to think about it now.


I just find it highly suspicious that European Home Secretaries have two-week length meetings. Unless Draco lied and it's actually a Death Eater thing. Or maybe he's having an affair! Oh my god, what if he's having an affair? That would be even worse! Except, of course not. Having an affair could never be as bad as a Death Eater stuff. And I shouldn't care if he's having an affair anyway. Why should I care, it's not as if...


But it would be very humiliating! Like with that couple at the Ministry a few years back; everybody felt so sorry for the girl, it was awful! I wouldn't want to be in her shoes. But Draco's not having an affair behind my back, because it's just some Death Eater thing. Besides, Draco knows better than to cheat on a Weasley with six, er, five brothers. Yeah, I should talk to Hermione about this Death Eater thing the Home Secretaries are having. I'll do that tomorrow.


November 23rd, 2004


It's strange. Seventeen days and I've talked to Draco three times through wonky Floo. Both times, he looked really tired and unhappy, which naturally lifted my spirits, because it means that the Death Eater plans aren't coming together. After Draco complained about the food, I sent him some home-baked chocolate cake with an Elf. I didn't tell him that I baked it myself; he would have thrown it out or something. I don't know.


And you know that thing with Malfoys and gratitude? The last time he Flooed, it was just to remind me about giving seasonal instructions to the House Elves about the greenhouses. Doesn't he trust me at all? Except, a tiny little part of me hopes that he actually Flooed because he misses me too. Or maybe he's just checking up on me. Whatever.


December 12th, 2004


Today is the day I once imagined I would cherish. As I girl, I've dreamed of waking up to warm kisses and great morning sex, there would be smiles and laughter, perhaps even rose petals on my pillow. Instead, I wake up with a headache, and my husband seems to have forgotten the date altogether. I assume, he's already left for work, because Draco is not there when I stumble downstairs into the breakfast room and it's quite late already.


A year. A whole year of marriage and we are still both here to celebrate it. Unless we are not celebrating at all, which actually seems to be the case.


I'm half fed when Draco finally comes in.


“Good morning,” he says but I don't think he's having a good morning at all. There are rings under his eyes and he looks tired.


“Morning.” I don't ask him what time he returned yesterday because I don't care. Pointedly.


“I'm late.” He grabs a scone and stuffs it into his mouth.


No kidding, Sherlock. “Late?” I ask just to say something.


“I was supposed to be in 20 minutes ago,” he says, gulping down half a cup of coffee. Despite rushing his food, he still swallows before speaking. The high-bred prick.


As he leaves, he throws over his shoulder, “The reservations are for seven o'clock, so make yourself beautiful. I'll be home by six.”


He ends up being late back home too, but eventually, we get out of the house. The restaurant is a triple-EX: exquisite, exotic and exclusive. I expect no less and find myself apathetically thinking that I expect no more either. It's not in Draco's nature to go out of his way to please me, even if it is our first anniversary.


Draco seems stressed out, but somehow I sense that it's not because of work. After making some small talk he passes me a gift-wrapped package across the table.


I blink. “I didn't get you anything.”


“I didn't expect you to.”


I unwrap two books. Figure Flying for Dummies and Figure Flying Through the Ages.


I stare.


“I thought you wouldn't really be into celebrating, so it's nothing much,” he says, after a while.


Why didn't I get him something? Considering what he got me, even a cookbook would have done the trick.


“Open it,” he says.


I stare at him now. I'm not going to read the book here, I think.


“Open it,” he repeats patiently.


Figure Flying for Dummies, eh? When I open the other book, I find two leaflets inside. One is an advert to Madam Lorraine Courtiere's figure flying courses for beginners, and the other one is an invitation to the private tutoring lessons.


I was wrong. A cookbook wouldn't have cut it.


“You can use one of them or combine both,” he says. “Or if you prefer, I can get you the advanced courses; wasn't sure which would suit you better. There was a book on a philosophy behind the Eastern figure flying too, but I didn't think you'd be really into reading about it.”


He speaks more than usual, and suddenly I realise that he must be anxious since I still haven't said anything.


“I'm sorry I didn't get you anything.”


“It's all right,” he says, but I know that it isn't.


The marriage should be a two-way street. There's an empty pause and I feel really awkward. The truth is, I didn't think we would be celebrating at all, but I can't say it, because it would be even worse.


“Or I could just take you shopping in New York,” Draco says finally.


I stare at him for a beat and then ask, “You think I would trade this for a shopping trip?”


I try to sound really incredulous and it seems to be working. He smiles a little.


“A lot of women would. It's New York.”


“I'm not one of them. Thank you, Draco. I used to love figure flying at school, and Lorraine Courtiere's is one of the best teachers. It was a wonderful idea! How on earth did you manage to get me into the course? Will they even take me? I must be too old.”


He smiles. I've actually managed to make Draco Malfoy smile!


“You are not that old, and this course is meant especially for the rich and bored. I'd wager you'll be one of the youngest there. You're going to be the star among amateurs.”


“How do you now? I could be awful, for all you know.”


Draco shakes his head. “I don't think so. I used to watch you at school. Or, well, Blaise and I used to sneak a peek at the whole bunch of girls practising group figure flying.” He shrugs. “You were poetry in motion.”


“You calling me a horse?” I ask, and he grins.


Something strange is happening between us. Draco never smiles and I never smile at him, but there it is; us, together, smiling. And suddenly I realise that whenever Harry and I laughed, it never meant this much, because Harry is prone to laugh and I'm easily to amuse too, but Draco and me, even just smiling... that's something.


Later I thank him again, and think that maybe Draco really is trying. He didn't give me some formal knick-knack that was easily obtained and meant nothing, nor did he just take me to some prestigious place that would cost more than it's worth. Instead, he got me something that was just for me. Something that I would enjoy. Never again will I be jealous of a girl who Harry Potter invites to a Quidditch match.

CHAPTER 3

Silence is one of the hardest arguments to refute.
 Josh Billings


December 16th, 2004


Draco comes home more stressed than usual, which is not at all uncommon, but tonight we have plans. Or rather I do and my husband has agreed to play along, although he has no idea what he's in for.


“We are going, aren't we?” I check just in case.


“Yes. Why do you ask?”


“You look tired. But we are going,” I say with more conviction than I feel. I know, I will never be able to guilt him into going if he decides he's too knackered, but I put on my confident face and say, “Your Christmas present requires you to dress warmly. A hat and a scarf are compulsory.” At his raised eyebrow, I look at him pointedly and add, “It really doesn't matter what your hair looks like under it.”


I think he might actually be holding back a smile when he leaves to dress.


We meet downstairs ten minutes later. I try to look stern when I hand him a broom and say, “The destination is the South Gates. The last one to arrive is a dunderhead.” Then I run towards the doors and once outside, I jump on my broom.


By unspoken agreement we arrive at the destination together. It seems that neither of us is willing to upset the shaky balance of our relationship by winning. I reduce the brooms and pocket them.


“Good,” I continue in my 'teacher' voice (recently acquired from Madam Courtiere). “Now you have to choose between the Muggle world as yourself, or the Wizarding world with a Polyjuice.”


Draco blinks slowly. “What if I choose neither?”


“I knew you'd say that. I'm prepared. If you choose neither I call you a coward.”


“Oh?”


There's a pause and then I say in my best disdainful expression, “You're a coward, Malfoy!”


After even a longer pause, Draco says, “All right. Now what?”


“Come on, Draco,” I reprimand him. “You're supposed to argue with me and try to prove your courage!” He just looks at me pointedly. “You know, like at school!” I add, exasperated.


“Uh-uh.”


I lose my playfulness and say quite seriously. “In short, you have to choose.”


“Uh-uh.” He's looking at me as if I'm really cute. I hate that. Sort of.


“Now I can really see how eloquence wins hearts of the people,” I mock. “Bravo, Home Secretary Malfoy, bravo!”


There is silence in which the position of his left eyebrow tells me all I need to know.


“Fine,” I finally say, sighing. ”Then I get to choose for you.”


“Muggle.”


“Good.” I nod as if that was what I expected and take two vials out of my pocket. “What took you so long?”


“Wanted to see what you'd do. Portkeys?”


“Yes. Now... which one was which?” I fiddle with both empty vials with a puzzled face on.


“You are messing with me, aren't you?”


I send him a bright grin. “You know me so well! Grab this one.”


He touches the vial and we Teleport.


We arrive into a public toilet booth and have some trouble getting out of there undetected. Or rather we don't get out undetected. But since the elderly woman, who spots us coming out of the booth, is just giving us the evil eye for public indecency, the Statue of Secrecy is unbroken. Draco and I dash out of the door sniggering like a couple of teenagers.


The toilets stand at the edge of the park with a large frozen pond. Despite the cold weather, it's still filled with enthusiastic skaters of all ages and the big Christmas tree in the middle of the pond only adds to the festive atmosphere.


“Skating rink?” There's a slight disbelief in Draco's tone. “You brought me to a skating rink?”


“Relax, Malfoy. It's just a pond with a shiny surface,” I say as I grab his hand and start towards the stall where I plan to borrow two pairs of skates. “You once said you used to like skating when you were a kid. Did you lie?”


“That was years ago! I haven't-” he cuts himself off. “Wait! Why did we have to fly to the South Gates in the first place? You've finally gone barmy, haven't you? We could've Portkeyed form the foyer.”


“Did you enjoy it?” I ask not looking at him.


“Enjoy what?”


“The flying.”


There is a pause and then I can hear a smile in his voice. “Yes.”


“You're welcome.”


That night Draco doesn't have nightmares.


Mid January, 2005


In January I lose another baby. We don't talk about it, but sometimes when we sleep together, I imagine Draco holding me just a little bit tighter.


January 29th, 2005


Draco's started to arrive later and later every day. During meals he's silent or curt when spoken to. It didn't use to be like this. At first I think it's child-related (don't think, don't think, don't think, don't think!), but then other changes in his behaviour occur. Draco barely eats, his sexual appetite has dropped significantly, and when I do spend the night with him, his sleep is restless like never before. One night I have to wake him from a nightmare twice.


February 10th, 2005


We are dining at the Burrow this evening, but Draco is late. He rarely is and he always sends an owl when that happens. I haven't told him that I worry or anything; I think it's just his good breeding. (Never thought that I'd say it, but Draco knows how to be considerate.) Today, there is no owl, and he finally arrives after we've started on dessert. The knot in my gut loosens.


Draco never goes out of his way to explain himself, but today his 'sorry' is even more dry-cut than usual. This time, the excuse is an unexpected meeting, which is nothing out of the ordinary. His drained looks, however, show that it must be something far serious than an unexpected meeting.


I don't think Draco's aware of it, but I always know when it's the Minister that's held him up. There's something in his face that tells me he doesn't like the man. It took me a while to tell the difference between Draco not liking someone and not liking them, but by now I've learned to read him pretty well. By the set of his jaw and the tension in his posture today, I can see that the day has been extremely unpleasant for him. Frankly, I don't think Draco likes his job all that well, which is weird, given that he practically lives at the Ministry.


Just as always, his arrival tones the mood down a bit, but Mum still fusses with food, George cracks jokes and Angelina smiles serenely which is not really her. (I think she might be pregnant and the thought sends a pang through my body.) Dad talks about his day and Draco eats quietly. The detached pose is not really uncommon, but it's the way he's detached that catches my attention. I was wrong before - he isn't just tired and drawn. He's deathly pale and obviously doesn't feel well.


“Are you all right?” I ask him quietly so as not to draw attention.


“Whoa, Malfoy,” my brother cries before Draco has a chance to answer, “You look even paler than usual. Did you forget to drain your daily victim?”


The quip about my husband being a vampire isn't new, and would usually result in amusing banter, but not today. Instead, Draco offers a quiet “excuse me”, stands up, and for a moment grips the edge of the table. By the time he starts falling, my brother and I are already there. It takes a couple of seconds for George and Dad to carry Draco to the couch and lay him down, but it's only after Angie's gasp that I see the blood on Dad's hand and cuff.


“It's his shoulder,” Dad says, but Mum is already removing Draco's shirt.


“George, dear, could you bring me the first aid kit, please?” Mum asks, as she murmurs the basic diagnostic spells over the wound.


I'm not usually queasy about blood, but this time I feel slightly nauseous. When we remove the messy bandages, I grab two tea towels to clean all the oozing blood up. There's a lot of it.


“It's just a flesh wound; nothing to worry about,” Mum informs us.


“Doesn't feel that way,” Draco croaks, although his eyes are still closed.


“Cutting Hex?” my Mum asks.


Draco grunts his agreement.


“Who dressed your wound?” Mum suddenly demands, sounding put-out.


I don’t give Draco time to answer. “You did it yourself, didn't you? Should we expect the Aurors any minute now? What happened? You did dress the wound yourself, just look at this mess! Did you take any pain potions? Is there even going to be an investigation or did you just cover it up?”


He cuts my babble with a curt, “Don't be ridiculous.” His words are heavy and measured, but I can't tell if it's because of the fatigue or something else. “I'm a State Secretary. Of course I reported the incident myself.”


“Incident?” I interject incredulously. “Only you would call something like this an incident when you're the one injured. You didn't kill the other guy, did you?” I ask flippantly, but when I see Draco's face, the blood in my veins freezes.


He closes his eyes, but it's such a sudden and involuntary reaction that it hides very little. For a moment a chilly hush settles over the room.


“Did someone attack you?” Mum asks.


At first I expect him to ignore the question, but as the silence drags on I start thinking, what if he says 'just a muggle'? So when Draco finally opens his eyes and utters, “Nott,” it's almost a relief. But at the same time his quiet answer is accompanied with such a cold and arrogant look that I instantly realise that he's killed someone we went to school with. Even the fact that none of us liked the man doesn't make it at all better.


I'm shocked to see that absolutely everyone – even Mum - backs down from Draco's challenging stare and remember that it's not simply my husband that's committed a crime. It's his position as the State Secretary that makes others careful. Without any further questions, one by one, everybody exits the room until it's only Mum and me. Soon, the wound is dressed, and there's just the two of us.


A cold, numbing fear that Nott must have been murdered because of a political power struggle or even some petty argument grips me. So I simply sit there, staring quietly at the rug, while in my peripheral vision Draco is putting his shirt on. It's obvious that he's in pain, but I let him struggle. I don't think I can touch him right now.


“Gin,” he says. Although his voice is cool, I know it's his way of asking for help.


When I don't react, he raises his eyes at me, but whatever the expression on my face is, I don't want him to see it. More importantly, I don't want to know what's on his. I turn away and go back to the dining room.


April 14th, 2001


“Perhaps we could discuss this over lunch? I have a break coming.”


I manage to not let my lower jaw drop to the floor and try to remain unflappable. Did the rising star politician, Draco Malfoy, really ask a Weasley out for lunch? Even if it is just a work lunch, it's still pretty weird.


“My treat,” he says when I hesitate. He really must want to finish this project quickly if he's willing to upset his stomach by eating with me, of all people.


I look down at my clothes.


“What? I'm in work clothes too,” he assures me. “We'll go somewhere simple.”


Right. I take a look at Malfoy. I think that his 'work clothes' and mine are not even in the same realm of clothes, let alone them being in the same category.


“Are you sure you know what the word 'simple' means?” I ask instead, and I'm lucky I don't bet on it. Turns out, he does.


We do this lunch thing twice more and it's surprisingly nice. Despite his extremely cool exterior, Draco Malfoy is very polite and professional. Not at all like I remember him from school.


At first, the project is dragging its legs, but since it's Draco's department that's behind all the time, he has no room to talk. Then the project is finished and I don't see Draco for weeks.


February 10th, 2005


Numbly I return into the dining room. Draco's being 'on the other side' used to be intellectual knowledge, but now it's a stark reality for me. The realisation that the all-powerful Death Eater Draco Malfoy is living under the same roof with me hits me hard and I don't want to go home.


Everyone is sitting at the table just as before. The atmosphere in the dining room is subdued, but when Draco re-enters, even the temperature seems to drop. He must be aware of it, but he sits down and resumes eating as if nothing's happened. But of course, it's not him that has had the rug pulled out from under him.


“The morning papers will inform you of the regretful passing of Foreign Secretary,” he says. The tense silence that Draco's words are greeted with does not perturb him and he continues, “The second piece of news is that our esteemed Minister of Magic has decided to skip the lawful election rigmarole and appointed the current Home Secretary to the vacant position.”


“So it's a par for the course to kill for a promotion these days?” I ask hollowly.


His eyes, when he turns to look at me, are steel-grey pools of liquid mirror: empty and devoid of any feeling.


“Yes, it is,” he says clearly.


It's all Harry's fault, I think right then.


February 13th, 2005


I don't blame Harry. Not really. It was my decision to marry a man I knew was evil and I'm going to have to live with that. I haven't decided what I'm going to do yet. I can't just leave him; neither the law nor my husband would allow it. At the same time I can't even imagine letting him touch me ever again, nor can I see myself continuing this empty coexistence.


Our quiet mausoleum has turned into... something that is even more depressing than a mausoleum just after funerals. It's been days, but I'm not talking to my husband, and for once, it's completely mutual. It's as if we don't exist to each other. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of him on the stairs or in the corridors, but mostly, I try to stay clear of him. It doesn't stop the hurt.


On the third day there's a knock on my door and foolishly I call, “Enter.” It is indeed my dinner, but to my shock it's not a House Elf who's carting the food in.


I know that our silent truce must be over but I'm still not sure how I should react, so I take the plate to the table and start eating.


From the corner of my eye I see Draco sitting down on my bed.


“How long are you planning to ignore me?”


“Idnno,” I press out while chewing, “'Aven't deshide' ye'.”


“Is there anything I can do to make it better?”


He sounds calm and businesslike. It's his 'crisis mode' tone, but there's this strange undertone I cannot easily define. If it were anyone but him, I'd call it anxiousness or sadness or something in between. Something that indicates vulnerability that Draco Malfoy is incapable of displaying.


“No. I don't think it's ever going to get better,” I tell him. The food is stuck in my throat and I have hard time swallowing.


“Will you at least let me explain?”


“What does it matter how it happened? You killed a man, Draco.”


“So have half your family. So has Potter.”


I can't help but look at him now. “But that was war! That's different and you know it!”


“Yes, it is! I know what the difference is, but do you? You have no idea what really happened and you've already labelled me a murderer. Won't you at least hear me out before deciding how unworthy I am?”


“Unworthy of what?” I don't pause to think. “And what do you care anyway? What does it matter what I think? You never wanted to marry me in the first place; we don't have children. Why can't we just wait it out and get that divorce when the five-year minimum term expires?”


“The five-year minimum sentence you mean?”


His lips twist into an unpleasant sneer which I try to return, though I'm afraid that a few seconds more and I'll start crying. I abandon my food and go to the vanity mirror.


“Yes, that's what I mean. I know,” I have to pause to swallow before continuing, “I know that I agreed to this marriage of my own free will, but now... I want out. I want to move back to the Burrow and I want you to leave me alone. Given who you are, I'm sure neither of us will be imprisoned.”


There's an unpleasant pause. “Unless I say otherwise.”


Now the tears do fall, but I ignore them as I take the brush and start slowly combing through my long tresses.


“So that's it then? I stay married to you or rot in Azkaban?” I sniff and wipe my eyes angrily. “And if I stay, will you order me into your bedroom, too? That would be rape, you know.”


I look at him accusingly through the mirror, but he's facing the window and I can't see his face.


“I didn't say that.” I hear how he presses the words through his clenched teeth. “Look, all I'm asking of you is to hear me out and if after that you still want to leave me...”


“You'll let me go?” I ask disbelievingly.


He turns his gaze straight at me and for a long moment we just stare at each other. The mask of hardness on his face slowly melts into one of his intense looks I never know how to interpret. The strange thing is though, that for the first time, it gives me hope that he actually might care about what I think or feel in regards to anything. Momentarily forgetting that it's actually late in the evening, I start arranging my hair up into a bun.


“Why do you do that?” he suddenly asks.


“Do what?”


“Your hair? Why do you put it into that…” He swirls a finger towards my hair.


“Bun? It looks perfectly sensible.” The change of topic throws me. “It's not my fault you don't like the colour. And I refuse to dye it just because your family's inbreeding has weeded all the colour out of your cells.”


There's a short pause.


“I don't dislike the colour.”


“Yeah. Right.” My voice is just as flat as his.


“No, really. I don't have anything against red. It's just that... this bun you insist on wearing. You never wore it before the marriage and... you look a bit like my mother with it. Not that she's not beautiful but-”


“Your mother! Don't be ridiculous! She's blonde!”


Draco does that annoying man expression that can only be interpreted as 'Women!', then he shrugs and says tiredly, “It doesn't matter. We've steered off topic. My point is that you are not leaving me without hearing me out. Come and find me when you're ready.”


With these words he leaves me to my thoughts.


Half an hour later I go to his study. Draco's expression is neutral when he raises his eyes to mine.


“How do you like my hair?” I ask without a preamble.


Draco tilts his head, which means I've surprised him. “Like you wore it during the Ministry training. Messy. Down or in braids. If worst comes to worst, then in a French twist.”


I frown. “But those styles were part of my girly-look. I can't wear my hair like that any more. And what's wrong with a bun?”


“I liked the girly-look. Bun is too serious, it doesn't suit you.”


I almost exclaim, 'It so does!', but then I pause in mid breath and mutter, “Fine. I'll listen to what you have to say about Nott's murder.”


Even though I've been looking at the painting behind him, I somehow see his jaw tic as he hears the last word. Slowly he puts the parchments he's holding on the desk and nods.


“Do you really want to know or are you just humouring me?”


'Yes, I'm humouring you', I think sarcastically but know better than to say it out loud.


Draco seems to hear it anyway. “Right,” he says. “Nott hexed me, we fought, I hexed him right back. He died.”


“That's it? No whys or hows?”


“Then I dragged my wounded self to the Minister's personal quarters and told Higgs that I overheard how Nott and three other Ministry officials were planning to overthrow him. Nott found out about me snooping and attacked me. Obviously, I had to hex him in self-defence, a service for which our gracious, all-forgiving Minister Higgs granted me the vacant post of Foreign Secretary.” Draco shrugs as he picks up the documents he was reading before. “Case closed.”


Part of me doesn't want to believe he's telling the truth, but another part of me knows that it's probably just my disappointment I don't want to acknowledge. Despite the sarcasm, I conclude that essentially he must be telling the truth.


I watch him for a beat more before my legs automatically start carrying me out of the room and along the corridor. I feel sort of numb. Or devastated. Whichever. There is no cause to fear any more – the worst has already happened. Now I finally understand that the fear keeping me up late at nights hasn't been the fear of him, but for him. I've been afraid that the moment he provides me with evidence of his evilness, all the warmth and goodwill I feel for him will become unjustified.


That Draco's actions were self-serving, I expected; that he actually showed any loyalty to the Minister, I didn't. He supported the regime he doesn't even believe in.


September, 2003


At first, when the offer of marriage came, my parents told me they would hide me in the Pyrenees if I so wished. Even though in truth I had no idea what to do, I told them it wasn't necessary. I knew that the whole family would suffer if I even thought of refusing the offer, not to mention any attempt at fleeing. Shacklebolt said that it would give us a way into their clique but Hermione laughed the idea out.


“Malfoy would never trust her,” she said. I was agreed.


When we are alone, Harry blurted, “I think you should do it.”


“Do what?”


“Agree. We won't have another chance like this. Ginny, you must see it's a perfect opportunity!”


Up to that moment I thought that Harry had stayed silent on the topic of marriage from sheer indignant anger. I thought that he'd be as furious about it as Ron and my parents. I thought that he would fight for me.


I should have known better.


“Just think!” he continued, although it seemed to me that he was trying to convince himself as much as me. “You could do so much for our side!” And off he goes.


Numbly, I let him rant. I’d known that it hadn't been easy for him all these years. He's obviously been feeling guilty for not loving me enough, and deflecting any attempts by my family to throw us together must have been exhausting. So it was kind of a perfect opportunity to break free, I could understand that. An opportunity to get rid of me for once and for all.


Despite understanding, at that moment I hated him like I never had before. Finally he stopped talking and looked at me. There was shame in his eyes now and tears in mine. The next morning I wrote Draco to arrange the first negotiation meeting.


TBC

CHAPTER 4

When in doubt or anger, run in circles, scream and shout.
Dr Laurence J. Peter


November, 2003


Being engaged isn't all it's cracked up to be. Draco wines and dines me, but we both have to strain ourselves to seem happy to the outside world. Neither of us is keen on everyone knowing that the marriage is a total sham. I don't know his reasoning, but for my part, I just don't want anyone's pity.


We are discussing the upcoming nuptials. It is evening and it's warm before the fireplace. The room we are in is surprisingly cosy; somehow it always surprises me whenever Draco brings me to a room in his family home that isn't cold and draughty.


“You speak as if we have a choice,” he says with a look of resignation on his face. Or rather it somehow comes through his demeanour; Draco doesn't have an expressive face.


“You speak as if we don't,” I say just to be contrary. “At least you could leave the county. You are rich and powerful, I'm sure you could disappear any time if you wanted to.”


“And leave all this power behind? No thank you.” He smirks faintly and, on him, it is the equivalent of a grin.


Since we are already engaged, there's little either of us can do about it (unless we are ready for some gaol time or exile), but I fantasise all the same.


June 27th, 2001


“I'm not asking, Ms Weasley,” Mrs Cornflower utters quietly. “You did a wonderful job while working with Mr. Malfoy no more than two months ago. I don't see any reason why I should assign someone else to do it now.”


Translation: Malfoy has frightened me half to death; I can't risk his displeasure by assigning anyone new to work with him.


“But I'm finishing my training in two weeks and the project is going to drag on much longer than that,” I try to reason. “It just doesn't make sense for me to take it.”


“If you start the project well, who will manage the finish-up hardly matters.”


Translation: if you mess this up we'll just blame you and give you piss-poor credentials when your training ends.


Despite being put off, I understand her point of view. It needs a special skill to work with politicians and it seems that I have it. I do take care to always be pleasant around Malfoy. Sometimes I even think I'm overdoing it, but nobody's complaining and it's not like it's such a chore most of the time. Malfoy is actually pleasant to work with. He's challenging, but he always gives his best too, so it's not like I'm pulling the sled alone.


In the end, it's not so bad, even if the stories about his ruthless climbing up the career ladder are chilling. (He'd been appointed the head of his department just a couple of weeks ago, I think.) Thankfully though, I rarely see him pushing his weight around. In fact, he's quite decent to me; it's probably because I really try not to aggravate him.


The project is coming along quite well; we go to lunches and sometimes coffee, however the schedule allows, and as this time everything goes smoothly, in two weeks the project is over. Then I finish my training and the feedback I get from my superiors is stellar indeed. I'm thrilled. But what's even better is that very soon I'm hired by the DB Charity Trusts. It seems that working with the fearsome politician has paid off - they are the best in the field.


February 25th, 2005


“Your husband speaks so well,” Mrs Something-or-other gushes. “He always does.”


I smile politely and excuse myself. We are at the annual Convention on Wizarding Rights. It's ridiculous to speak of anyone's rights these days, but we do, and we smile while doing it.


“I support my husband’s views completely,” I say to a politician from Canada. “We hope that the forces trying to destabilise Wizarding Britain will be crushed soon,” I add when he asks about the underground propaganda movement.


I'm the perfect wife to a brilliant politician this evening because I don't want my family on the Red List, and I'm thinking about the new tax law coming out next month. Most of my friends are on the Red List and the only reason the Weasleys aren't, is that one of them happens to be a Malfoy now. Still, my family is not trusted and I have a feeling that despite the marriage, there is only so much we can get away with.


My father's actions are closely monitored at work, and Ron has problems finding and keeping employment through no fault of his own. (Unless you count marrying a Muggleborn a fault.) None of us wants to pay higher taxes (Hermione told me about the new tax law in detail), leave the country, or be arrested. Besides, my father always says that there is only so much you can do from afar. We have to be here to fight on, even if the fight at the moment is rather ineffective.


“Yes, sir. We all do what we can,” I say to the representative of UOWNI (United Orphanages of Wales and Northern Ireland). “I'll try to talk to my husband about it,” I promise his wife after her long-winded speech about the Union's current difficulties.


I move on and talk to a bunch of people, some of whom I know I would have been able to help even a week ago. But the thing is, Draco and I are not talking outside of a public setting. Before, I think I actually had some sway with him, but now that the Orphanages really need help, I can't even make myself try. I'm such a selfish person.


“And then he talks about these strange insects, and I just stand there with my mouth open!” Ms Straitbore tells me later about her pleasure at listening to the great Draco Malfoy's speech.


Despite still being angry and disappointed with him, I can commiserate with Ms Straitbore. If you knew Draco from school, you'd never have thought it, but he's actually very good at giving speeches.


When he speaks, his face is impassive, his tone is almost flat, he doesn't gesticulate, but whatever the topic, Draco knows how to capture his audience. He knows when to crack a joke, or tell an interesting little fact you realise you've always wondered about, or pose a question you've never thought of before, and your attention is arrested. Even if you don't agree with his point, you nod anyway, because suddenly you understand.


Today, speaking about human rights, he manages to sound sensible and truthful. There is no praise or criticism to the current order in his speech, but everything he says is still somehow spot-on. Sometimes, I wonder how much good a man like that could do if he only wanted.


Up until recently, I was frustrated that he seemed to prefer simply going with the flow. What really makes me ache, though, is that he didn't just go with the flow, did he? He went much farther than that by killing a person to keep a tyrant, a despot, in the leadership position!


“Are you ready to go?” he asks me with a polite smile a while later.


Charismatic, magnetic, just so there, are the phrases people use when talking about him. It's inconceivable. He's not a handsome man. His features are still too pointed and he's too thin overall, but he's grown into his looks now, and just like his father, despite the imperfections there's this... presence that makes him kind of larger than life. At least that's how I've heard people describe him. I still say he's a slimy bastard, but he's smart and even suave and charming when he wants to be.


He is never like that with me. I guess I'm not important enough to be charmed. Nonetheless, I smile right back as I take his proffered hand. We are the perfect couple.


*

“I gather you are not leaving then?” he asks when we step out of the Floo in the foyer.


It's late, I'm dead tired, and my feet are killing me. I've promised some people to speak to The Great Ministry Official about the financial support to their organisations and the guilt at not being able to is eating at me.


“What?” I play dumb, as I concentrate on unbuttoning my coat. (A couple from the Minister's Office took us out for a drink after the conference, and we took a walk together before returning home.)


“I ask-, stated that you, apparently, are not leaving.”


“Leaving where?”


Draco doesn't answer right away and I just know that I've managed to piss him off. “Me,” he says, taking my coat and handing it to a House Elf. “I had an impression you were thinking about it.”


I sigh, turn toward the lounge and he follows. When I sit on the couch, he offers me wine, but I shake my head. Then he just sits and observes me.


In the end I can't help but ask, “What would happen to my family if I did?”


Draco doesn't answer right away, but I don't think it's because he doesn't know the answer. “Is that the only reason you're still here? The thought that I could harm your family?”


I shrug. “Is my being here the only reason my family is off the Red List?”


His lips become a thin line.


“You know there is no good answer to that. If I say no, you'll call me a liar, if I say yes, you'll presume it a threat.”


“Isn't it?”


Draco's face relaxes into a perfect picture of aloofness. “You have your answer then.”


My hands curl into fists and I hide them between my knees. It doesn't fool Draco for a minute, but that's not the point. I'm so angry I want to club him to death, but instead, I try to give him one last chance of redeeming himself in my eyes.


“Will you promise me that you'll keep them off the list even after I leave you?” I ask, looking at the tops of my knees.


The silence drags on. When I raise my eyes on him, Draco's lips curve into a light sneer, but his words sound quite ordinary.


“I will promise you nothing until you make up your bloody mind.”


With these words, he stands and leaves the room. And I sit there like a fool. It's just a game to him, isn't it? He's always playing games, saying one thing, hinting at the other and meaning Merlin knows what! I cannot interpret this weird, hostile Quaffle-is-yours attitude and I hate it. Him.


September 15th, 2001


It's Sunday and I'm running late to the Burrow. I still need a birthday gift for Hermione, so I pop into Flourish and Blotts and run straight into Draco Malfoy. He's recently been made Home Secretary, so I'm very polite. I smile and call him 'Mr Malfoy', and it's only partly because Dad's under investigation again. (I think he said something to someone about Minister Higgs.) Frankly, with all that's been going on in politics lately, Malfoy intimidates me.


So when the Home Secretary invites me for a cup of coffee, all I can think of to say is, “Are you out of your mind?”


There's a deafening pause and his flat “excuse me” sounds like thunder.


As the realisation that I've probably just offended one of the most powerful men in the country sinks in, I blurt out an almost frightened “sorry” and flee.


On my way home, I imagine my father in Azkaban and my family being deported. Only when two weeks have flown by and nothing's happened do I relax. A week more and I stop worrying.


March 12th, 2005


We are still not talking. Life goes on; I haven't gone anywhere. I have no idea what Draco would do if I did and I just can't do that to my family. All the fight has left me. I don't even try to snoop around any more and I cry myself to sleep more often than not.


Draco does his best to ignore me, the coward. When we meet, we pretend that everything's fine. His indifference is ripping me up inside.


April 1st, 2005


I pick up on the tension right away and so does Draco. Since it's George's birthday, at first I suspect that he's already played some nasty practical joke on the guests, but soon I realise that the attention is somehow focused on us.


“I think George has something planned for you,” I whisper to Draco. “Be extra careful.”


The tension between us has gone down a bit during the last couple of weeks. We haven't really started to talk, but neither are we just extra polite neighbours any more. It' like we've just decided to forget we had any animosity towards each other and, although I'm not sure I can forgive him yet, I'm not willing to disturb this tentative peace either.


“I don't think he'd dare,” Draco whispers back, but despite his apparent self-assurance, he's glued to my side. It's weird, since we hardly speak to each other, the touching is disconcerting.


As soon as Harry arrives, I realise that I was wrong about George and that Draco must have known about it all along. The thing is, Harry's brought a date.


“Why didn't you tell me?” I hiss in Draco's ear.


He ignores me, but his arm tightens around my waist. When the introductions reach us, I smile at Harry and the girl.


“Hi! I'm Samantha,” the fair-haired girl says and holds out her hand in greeting. “Call me Sam.” Either she hasn't been told what happened the last time Harry brought a date, or she has yet to realise who I am.


“I'm Ginny. This is my husband Draco.”


Harry seems uncomfortable and Draco is tense. When we move on to say hello to some of George's friends, Draco's arm is still around me.


“She's got to be a Muggle,” I murmur conversationally.


“Why do you think so?”


“She's not afraid of you.”


There is no outward reaction, but I sense that what I said disturbs him. Take that, you arrogant prick!


For the rest of the evening, I observe the new couple. Harry seems to be head over heels for her. I surprise myself by hoping it's mutual, because there is no ill will towards either of them, and I like the calm acceptance I feel.


After dinner, I've had enough of Draco playing the watchdog over me and drag him into my old room.


“What's your problem?” I hiss furiously.


“Problem?” Draco says neutrally as he looks around the tiny room. I'm not sure if its evasive tactics or he's really curious. “Is this your room?”


“No. All my brothers have pink rooms. Don't change the subject! Your paws have been all over me the whole evening! You can cut that out now! Enough is enough!”


His eyes stop on me finally. They're serious and carefully neutral and it makes me even more furious. Before he has a chance to answer, I go on.


“Did you have to glue yourself to me? What do you think I'm gonna do? Slap Sam? Kiss Harry?”


Draco tilts his head. “Do you want to?” he asks, and with a sinking feeling I realise that someone told him what happened the last time Harry brought a date.


“That was years ago!” I flail my hands and something falls from the shelf. I ignore it.


“You saying you don't want to kiss him? Or maybe slap?”


“Yes! I do! I really, really do want to slap someone!” I yell and then I slap him.


For that, I blame alcohol and possibly George, who's probably put something into my drink. For what I do next though, there is no excuse. I grab Draco's head and kiss him. For a moment he freezes, but then he's kissing me back just as hungrily, angrily and desperately. A part of my brain makes a satisfying conclusion that Draco has not, in fact, taken a lover. Then he pushes me away, none too gently.


“You're drunk, Gin. Or simply mental.”


“Possibly both,” I interject quietly.


Draco sighs, exasperatedly. To my amazement though, for once, his eyes are unguarded and he looks uncertain. It's so rare a sight that I stare.


“What is this all about now?” he demands in a quiet, but firm voice.


The look in his eyes confuses me, so I react in a true Weasley way – I get angry.


“Like you don't know!” I yell, not knowing what to say. My hands flail again and something else crashes from the same shelf. I turn to pick it up. “Oh, it's my Ballerina music box! I haven't seen it in years!” I exclaim. “And I don't like you grabbing me like that!” I wave the Ballerina towards him. “Your paws all over my body. Can't you control yourself at all? It's my parents' house and it's full of my relatives! Including a hundred brothers!” I know I'm talking nonsense, but I'm still blaming George for that.


“So you kissed me because you don't like me touching you, is that it?”


His voice is too calm to be anything but fake and it's triumph I see in his eyes, not hope. Because it cannot be.


“Yes! Nooo!" I almost yell again. "Stop confusing me! How the hell does this blasted thing work?” I mutter, messing with the Ballerina. She's supposed to dance to the music and stuff. She's meckenic; Dad brought her from work when I was twelve. “My parents are here, Draco! For Merlin's sake!” I wriggle the thing. “What I'm trying to say, is...” I make a short pause to breathe and turn the handle. “Is that you don't make love to me, don't touch me, don't even talk to me for weeks! And now that Harry's around, you what?” The Ballerina isn't working so I glower at her. “It's not working.” I give him the Ballerina.


“You are not making any sense,” he says quietly, taking the doll.


“Yes, I am! You just don't have any people skills. Git.”


“Me? I don't have people skills?” Although I'm not looking at his face, we are standing close enough that I can feel the frustration in his body, but his voice is still quiet. “I have excellent people skills, Ginevra. Would I be where I am right now, if I didn't? It's with you that I turn into an insensitive arse. You tie me up in knots like a schoolboy with his first crush!”


The admission goes so much beyond anything I'd expect Draco Malfoy to say, that I finally have courage to look at him. He's holding the Ballerina but he isn't paying her any attention. And no wonder - it is a Muggle thing after all; a Malfoy wouldn't know what to do with it even if it sang him the instructions. And it's broken anyway, so it's not singing.


“What the hell are you saying now, Malfoy?” I ask incredulously. “That you have a crush on me?”


He sighs, as if to say that I'm a bit dim (and yes, I do feel foolish for even voicing an inane idea like Draco fancying me). Draco puts the music box back on the shelf as if the toy doesn't even matter. Vaguely, I realise that it probably doesn’t.


“Just tell me, why did you kiss me just now?” His eyes are intent on my face, but for some reason I'm thinking of his lips instead. “Was it because I haven't touched you in a month, or because Harry might be doing the same thing downstairs?”


That makes me angry again. “What does Harry have to do with anything? I didn't slap or kiss him, did I?”


“No.” Draco exhales. “Come here.” He reaches for me and I melt into the circle of his arms.


Despite Draco being who and what he is, despite everything that has happened, despite me telling myself otherwise, I have missed him. After a while, he starts talking.


“I haven't touched you because you've made it abundantly clear that you didn't want me to,” he says. “You have avoided me and pushed me away, figuratively and literally. You are never at home and when you are, you lock yourself into your rooms. The last time we talked, you spoke about leaving me. I had no idea how to bridge that gap. No idea that my advances would be in any way welcome.”


We are quiet for some moments and then I mumble into the crook of his neck, “I didn't know either.”


For half the evening, I've been imagining what would happen, if instead of Harry and Sam, it were Astoria and her husband here. Would Draco feel the same way I feel about Harry now? Or would he be hurt, betrayed and jealous, like everybody clearly thought I would feel?


“I think I'm drunk,” I mumble.


“Yes, I gather you are. Let me take you home?” he asks and I nod.


There is one thing that comforts me; Draco has missed me, too. I put my hands around his torso and we stay that way for a while.

CHAPTER 5

Silence is a text easy to misread.
-Author unknown


November 7th, 2003


“What a curious dress your grandmother is wearing,” Parkinson says. “I don't think I've ever seen anything like it. Is it is some local designer?”


“Why Ms Parkinson, I thought you knew everything about the newest designers!“ She opens her mouth but I cut her off. We both know the outfit she's talking about was not done by a designer at all. “And it's my mother, not grandmother. Speaking of which, didn't you bring a nanny for your grandmum? I think she's drooling again. Or maybe it's a by-product of her copious alcohol consumption?”


It figures that the Home Secretary's engagement party would be a grand affair. I think we have over four hundred guests, plus the press. The thing I hate the most is that even though the marriage is more or less a political move on my part, my family has made it their duty to attend.


It's not that I don't appreciate the support, I do. It's that none of them really feels comfortable here and neither do I. The rooms are too large, the decorations too glittering; the guests are dressed to the nines; the society photographers are milling around, blinding everybody with their flash lamps. This party is not for me, it's for the publicity, just like everything else in this marriage.


And now Parkinson's turned catty. At first I actually welcome that. Her veiled attacks at my appearance and family are predictable to the point of being pitiful. The only problem is that while giving her own back, I have to moderate my tone and smile as I do so. I manage.


The evening drags on and bickering with Pansy has turned old. Now I'm mostly concentrating on keeping my family apart from the various vultures (the press and the Pureblood Society people). Draco is by my side most of the time and at times I even find his company pleasant. At least it's nothing unusual or unpleasant. We talk, drift apart and come together again.


Then I notice a tense group of my parents, Parkinson and a lowly functionary of the Pureblood Society. I can see from my father's posture and mother's set lips that an uncomfortably loud scene is in the brewing. I put my glass on a passing tray and make a quick dash towards them, but I'm too late. My husband-to-be is already there and talking. I'm afraid that the yelling will reach me before I can reach them.


However, the first words I hear when I approach are Draco's. “- can't come to the wedding, but the needs must. If your aunt can't spare you, Pansy, it's naturally your first duty to visit her when she's so ill. And I especially regret that you can't stay for dinner this evening. Bernard will see you out.”


At these words an elderly elf appears with a quiet 'pop' and Parkinson says, “But I don't-”


“Bernard, see Ms Parkinson out. Good day and safe trip, Pansy.”


Draco's tone is calm, but his voice carries through the room, which suddenly seems rather quiet.


Flushed and embarrassed, Pansy lingers for a long couple of seconds, and then says meekly, “Good day to you too.”


No one says a word to her when she leaves.


“Wow,” I say quietly when the usual buzz has picked up again. “I love your Slytherin way of throwing people out.”


“I positively have no idea what you are talking about,” Draco says, but the smirk, so pointedly absent on his lips, is reflected in the glint of his eyes.


April 2nd, 2005


“Are you going to let me eat or not?” Draco's brought me breakfast in bed, but is now caressing my neck and shoulder and- “Hey, cut that out! I'm hungry.”


“Me too.” He smiles lazily.


I stare at him in amazement. “Who are you and what have you done to Draco Malfoy? If the Minister finds out they have a pod Foreign Secretary, I'll be the first one they investigate.”


“And a good thing too, since you are the one responsible.”


“Me?” I set the croissant back on the tray. “What have I done?”


Draco smirks. “You,” he says between kisses. “Are. Just. Being. Wonderful.”


“Uh-uh,” I say in bewilderment.


It's Sunday and Draco and I spend the day together. It has never happened before and it turns out to be wonderful too.


In the evening I Floo Harry. I think we need to clear the air, but I don't want Draco to know, so I Floo from my bedroom. We agree to meet in Diagon Alley at noon.


April 3rd, 2005


The next day I meet Harry over lunch in a small cafeteria near Diagon Alley. I spot him right away at one of the right-hand tables near the window.


“Harry.”


“Hi. I took you a latte. It's still your favourite, isn't it?”


“Yes. Yes, it is.”


I smile as I sit and then we look at each other quietly. Harry is as always the one who takes the bull by the horns.


“I hope I didn't make you too uncomfortable by bringing Sam.”


“No. You could have warned me though. Instead of alerting everyone else, including Draco.”


Harry frowns. “I didn't tell Draco anything. He knew?”


“He didn't tell me anything, if that's what you're thinking. I realised later that he must have. He was glued to me the whole evening; ready to intervene if start Merlin knows what.” I shudder and Harry smiles.


“I dunno, I thought that being glued to each other is kinda normal for you two.”


I frown. “Is it? But we've never been very touchy-feely. That's not that kind of a marriage, you know that.”


“Sorry about that by the way,” he says, not looking at me.


“About what?” I genuinely don't follow his train of thought.


“About how I reacted when you told us about the proposal. I...”


He trails off and I take pity on him. “I understand. I'm not saying it was okay, but I understand. And in the end, you were right; it was the best decision.”


“No, I...” He looks at me then and there's a deep remorse in his gaze. “I know I pushed you into that marriage. I know you were expecting me to back you up and I just... I lost my head and I'm sorry.”


I nod. “It's fine. At least now it is. Anyone would've done the same if they were you, I guess. And you didn't push me into it, not really. I knew what I was doing. It was my decision.”


“You said it was the best decision. Are you happy then? Or well, not like you are in love with him or anything, but considering... You look content most of the time. Are you, say, reasonably happy?”


“I think I am, actually.” I turn the cup around and around on the plate, just to busy my hands. “I'm not saying I'm really happy like... happy happy, but... I think I'll be fine.”


“And what he did to Nott? It doesn't bother you? I'm not saying it should, just...”


I'm still looking at my cup, but now I shake my head. For a moment everything goes blurry, although my eyes remain dry.


“You are ignoring it, aren't you, Ginny?” Harry's words are quiet and gentle. “Just like for years you ignored the fact that there would never be an 'us'?” He covers my hand with his. “You can't just ignore what he is, Gin. I'm not saying that what Malfoy did is unforgivable. Personally, I'm more concerned that you're married to a politician who doesn't seem to care about ruining Britain's economical and social structures. But killing another Death Eater? It seems quite low-key under the circumstances.”


I know Harry's right. I've been thinking exactly the same thing, but what I hate the most is how little all my friends and family must think of Draco. For a politician that's ruining our country, killing a man is, naturally, par for the course.


“I mean, they fought, right?” Harry goes on. “And it was Malfoy or Nott, so he probably didn't have much of a choice. He killed a man, but so have I. And your father and Ron, and a lot of other good people.”


“I know,” I say, as I pull my hand away from his and take his right hand into both of mine. “I...” I look at him but I can't continue.


“Ginny, you have to face it sooner or later. You are married to him, for Christ's sake! You have to decide if you can accept him as he is or not, or it will tear you up inside.”


For a while we just sit there and finish our drinks.


“I want you to be happy, Harry. That's why I wanted to see you today. To tell you to be happy and that I'm sorry for slapping Madison, or whatever her name was.” I shrug, smile a little and somehow the memory now seems too funny not to laugh. The best part is that Harry laughs too.


“Madeline. But thank you. It means a lot,” he says, accepting my ignoring the Draco issue yet again.


“And I want you to know that I think... No. I'm definitely not in love with you anymore. So as far as I'm concerned, you're safe.”


We grin at each other. At that moment I feel as if friendship between us is possible and even probable. I hug him before I leave.


O*O*O


The warm breeze turns to cold wind, and then into a full gale sometime during supper.


To start with, my husband responds in monosyllabic words and doesn't look me in the eye. He's clearly brassed off about something. Even though he was perfectly congenial just this morning, at first I'm not seriously perturbed. Draco has turned the hot-cold schizophrenia into an art form. So we eat.


Soon though, I notice all the signs of Draco wanting to talk about something, but not knowing how to approach the subject. He's shooting me those careful glances, his posture stiff and his entire demeanour unrelenting. His movements are very precise; he's cutting his pork as carefully and precisely as if he's planning on sewing it back together and reviving the pig later.


After a while, I cannot hold myself back any more.


“What?” I demand, exasperated.


Slowly he finishes chewing and swallows. Then he takes a drink, savours the taste before swallowing that too, and finally asks with skilfully crafted calm, “How was your day?”


“Fine. But that's not what you really want to know, is it?”


“Very busy?”


“Exhaustingly.”


“Did you have a chance to get a bite during the day?” he continues.


The fog of suspense is getting thicker and I'm starting to get an inkling that the approaching maelstrom might actually be blowing my way.


“Lunch? Yes, actually, I ate sandwiches at some point. Eve was kind enough to bring me some. Draco-”


“And how's Potter?”


And just like that the lull has turned into a whirlwind.


“What?”


“Do you deny meeting him?” His voice has that maddeningly detached quality to it again. It betrays no emotion whatsoever and I hate it.


For a second I can just gape like a total fool. “Why would I?” I reply angrily. “I didn't do anything wrong!”


“Didn't you?”


Since his tone is flat, I don't answer. It's clearly not expected. Instead, I assume that indignant pose my mom is really good at, but either I'm crap at it or Draco's totally unmovable. In any case, it doesn't work.


“No,” I finally say. “I didn't. We were just talking.”


“And the lying about not having time to eat with me?”


I feel the hotness spread all over my face. “We were just talking,” I repeat stubbornly.


Draco nods and continues eating. “I believe you. It's fine.”


Like hell it is! It's clear from the way he breathes that he's livid.


“All right. So maybe I should have told you I was meeting him. I just didn't think you'd understand.”


“You were right. I don't.”


“Draco.” I let out a deep breath. “I just wanted to tell him that I was fine with him and Sam, nothing more. I was there for half an hour; I didn't even eat lunch with him. It was just a coffee between friends.” At this point I'm still trying to calm things down.


“I see. Do you often hold hands with your friends?”


“What? You spied on me? Wait! How did you even find out I was meeting him?”


For a long minute he's eating without answering, as if punishing me with his silence. But I can guess that he's either too furious to speak or he's not sure what to reveal.


“Occasionally, I need to eat too,” he finally says more or less steadily. “And you know how I hate the Ministry's cafeteria. Polyjuiced as always, I went out for a bite and what. Do. I. See! My wife, who's claimed having no time to eat with me, has sneaked out to see a friend she'd been mooning over for a decade! Of course I bloody spied!” He almost growls the last part.


“I didn't sneak,” I say quietly.


“I don't care if you alerted the Prophet. You didn't tell me and you held. His. Hand. And hugged him. Publicly.” Draco is almost spitting by the time he finishes speaking. Then he seems to calm himself down somewhat and resumes eating. “I thought we'd agreed to tell each other before taking any lovers.”


“Harry and I are not lovers!” I exclaim, appalled by the suggestion and getting angry again. “Why are you so upset? You know I don't have any lovers and if I had, it wouldn't be Harry.”


Draco smirks unpleasantly. “Of course.” He nods in what could only be malicious satisfaction. “Potter is not interested in you, and even if he were, he'd never do something quite so amoral like carrying on with a married woman.”


“And you think I would do that? Cheat on you?”


He answers in the expressive way of not reacting outwardly, which I interpret as 'yes'. It hurts on so many different levels I can't even begin to sort everything out, so for a moment I just sit there without saying anything.


“Why do you even care,” I finally mutter. “You're still mooning over your Astoria, aren't you?”


There's a brief pause before Draco asks, “Does it matter? That I 'moon over her' as you so eloquently put it?”


I laugh derisively. “Why would it? It's not like I even like you!”


Draco's nostrils flare and he breathes heavily.


“Mutual. You have my leave to do what you will as long as you're discreet. In fact, you don't even have to tell me when you've succeeded in luring some miserable chap into bed with you.” He leans in over the table. “Do. Whatever. You. Want.”


With these words he marches out.


April 7th, 2005


I give him time to cool off and for almost two days I'm absolutely miserable. The only consolation is that Draco looks miserable too, so he probably hasn't taken on a lover either. (Yes, I'm obsessed with the idea, I know.) Since I only see him three times during that time, I presume he spends most of his days at the Ministry. Hopefully.


So I decide to wait until tomorrow before confronting him, but through all this waiting the most singularly terrible thing happens. It's so terrible that I forget to close my mouth. The chocolate mousse is dribbling down my chin, because suddenly I realise that I’ve fallen in love with my husband! And somehow only a miserably tiny part of me is surprised. I think I've known it for some time now; I just didn't want to acknowledge the fact.


I put the spoon on the bedside table and wipe my chin. For the next couple of hours I ignore the paperwork I was supposed to do yesterday and start impersonating a caged animal, pacing back and forth in my bedroom. Occasionally, I venture out into the halls to listen if Draco has per chance come back home for some indecipherable reason.


For the next day and a half I sit on the second floor patio doing the paperwork I’ve been neglecting. The fact that the parlour overlooks the front lawn and is connected to the main hall only by a door opening and a short corridor has nothing to do with it. And I’m not spying on the object of my affections from behind the flowerpots and over the railings! I’m just constantly forgetting things in my study. And other rooms.


April 9th, 2005


I’ve told the house elves to notify me of Draco’s comings and goings. Yes, yes, I know I’m pathetic, but it doesn’t change the irrefutable fact that I’ve also received the Order of Moron, First Class by falling for Draco Selfish Arse Malfoy, the World's Biggest Git titleholder several years running. So it’s just my way of coping and there’s nothing weird about that!


When I'm finally heading towards his bedroom one evening, I'm pretty sure I'm going to manage keeping these unwanted revelations to myself. What good could telling him possibly do? Even though the idea of my cheating seemed to hurt him, I’m pretty sure it’s no more than hurt pride. Draco's always been touchy in regards to Harry, so no point giving him any more power over me than he already has. Right? Right.


I know that it's very late and Draco's most probably exhausted after a long day, but there are things he needs to hear and I don't want to put it off any more. I deny him the chance of refusing me by not knocking. When I open his bedroom door, he's in the middle of removing his shirt. Hesitantly I step in the middle of the room and blurt without any preamble, “I'm sorry I lied to you.”


Draco freezes with his profile to me and I quickly continue to halt any objections he might have.


“I shouldn't have done it and I understand why you were upset. Nevertheless, you must know that there's nothing between Harry and me.”


After a short pause Draco continues unbuttoning his shirt, turns to me and says, “I know. I'm sorry too. I was being an arse.” He reaches for my hand and without any conscious consent on my part, I step closer to him. When we're sitting on his bed, he continues, “I appreciate you apologising, Ginevra, but you don't really have to. I know you love Potter. I've made my peace with that.”


His words make me gape at him. For a moment I cannot say a word.


“But Draco, I-”


“It's fine. We can't choose who we love, I know that. Just don't do anything behind my back, all right?”


He says all of it calmly as if he doesn't care, but somehow I still know that he does and that he's hurting.


I grab his hand into both of mine. “No, Draco. No. I...” I have no idea what to say. How do I say it? “I'm not in love with Harry. Haven't been for a long time.”


Very slowly he raises his eyes to mine. “No?”


“No.”


There's a pause while we just look at each other.


“Good.” He smiles a little. There's a light in his gaze I don't think I've ever seen before, and it makes me timid and for some silly reason, hopeful. What he says next takes me totally by surprise.


“I'm not in love with Astoria either,” he says quietly. “Haven't been for a very long time.”


After opening and closing my mouth several times I ask, “You don't love her? But what about that time at the Applebee Anniversary Ball? I saw how you looked at her! I almost felt the regret I saw in your look.”


Draco shakes his head slowly, as if trying to remember the event I'm talking about.


“I barely remember the evening at the Applebee's.” He shrugged. “Perhaps I did look at her with regret. I won't deny I have regretted that I wasn't able to love her enough. Or she, me. Life would've been so much easier. Were you jealous?”


He sounds like he's teasing, but we both know that he isn't, so I make sure I'm looking him in the eye when I say, “Yes. I think I was a bit.” An unseen force is tugging at Draco's lips and he hugs me. I bet he doesn't want me to see his goofy smile and that's fine. My smile must be a little silly too.


I can't help but continue, “You remember the first time we discussed the possibility of marriage? You said that we might learn to appreciate each other? I think I can now safely admit that I have. Learned to appreciate you.” I smile. “But just a little.”


Draco hugs me even tighter, and hides his face in my hair as he whispers back, “I appreciate you, too.”


April 15th, 2005


I haven't slept in my own bed for a week. It feels wonderful. It's like a second honeymoon, only better. We 'appreciate' each other now. We're using this word on every possible occasion and smile when we do. It means more to us both; I just know it.


When I come home this evening, I'm giddy as a schoolgirl. But as I step into the dining room, the smells hit me like a bludger to a solar plexus and a terror only known to mothers grips my whole being. I stand there for a beat and then I'm running towards the bathroom.


I feel grateful that Draco isn't home yet. I have no idea how to tell him. In the end I decide not to decide anything. I go to bed early and fall asleep before Draco returns. It's already morning when I realise that I've slept alone. I see my husband at the breakfast table, where I feel sick again.


“Why don't you ever come to my bed?” I ask him rather sharply.


Draco is, once again, wearing his calm and composed mask.


“I didn't know I was welcome.”


“Bull! You're just an arrogant prig who thinks that the word 'wife' is a fancy euphemism for a 'servant' and a 'courtesan'!”


I put my cup down with a clatter and Draco frowns.


“What's the matter?” he asks, and suddenly I see that he's not angry at all, but concerned.


Tears well up in my eyes.


“Gin!” He stands up and comes up to my chair. “What's wrong?”


But I can't answer. I put my arms around his waist and sob into his shirt.


“Is it something I did? Why did you go to your own room last night? I'm sorry if you waited for me there, I just never know if I'm welcome when you close your door on me.”


His words only make me cry harder. Draco strokes my hair and my back, uttering all those hushes, there-theres and it's-alrights that are customary in the situations like this. I bet he feels really silly.


After a while I mutter into his shirt, “We should both move into the master bedroom.”


Before I start fretting about being too forward, he says, “I'd love that.” I can hear a smile in his words. “I'm sorry, I didn't realise you wanted me to come to your room yesterday.”


But I shake my head.


“It's not that,” I tell him. “I'm pregnant.”


Draco stills for a moment and then presses his lips to my hair.






TBC

CHAPTER 6

Silence is golden…but sometimes it’s just plain yellow.
- Author unknown



May 7th, 2005


Today Draco comes home very late and I’m too sleepy greet him. He slips under the blanket next to me.


“Gin?”


I don’t answer right away, but he starts whispering urgently, as if he's been holding back for a long time. He must think I’m asleep.


“Higgs has totally lost his plot and I can't stop him. Nobody can. And if no one does, there will be war. I don't know what to do. He's totally barmy and there's nothing I can do. Nothing.”


Alert and more awake than I like, I turn to him. “What happened? War with who?”


He shakes his head. “Sorry. I didn't want to worry you, since you are pregnant. I just...”


“I'm fine. War with who? When?”


“Can't tell yet.”


Draco looks lost, and he's not supposed to look lost, or confused, or scared. He's an I'm-Always-In-Control type of a wizard.


“And don't bother searching my study,” he goes on, a bit calmer. “There's nothing there. In fact, there is nothing in the whole Manor that would interest your Rebellion, so don't even try.”


There's a pause while I gape at him like a dead fish. “What about-”


“And please, don't try breaking into my Ministry office either. If any of you got caught, half of your family would be arrested and none of us would escape investigation.” There's a pause again while he stares at me intently. “Don't do anything just yet. I'll tell you more when you actually can help, all right?”


There's nothing soft in his demeanour, but for Draco Malfoy this seems almost like begging, so I utter my consent.


May 8th, 2005


“We're killing him,” he tells me the next night, while lying under the sheets with me. Just as last night, his voice is quiet and urgent as if he's afraid that we might be overheard. “Please don't hate me, Gin. We have to. There's just no other option. He's going to ruin Britain. There could be another war. Possibly civil. Or against Muggles. There's only a handful of people at the Ministry that I can trust not to side with this madness.”


There's a short pause but before I can even start objecting to the awful news, he continues, “And before you decide that you can never care for someone like me, hear me out.”


I want to hit him and scream, but there's something so desperate in his voice that I clam up and stay still in his arms. What he tells me then is not what I expect.


“I didn't tell you the whole truth about Theo's death. I failed to mention that it was Theo who heard me and someone else talking about overthrowing Higgs, not the other way around.”


“You lied?” I'm angry enough to try and leave his embrace, but he doesn't let me.


“Not exactly. I said that I told Higgs I overheard them plotting and it's true. But I lied to Higgs then. Theo was never part of us.”


“Us? You've been sneaking around behind the Minister's back for a long time then?”


“Almost from the start. At first, there were only two of us, but it grew as Higgs's insanity became clearer.”


“And you conveniently forgot to tell me about it?”


“Forgot? No.” His tone is sardonic, but what makes me reign in my temper a bit is the resignation I hear. “But what would it achieve? You couldn't really help and I didn't think you'd want to. Our vision of a resistance isn't even remotely similar to the Rebellion's tactics.”


“And what about how Nott died? Didn't you think I would have liked to know?”


“No. You didn't. Not back then, at least. You had already decided that I was the bad guy. You probably still think that. I had no reason to think you'd believe me.”


“I would have actually. I might have given you shit about it, but I'd have believed you eventually. I was really beat up about your apparent support of the Minister.” His lack of trust is not surprising, but it hurts nonetheless. “And why would I believe you now?” My tone is somewhat testy.


I see his jaw working with suppressed tension.


“I don't know. Because you care about me now?”


“It's 'care' now, is it? What happened to 'love'? You think I'm so fickle that my feelings change after every little story you weave?”


I'm so hurt that I don't notice my slip until I see the baffled look in his eyes, and realise that neither of us has actually ever used the word 'love' before. I'd gotten so used to thinking that magical word in my head, that I forgot I might be the only one feeling it. Maybe he did mean a simple appreciation and I was just being stupid again. The doubt grips me and I try to pull free.


“Love? Is that what you meant, Gin?” He wraps himself around me, not letting go. “I wasn't sure. I hoped, but... Do you love me then? Gin? Please, say something!”


I still and look at him. I can see it clearly now, that glint, that spark, that shade in his eyes. It's been there for a while, but I was never brave enough to grant it its proper name. Love.


“Yes, Draco,” I admit quietly. “That's what I meant. I'm sorry it took me so long to realise it. And I'm so very sorry that I've never been able to recognize it in you,” I say even more quietly. For a moment his eyes shine with happiness I've never seen there before, but when I disentangle myself from his arms, it dulls.


“Yes, I do love you,” I go on decisively, “but it doesn't make me accept the idea of you simply killing another man because it's convenient, Draco. Higgs might be crazy, but you can't just kill him! Surely there are legal ways...”


“Legal ways to what? To declare him insane?” His tone is very dry, as he sits up against the bedstead. “Who would have enough power to do that? He is the law, Gin, you know that. There are so few who think like we do, and only a few of them are trustworthy.”


“So what do you plan to do once he's dead? Declare yourself the new Minister for Magic?”


I am being sarcastic, but the moment the words leave my mouth I realise that Draco's posture goes rigid and he's pointedly staring at the opposite wall.


“Dear Merlin and ancient wizards! You do, don't you! Are you mad?”


“You don't trust me at all, do you?” There is a resigned bitterness to his words. I don't answer him because there is no good answer. Draco continues, “Power is too important to let just anybody to have it, Gin. You do understand that, don't you?”


“Yes. But you? The Minister for Magic?”


“And why not me?” Draco is angry, but for once he's not trying to hide it. “And if not me, then who? Who would you trust with that power? Your father? Granger? Saint Potter?”


“Of course not! They wouldn't... They...”


“What? They are too good to mar themselves with politics?”


“No, it's not what I meant.” I hesitate, because a part of me did mean it like that and he knows it. “I just meant that maybe there's someone else at the Ministry, who'd-”


“No,” he cuts me off. “It has to be me. There's no one else.”


“Power corrupts, Draco,” I whisper. It's not that I'm scared, because what is there to be scared of? It's just that I really want him to reconsider.


It's not a surprise when Draco just laughs quietly. “Thank you for pointing out the obvious, wife dear. But if I'm so easily corrupted, don't you think it's already too late to save me?”


He's right, of course. Malfoys have probably been corrupted since Merlin walked the earth and Draco is no exception.


“Is there really no one else you can trust with it?” I ask, not really thinking my prodding will help anything. “How many of you are there?”


“Just six, but even if there were six times six, it wouldn't matter.” He turns back to me and his eyes are beseeching. “I need to do this. You see my father – and grandfather, I suppose – “


“Oh please! Don't give me that shite about upholding the family name and what not! I don't care-”


“Would you just let me finish?” Draco says very quietly again and since it's his angry voice I close my eyes and pretend to ignore him. It's childish, but I'm really listening and he knows it.


“As I was saying when you interrupted me, my esteemed father was one of the people who helped to turn our world upside down.” It sounds like a question as if he is waiting for me to fill the silence, but I have no idea where he's going with it. After a moment he goes on. “But that doesn't matter anymore. Forget I mentioned him,” he says abruptly and I just blink in bewilderment. “It's not that I particularly want to be the Minister,” he goes on more calmly. “But somebody has to and no one at the Ministry has the guts for it. Some very hard decisions will have to be made, Gin. It will not be easy and I'm willing to do this. I'm going to build a good team and do anything I can to avoid the catastrophe. And as for being corrupted?” Suddenly he grins rakishly, but it looks quite weird on his face. “I already have more money and power than I could ever wish for.”


Faintly, I smile back and settle back down on the pillow. I close my eyes again, though it's not to sleep, but to think.


Draco shifts restlessly for a while, but I'm so tired that I still almost manage to fall asleep.


“Are you going to leave me over this?”


I open my eyes and turn to him sharply. “Over politics? Don't be an idiot! I might want to leave you over killing Higgs, but not because of your political aspirations.” When his features relax marginally, I add, ”You'll need a good wife if you are to campaign for the post.”


I close my eyes for the nth time after I see Draco nod as if he'd always known what my answer would be. I'm sleepy. After a moment I can feel his body shift again as if he's allowed himself to relax at last.


“Sorry, didn't mean to scare you,“ I utter quietly from my side of the bed and he fakes a small laugh, which I interpret into an embarrassment.


“Scare? I'm not afraid of you, you silly woman.”


“All right, you manly man, you, tell me more about the club of crazies you joined.”


“Founded, not joined, do try to keep up. Wife.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “And they are not crazy. No more than me at least.” I snort, which Draco ignores. “It's not as black and white as you like to believe, Ginny. Fine. If you really want to know, I can tell you this much. There's a group of people, all very high up, that are not satisfied with how things are going. We-”


“Not satisfied? What else do they need – the blood of a muggleborn baby?”


“Don't be ridiculous. No one in politics really wants blood, it would be messy. What we want is stability and peace. After we take charge – ”


“By killing Higgs? I can't stay quiet on this, Draco, you know I can't. Even the Resistance talks only of a trial and imprisonment.”


“Are you sure about that? I'm pretty sure that most of them would not only kill Higgs, but also do so with pleasure.”


I grit my teeth. “I'm still sure there are better ways to achieve your goals than a murder.”


“We wanted to, believe me,” he says. “We have countless plans that involve his peaceful removal from the post, but they all have one major flaw. They require time, which we unfortunately are running out of. Very soon even his death will not help if Britain continues on the path Higgs has set.”


As I listen to his explanation, I can't help but think that I'm going to lose him. To this weird animal that is the world of power and cruelty, money and murder.


“Basically,” he goes on, “the aim is to turn the clogs back round to the way things were before. I'm not sure it's possible, but we can try. If not, a new order will become necessary.”


He speaks more about things I know little about, but one thing is becoming perfectly clear. They are all mad. My husband has displaced his precious marbles! Megalomania must be contagious.


“This is mad,” I say, sitting back up too. “This is a new dictatorship you are talking about. How is it different from the one we have now?”


“Everything is different!” He's gazing at me with this feverish gleam in his eyes that spells desperation. “Everything! The basis, our goals, the future! Surely you can see why we can't let up on the censorship of the press? Or release all the political prisoners just off the bat? There are real criminals among them!”


“But you can let all of the old Death Eaters go? Oh but yes, you can! They are your fathers, brothers and cousins. Of course you can!”


“It doesn't matter if they are! They are out of the picture for the moment; we'll deal with them when we have to, and when we can. They are not our immediate concern.”


He waits a bit as if I'm supposed to say something, but I can't. It's all too much. A fear, mind-numbing terror, grips me. Pictures of crazed rebels trying to assassinate Draco, the father of my child, flit through my head. Our home being raided and burned, my child hurt and orphaned. I feel a shiver start somewhere deep inside of me.


When I don't answer, Draco continues flatly, “I realise that you don't understand and I can accept that you don't approve. If you think it best, I'll arrange a safe house for you somewhere on the continent.”


There's a stretch of silence that neither of us knows how to fill. My eyes are closed again, but somehow I know that he's looking at me. I feel cold. It's so damn cold that I hug myself.


“Gin? Gin, are you alright?” I feel his tentative fingers on my cheek, as if he doesn't know if he's allowed to touch me. When I lean into the touch he, carefully at first, pulls me back into his arms. Then I melt into his embrace and he holds me so tightly I can feel his heart beat next to mine.


“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Gin, that I've put you in this situation. I'm crap at taking care of other people; always thinking about myself. I just needed to tell someone so bad... I- I love you, Ginny, love. I love you so much it hurts! But if you want to leave now, I'll let you. I would never hurt your family because of it and I shouldn't have let you think otherwise, but I was so scared you'd leave me for good and now you're probably going to leave me anyway-”


“I've never heard you babble before,” I mumble into his chest.


He chuckles brokenly, but doesn't say anything any more.


“Relax, I love you too much to be going anywhere now,” I assure him and he squeezes me even tighter. “Besides, my brat needs a father to spoil him.”


I don't remind him that the baby might not even see his father or mother. I don't mention my fear that most of the Britain will hate our child on principle, or that we'll probably have to home-school him – or her – because of it. I'm sure Draco already knows.


“Not going to leave me then?”


My only answer is to shake my head, which is lying on his shoulder.


“Good. Thank you. We'll figure it out together. We'll make it work, all right?”


I nod, even though I'm not really sure I believe him. When he speaks after a while, his usual composure is back and we pretend that the emotional moment we had just now hasn't happened.


“Whatever happens in the future, Gin, I have to ask you, do not tell plans to anyone. I know you don't approve, Gin, but I'm doing it anyway. There's no choice; we tried to wait it out but the war is on the doorstep. Every bloody minute we wait is a minute closer to disaster. If you won't promise me not to tell anyone, I swear to Circe, I'll Obliviate you!”


He takes my face in his hands and touching my forehead with his, he whispers, “Promise me not to tell! Not even your family. It cannot reach the Rebellion yet. It's too soon.” His eyes are closed and despite the threat of Obliviating me, his whole body is saying 'please'.


“I promise.”


May 15th, 2005


In the end, they don't kill him. He has a stroke. It is so unexpected that when Draco comes home to tell me about it, he laughs out loud. He never laughs like that. It's not mirth that makes him do that, but shock and relief.


But the good hardly ever comes without the bad. Half an hour later he receives an urgent Floo call. Wizarding Britain has declared war on Wizarding France. Draco tells me to pack up and go to my parents'. He gives me the official permit for making the Burrow Unplottable. He must have got it beforehand and I love him just that much harder. In less than two hours the Manor is closed down to any kind of entry unless it's me or Draco. Then we hug and I Floo to the Burrow. I don't see my husband for two days.


May 17th, 2005


In the early morning a special edition of the Prophet arrives that declares the peace treaty with France and abolishes a number of racist laws, including the one that banished all muggleborns from Ministry work. Among other things, The Red List is declared invalidated, and all the families deported under that law are welcomed to return. They also promise to return all the dispossessed property. It's signed the Deputy Minister, Draco Malfoy.


Many people go to the streets that day to celebrate and wave banners. At least for a day my husband is the Lauded Liberator. It doesn't last.


Draco Floos me just two hours later to say that he'll come for me in the afternoon, but I wait in vain. At five Dad and Percy are asked to come in to work and around seven we hear that the Ministry is under attack. George brings Angelina over and disappears somewhere, saying, “I'll see what I can find out.” We don't see him for hours either.


Our wireless is on and I'm fiddling with it trying to find an unauthorised channel or two for some alternative news. It turns out that apparently, for some people only their own brand of freedom is acceptable. As outnumbered and weak as the Rebellion looked just a week ago, now even the minority within it seems terrifyingly dangerous.


Ironically, most of the Rebellion is now protecting the institution it was so keen on taking down just some days ago and my whole family is out there in defence. Angelina and I are left behind on the account of being pregnant and Mum says that she's staying in case we need her, but I know that she's more concerned about me. They both are.


Almost an hour later the Wizarding Wireless reports that the Death Eaters have made their foray into the battle. They don't say if this is a re-organised Neo DE fraction or bunch of crazed veterans. I try to contact Draco, but the Floo Network is either overloaded or down and we can't risk an owl being intercepted.


After half past ten Ron and Hermione return, saying that the Ministry's finally safe. It feels like I can breathe again.


“Harry's basically okay,” Ron tells us, as Mum is fussing with his arm which is in a makeshift sling. “He just had to go to St Mungo's to patch up a couple of scrapes. They had to almost drag him down there, you know how he is, but people wanted to be sure that their hero was all right. Ouch! I'm fine, Mum, stop that! Hermione's already healed it as much as currently possible.”


“Yes, and he'll be visiting the Healer in the morning,” Hermione adds quietly. It sounds like a threat and Ron scowls. “The only thing that's saved him the trip tonight is that St Mungo's is packed to the gills right now.”


This piece of information calms Mum down and she bustles everyone into the kitchen. The food is being devoured and now that Ron's mouth is full, Hermione continues relaying the events.


“Arthur and Percy are still there helping to organise the round-up of the rebellious element.”


“What about-” Angelina asks.


“George's fine, too,” Hermione is quick to calm her. “We saw him a while back, but he should be okay; he was helping the evacuation team.”


“Did you see Draco?” I ask. Although at first I'm not too seriously worried, the look that Ron and Hermione exchange sends chills down my spine.


“We haven't seen him, but there's no reason to think he wouldn't be fine, is there Ron?”


“Yes, and?” I cut him off rather sharply. “I know Draco would never step into a battle voluntarily. So what are you hiding? What have you heard?”


“Well,” Hermione starts cautiously, “Malfoy's the highest official right now, so I don't think he was actually in a battle.” She hesitates, then draws a sharp breath. “But, there's this rumour. They say that some time after the Death Eaters turned up, Malfoy had left instructions on how to handle the situation and then left the building. Percy said that he hasn't been seen since after eight o'clock.”


I nod. Despite feeling cold, I also a bit feel hot and faint. It must be really stuffy in here. I sit on the sofa and only half listen to Mum going on about how he must be fine because... why exactly? I stop listening. After some time I notice other family members Flooing back in. The Network must be up again. By the way they're asking how I'm holding up, I surmise that they haven't heard anything new. Unless they've heard something so awful that they don't want the pregnant wife to know. But I'm not going to think about that.


Suddenly there's an alarm of the outer wards and everyone rushes to the front windows, their wands drawn. I stand just behind George and it's difficult to see, but the tall figure of a Death Eater striding toward our porch is unmistakable. Just as everybody tenses in preparation for the fight I cry out, push George aside and throw the door open.


I hear Mum yell 'no' but I hardly care. I've only stepped down the porch when the Death Eater reaches for the grime- and blood-covered mask and lifts it off his face. Draco's cheeks are streaked with tears. When his hands encircle my waist, his legs give out and we crash down to our knees. He's shaking and is probably hurt, but he's alive and for now, that is enough.


June, 2011


“Congratulations, Mr Malfoy! Or should I say, Minister?”


“That would be the proper title, wouldn't it?” My husband smiles magnanimously as he shakes the hundredth hand.


I'm getting tired but Draco is still riding out the high of his victory. Fortunately, my son saved me by demanding to be fed and I leave for the quarters appointed to us. When I leave Draco's side, he throws me a private smile that only his immediate family sees. The Malfoy family nowadays include our devious five year old girl and a beautiful baby boy of a year and a half. Catherine is with her grand-mum today but we decided that our ginger-haired child should make a public appearance.


I can't believe we actually won, I think as I sit down in a comfortable armchair to breastfeed. Or well, Draco won, but it was a joint effort and I can take some credit. Naturally, there will be voices that will try to prove the invalidity of the elections later today, but that's free press for you.


“I bet nothing will pry Draco Malfoy from the Minister's post until the next regular elections.”


“Hermione?” I turn to her, surprised. When I heard the door open and close I thought that Draco had sent his secretary to check up on me.


“Yes, it's your sister-in-law. So, how does it feel to be a wife of the lawfully elected Minister for Magic?”


Hermione rounds my armchair and sits down in another one opposite me.


“Weird.” I smile. “But after seeing how well Draco handled the press and ahem, basically everybody after the May Mutiny in 2005, it's silly to be surprised.”


“Stepping down from the Deputy Minister's post when the hearings started was a wise decision on his part. After that it was easy to show that he only wanted the best for the country and the 'power hungry' label was hung around other politicians' necks.” Hermione pulls a face, like she doesn't really know if she should be glad or aggravated at Draco's success. In the end she grins at me.


“And you can't discount the wisdom of being the first Ministry official to take a Muggleborn back into Ministry's employ.” I bask in the brilliance that is my husband.


“And since it was me...” Hermione nods with put-on solemnity.


“Right,” I agree. “He couldn't have gone wrong with that. The wisdom of inviting a Muggleborn war hero into his office probably saved his career.” I nod sagely back.


“Are you saying that if I wasn't a war hero, I wouldn't have been his saving grace?”


“Oh, I'm certain you would have. Even Draco I-Know-Best Malfoy had to bow down before your smarts in the end. But you have to admit that your being a third of the Golden Trio helped tremendously before you even started the magic of your strategy.”


Hermione sighs, as she turns serious. “Thank you for the compliment, but you know as well as I do that I didn't do it for Draco. Unlike some people I don't enjoy politics.”


“Yes, because doing so is a terrible crime indeed.”


Hermione smiles for a moment. “Not a crime per se, but don't you think that getting your thrills out of running a country is a bit narcissistic?”


“Draco is not narcissistic,” I say quietly, because the child in my arms has fallen asleep.


“Maybe not, but don't tell me you think that he entered politics with the noble idea of bringing Higgs down.”


“No,” I have to agree. “Probably not.”


“Well, I did. Or... you know, joined to help to get us out of a crisis, not to bring Higgs down, but you know what I meant.” Hermione waits for my confirmation and continues, “I do like my job, but pulling one over my opponent is still not my idea of fun. Not that it necessarily makes me a better person, but... I just feel that politics is... Ginny, you must agree that the last several years have been simply horrible! The idea of having a puppet Minister, even for a little while, still fills me with righteous indignation. I abhorred Malfoy pulling the strings from the shadows.” Hermione shudders. “Mostly, the thin line between maintaining order and dictatorship was not on my side of the argument. But I am grateful for the opportunity to help out. And I did. I worked my arse off to get the best results.”


“I know you did, Hermione. And Draco knows it too.”


“Yes, he told me.” Hermione makes a visible effort to lighten up and smiles mischievously. “Do you know that most of the time, Malfoy and I just argued? Loudly.” She laughs. “The whole office was in uproar while we were working out one strategy or another.”


I chuckle too and my son wakes up and starts sucking again.


“Hey, little one, haven't you had enough already?” I glance at Hermione and grin. “Fun times. I remember the time Draco came home so angry I thought he'd murder someone. I realised at once it was your fault though, so I wasn't worried. He stomped right past me into the western parlour with the hideous gold-embroidered couch and garish tapestries, if you remember me complaining about it. It had been Draco's grand-mama's favourite room or something and he refused to change anything about it, although we never brought anyone in there.


“Anyway, that evening Draco stomped right past me and blasted the whole room into pieces! He only calmed down when Cathy woke up crying.” I laugh. “I'd been insisting on redecorating the room for ages by then and Draco really hated the décor too, he just...” I shake my head. “The room was driving me crazy. Thank you for that.”


“No problem.” Hermione smiles before standing. “Well, I think I'll just go then; let your beauty sleep in peace.”


My son has indeed fallen asleep again and I remove him from my breast.


“No wait,” I stop her. “I wanted to tell you thank you. I mean seriously. I know that you disapproved of a lot of things that Draco did back then, and maybe some of what he is doing now. But I want you to know that we both appreciate the help you provided while working in his department.”


“Well, it did help my own career along too, didn't it?”


I shrug good-naturedly. “It probably did. And I don't necessarily agree with a lot of things done during that period either. Nor does he. I think. But I also think that it could have been a lot worse had he and his team not taken charge.”


Hermione simply observes me for a moment.


“You really are proud of him, aren't you?”


“Yes, I really am. I know that the next generation may well condemn most of what was done, but somebody had to do the dirty work. Everybody can't be idealists.”


When Hermione leaves, I think about how happy I am to be a part of what Draco has done and will be doing in the future. Half of me is terribly afraid of having to pull him down from some kind of rampage-slash-power-trip in some distant future, but Draco is not his father. A lot has changed in our world and I firmly believe that he has too.


The door opens once more and now it is my husband who enters.


“Is he asleep?” Draco asks me quietly.


I nod. “How long do they need you here? I was thinking of going home.”


“Hm...” Draco puts his arm around me and leads me away from the couch end where I've barricaded the sleeping baby with pillows. “What if we asked Celia to look after him for an hour? He's just sleeping anyway. Then I could parade my beautiful wife in front of the old and boring, eh?”


“You're calling them old and boring now, are you? Just an hour ago you went out of your way to charm them while boasting about how you broke the Death Eaters' resistance the night of the Mutiny.”


“That's not what I was doing at all. In fact, I downplayed my role however I could. I did, after all, stress the importance of Potter's defence tactics in the Atrium, didn't I?” Draco smirks.


“Yes, that's what you wanted them to think. Harry blushes every time his heroic conduct is brought up.”


I can see Draco's amusement in the line of his lips and sparkle of his eyes. “The memory of crimson Potter does help, thank you.” He nods complacently. “Thinking about that night being added to the endless list of his heroic deeds would be almost intolerable without it.”


I punch his arm, but he stifles his cry and points to the couch.


“Don't worry, oh jealous one, you've made it into the newest history books too. Although I believe your part in suppressing the Mutiny is heavily exaggerated and glorified.”


“Not as much as Potter's,” he says and I believe him.


It's actually one of the pillars of Draco's good standing with the wizarding Britain that he supports the belief of Harry being an instrumental force in winning the battle. George taunts Harry mercilessly about it too.


“So, how about it then? The walk-about to show our beauty and superiority among the living in the banquette hall?”


His hand is warm in mine as we walk down the hall. I glance at him and smile. He smiles back.


Life is good, I think right then. Draco still works like a beast and is never home, and we still argue up a storm occasionally, but now we know how to get past it. And sometimes we break things and sometimes we don't talk, but that's beside the point. The point is that now it's not the end of the world when we do.


I know that Draco Malfoy has hurt me a lot in the past and will probably do so in the future, but that's life. I know that I've hurt him a lot too and will again. Life, though, is nothing without love, and we have that.


FIN