I'm not crazy, I'm just a little unwell
I know, right now you can't tell
But stay awhile and maybe then you'll see
A different side of me
—Unwell, Matchbox Twenty

One: Waking Up

The difference between having her eyes open and keeping them closed was the noise that accompanied sight. One moment she was shrouded in a blissful silence, but as soon as Ginny's eyes fluttered open, sound rushed in. She flinched in response to the noise, expecting flashes of light to go along with it, though she didn't understand why.

"She's awake," an unfamiliar voice said.

"What's going on?" Ginny croaked.

Her eyes darted around in confusion, taking in the dark ceiling, glimpses of lime green, flurries of activity. Someone poked her in the ribs. Someone else leaned over her and pointed a wand in her face. She flinched again, her limbs jerking violently to escape from an attack. Whole bodies attached to her arms and legs, holding her down. When Ginny attempted to kick whoever held her, another person joined the fray to keep her pinned.

Her eyes stung with tears, which fell when a man held her eyelids open and pointed a wand back into her face. However, instead of spell fire, only light shone through the tip into her eyes.

Suddenly, Ginny's strength left her, and her tense muscles relaxed. The people around her took advantage of her stillness by forcing her jaws apart to pour a bitter concoction down her throat. She choked, but the potion worked its magic not only effectively, but also efficiently.

No sooner had she swallowed than her world faded to black.

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“Ginny?”

“Is she waking?”
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The next time Ginny awoke, she immediately registered the lack of noise. She closed her eyes again, just in case someone noticed her and alerted others, but there was no indication that anyone else was with her. Carefully, she opened her eyes and sat up, taking in her surroundings.

"We're in St. Mungo's," a voice to her right said.

In the bed next to her, Draco Malfoy sat with a tray of unappetizing hospital food in his lap. Ginny looked around and saw that they were in a large wood-paneled room with five hospital beds on each side, all of which, besides theirs, were empty. There were two doors: one at the top of the room, which must have led out into the corridor, and another set into the middle of the opposing wall. A lavatory maybe?

"Wha—" She coughed to clear her throat. "What are you doing here?"

Malfoy looked at the unidentifiable piece of meat on his fork and then placed it back on the tray in disgust. "It's rude to pry," he said as he moved the tray to his bedside table.

Frowning, Ginny tried to remember what had happened to put her in the hospital, but her mind was frustratingly blank. She couldn't remember anything before her eyes opened except for indistinguishable sounds and then crushing silence.

She rearranged her pillows and leaned back, tired from the effort of keeping her body elevated with her arms alone. "How long have I been here?" she asked Malfoy.

He shrugged, and she found the gesture strangely unlike him—at least what she thought he should be like. It was too inelegant. "I'm not sure. You were here when I woke up two days ago. I don't even know how long I've been here."

There was a grim set to his mouth that Ginny felt herself copying. This was all so strange. Except for a bit of exhaustion from sitting up, she felt fine.

A Healer in lime green robes entered from the door at the end of the ward. Ginny and Malfoy occupied the two beds closest to the windows at the opposite end of the room. As the Healer neared, Ginny threw the blankets back and swung her legs over the edge of the bed.

"Oh no, dear. You can't get out of bed yet!" the Healer cried, rushing forward to shove Ginny back down.

"But I'm fine! I feel fine!"

"No, no, dear. You're ill." Ginny's pillows were fluffed, and she was pushed once more onto her back. She couldn't deny the weakness she felt deep in her bones, pulling her down onto the hard mattress, yet still she struggled.

"What's wrong with me?"

"Not now, dear. That's a conversation for another time."

Ginny pushed herself up, fury filling her voice. "What time? Tell me now! I have a right to know what I'm being seen for!"

"Oh dear," the Healer said, stepping away from the bed as another Healer entered the room with a vial in hand.

"No! I don't want to sleep," Ginny screamed. But against her wishes, another foul potion was poured into her reluctant mouth. Just as her strength left her and her eyes fluttered closed again, she saw Malfoy's face drawn into an expression of sympathy as he watched her, and then, for the second time that day, she slept.

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“Ginny!”

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The next time Ginny's eyes opened, darkness greeted her. It must have been late because, except for a soft sound, the silence in the room was absolute. Moonlight shone into the ward, blanketing Malfoy in his bed and washing out what little color was left in his face. The sound, Ginny realized, was Malfoy snoring lightly. Under his moonlight blanket, he was swaddled in thin hospital sheets; what she could see of his body rose and fell with each snuffling breath.

There was something kind of adorable about the sight, but Ginny also felt a stab of envy that he could look so serene and secure. She was off-footed and frightened about what was happening, and she only wished she could put her worries aside to sleep—willingly!—peacefully.

Ginny sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. That small movement took her breath, and her arms shook from the effort of just keeping herself up. Frustrated tears prickled at the corners of her eyes, but she grit her teeth and forced her limbs still. She wouldn't be able to stand, but she'd be damned if she stayed helpless in bed.

"Hey," she called in a whisper, though it came out a raspy, garbled syllable. She cleared her throat. "Pssst. Malfoy."

"Hngh," he replied, burrowing himself deeper under his sheets. All she could see of him now were his forehead and nose.

"Malfoy," she said at a normal volume.

He rolled away from her with a cat-like mrugh sound.

With an exasperated sigh and some muttered curses, Ginny steeled herself and gathered her strength. With a momentous push with her arms, she got herself standing on aching legs. Yes! She was doing it!

Oh... wait, no she wasn't. Before she could even take a step, she lost her balance and fell forward, her knees hitting the stone floor with a jolt straight up her thighs even as her elbows caught her torso on the edge of Malfoy's bed. The cracking sound of Ginny's knees was nearly as painful as the impact itself, but it was Ginny's weight on the bed that caused Malfoy to roll back over and wake up.

He blinked a couple times, trying to uncross his eyes—as he and Ginny were nearly nose to nose—and in a rough, sleep-laden voice said, "If you wanted in my bed, all you had to do was ask."

Ginny would have slapped him, but her grip on the bed sheets was the only thing keeping her from sliding to the floor.

"Sod off, Malfoy," she said through her clenched jaws.

Shaking himself awake, he seemed to notice the trembling of her muscles and the awkward position in which she held herself. Her face burned as their eyes met, hers fiery with defiance, his impassive and bland. Without a word, he rolled out of the opposite side of his bed and before she knew it, he stood beside her.

"May I?" he asked, his arms held out before him.

She nodded because his features were expressionless except for a crease in his brow that gave him some severity. Nevertheless, she was humiliated as he slid his arms under her knees and around her back, lifting her easily from the floor. Suddenly, she was aware that she was clothed in a simple hospital gown and knickers, and the blush in her face extended to her ears and neck.

Malfoy gently placed her on her own bed, and then quickly crawled into his. Defeated and betrayed by her own body, Ginny shoved her legs under the sheets and then fell back onto her pillow.

"Well, that was an adventure."

"A thank you would be the polite response right now," Malfoy said.

"You know what?" she began, but one look at Malfoy had her mouth clamping shut. His arms shook, though he tried to hide it. One arm was thrown over his head, covering his eyes, and his fingers jerked until he tightened them into a fist. Apparently he wasn't as strong as she'd thought, and he'd used up the little strength he'd had left to help her.

"What?" he asked.

"Thank you," she mumbled, not ungratefully.

"Sure. Be more careful next time."

There was silence for a few moments, and then Malfoy lowered his arm to his side and glanced back at her. "What were you doing anyway?"

"Trying to wake you up."

"Why would you do that? It's arse o'clock in the morning."

She had to swallow her inappropriate laughter before she could speak again. "How am I supposed to know what time it is? I just woke up from a potion-induced sleep. I want to know what's going on here, Malfoy! What am I doing here? What happened? What's wrong with me?"

Malfoy made an aggravated gesture with his hands, and the glare he gave her was paralyzing. "Look, you're not the only one asking those questions, okay? I have no idea, and the Healers won't tell me anything. They put me to sleep every time I ask, so I've stopped asking."

"And you're content with that?" she asked in disbelief. Her voice came out louder than intended. Both of them froze, waiting for a Healer to rush in with beastly potions in hand.

In a softer voice, he replied, "Of course not. I'll just wait until my parents come and sort everything out."

Ginny nearly snorted, remembering his "Wait until my father hears about this!" days at Hogwarts, but she was lost in the thought of her own parents' eventual appearance. There was a crease in Malfoy's brow, but Ginny ignored whatever emotion he was feeling and said, "That's a good idea. Mum and Dad will fix everything."

She couldn't sleep for the rest of the night, so she watched as the moonlight cut across the room hour by hour. Under the sickly light, Malfoy looked severely ill, with pasty, nearly translucent skin and dark shadows under his eyes. She wondered if the pox that plagued him was contagious. Maybe she should ask the Healers to move her to another room.

Then the moonlight shifted into sunlight, and Malfoy looked as he ever did, though less haunted and serious than she remembered him being during his final years at Hogwarts. The candids she had seen of him in newspapers and magazines in the years since he'd left school had always captured him with an arrogant or disdainful expression. She'd always thought him a smarmy git, but his illness stripped him of that smarmy attitude now. He looked weak and powerless. Perhaps those photographs in the Prophet had only hidden his true nature.

Dawn finally cracked the sky wide open, shedding light on a cold horizon, but as Healers trotted in with breakfast, Ginny couldn't sweep the cold from her bones.

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Her parents didn't visit that day. Neither did Malfoy's. One day turned into two. Two turned into a week, and as every day passed without visitors or answers, the expression on Malfoy's face darkened, and the coldness in Ginny's heart spread. They became the perfect patients: silent—if sullen—and obedient. They ate their meals, took their potions, and suffered through their daily hour of exercise without resistance. Ginny couldn't fathom what Draco was thinking, and she didn't care for most of that first week after she'd woken up.

On the tenth day, during their exercise, which consisted of a walk about the ward, Ginny finally broke the silence.

She shuffled to his side, her head down to keep the attending Healer from seeing her lips move.

"No one's coming for us, are they?"

"No."

She could hear the steel trap in that one word, as if his jaws had locked closed and only great force would release them.

"Maybe no one knows we're here. Have you heard any of the Healers call us by name? Maybe they don't know who we are," Ginny suggested hopefully.

Her hope withered under his revolted glare, and his eyes, which she could have sworn had been pale gray in the moonlight last week, turned dark like the clouds that signaled a bad storm.

"Maybe I'm egotistical—and I know I am—but we are two high profile people. It wasn't too long ago that I was on trial for war crimes, and I'm almost positive you've been hounded by the media for the last month because of your breakup with Potter. But, you know, maybe you're right. I'm sure they don't recognize us."

Ginny's ears burned partly in embarrassment—because Malfoy was right, damn him—but mostly in anger. Her eyes narrowed, her fists clenched, and suddenly she forgot she was supposed to be going on a leisurely, strength-boosting walk.

"You don't have to be so nasty. As horrifying as the reality is, we're stuck here. Together. You're the last person I want to be hospitalized with, but we can't change that now."

A Healer rushed up to them looking stern. "Is there a problem here?"

"No, Healer Chiswick. Everything's fine." Ginny looked away from Draco's thunderous eyes and stormed off to continue her walk alone.

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Later that night, Ginny lay awake staring at the wood-paneled ceiling waiting for the soft snores that signified Draco's drift into sleep. Her mind was a buzz of activity, and, as a result, the rest of her body was restless. She shifted her legs, stretched her arms, turned her head, but no position felt comfortable; the more she struggled to sleep, the angrier she became. For the first time since she arrived, she wished she had a Dreamless Sleep potion to aid her.

She had to admit that she and Malfoy were treated well here, even though she didn't know why they were here or what the potions they were treated with were for. She tried to be as impassive and emotionless as Malfoy because she didn't want anyone to know how frightened she was. The fact that neither her family nor her friends had been to visit affected her more than not knowing what was going on. That no one had come meant that something was gravely wrong, and that was the most frightening thing about waking up in St. Mungo's and not knowing why.

“Oh, Ginny...”

Heart racing, Ginny searched the darkness of the room for the voice that had just spoken, but the room was empty save for Malfoy and herself. She stayed still, waiting for the voice to speak again, but all she could hear was her pulse beating a tattoo against her throat, and even that began to fade as she calmed down.

Finally, the silence was replaced with snoring, and Ginny threw the bedsheets off her body. The daily walks had done her body a world of good; now when she stood up, her legs held her. With one more glance at Malfoy, who continued to sleep soundly, she made her way to the door, listening for footsteps from the other side. All was silent, so she opened the door and—another first—stepped into the corridor.

To her direct right, double doors led to the stairs and receptionist area for this floor, and to the left, the corridor continued, the walls on each side lined with more doors. Even though she couldn't hear anything, Ginny knew there would be an attending Healer guarding the lobby beyond the double doors, and, hopefully, if Ginny remained quiet, the Healer would stay where he or she was.

Ginny just needed a few minutes, just long enough to search for answers.

She turned around to examine the door of her ward, and there, in a sign posted to the right of the door frame, was all the horrifying information she needed:

Janus Thickey Ward 49
Healer-in-Charge: Meriadoc Goldberry

Underneath that hung patient charts for Agnes Bergil, Gilderoy Lockhart, Alice and Frank Longbottom, Draco Malfoy, and Ginny Weasley.

Ginny took a step back, her eyes darting from the name of the ward to the name of the patients in disbelief. She tried to convince herself that the dim lighting prevented her from reading the sign and charts correctly, but that would have been foolish. The glowing orbs hanging in the air above her might have been dimmed due to the late hour, but the light they shed was sufficient.

She lifted a hand to touch the sign, just to make sure it was real, but before her fingers could meet the metal plaque, a voice rang out.

"Hey! What are you doing out of bed?"

Ginny startled as a male Healer ran up to her and got a good look at her face.

"You're not supposed to be out of your ward!" He placed one large hand around Ginny's upper arm and pushed her back into the room.

Too disoriented to even think about fighting back or asking questions, she complied when he pulled her sheets back and instructed her to get in the bed. All the way out the ward, he muttered to himself about irresponsible trainees endangering lives by leaving doors unlocked, and then Ginny heard the unmistakable click of a door locking.

Ginny waited a moment longer and then sat up again, staring as hard as she could through the darkness into the room. It looked just as she remembered it the last time she'd been here— Christmas of her fourth year at Hogwarts—except more sterile. A couple days previously, the armchairs, like the one from which Gilderoy Lockhart had signed autographs for Ginny, Ron, Harry, and Hermione, had been moved to create a sitting area by the window, but all the personal effects of the patients had disappeared.

Actually... so had the patients. The beds she and Draco currently occupied were the ones that the Longbottoms had used ten years ago, and even though there had been patient charts for four other people hanging outside the door, Ginny had not seen any of them. She and Draco were the only patients on the closed ward.

Where had the others gone?

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Two: Occlumency

Draco ate his lunch in bed, as usual, while ignoring Ginny Weasley, also as usual. Ever since she'd woken up that morning, something had been bothering her. Draco could tell because Weasleys were notoriously inept at concealing their feelings. She'd tried valiantly to hide her fright and confusion over the last several days, but there was a troubled V in her brow that she couldn't disguise. She also couldn't help glancing at Draco at least once every other minute, and it was this gesture of hers that had grated on his nerves the most.

Now, as they ate lunch, her glancing rate had increased to once every twenty-four seconds, and the way she picked at her cheese sandwich signified that she had something she wanted to say, except she didn't really want to say it.

Draco rolled his eyes. Weasleys.

"You seem troubled. Anything you wish to share?" he asked sardonically.

"No, of course not," she denied, her eyes jerking back to her meal so fast Draco wondered how she kept them from rolling around inside her head.

"Well, I have something to say," he said.

"What's that?" she muttered into her sandwich.

"You may not know this, but I took offense at what you said yesterday."

"What did I say?" She looked affronted at the very idea that she could have offended him, which was natural for a Weasley and a Gryffindor. They never considered how their actions had consequences.

"You know, that bit about me being the last person you wanted to be hospitalized with. I can honestly say I don't feel the same about you."

He treasured the look of open-mouthed confusion on her face as he ate his own lunch with a nonchalance she couldn't possibly match.

"Is that so?"

"Oh, sure. I have a list of people a mile high I would never choose to be stuck in a hospital room with. My Aunt Bellatrix is very high on it, but as she's dead, I suppose she doesn't count. Potter is probably number one on the list. There's also Tybalt Tilly from work, who 's rather silly. A real idiot, actually. And Gloriana Borin, who, if you can believe it, is dull as dust."

"Are these even real people?" Weasley asked with an irritated frown.

"Of course they are. What I'm trying to say is you shouldn't say such hasty, untrue things. I don't think I've spoken a word to you since my fifth year at Hogwarts, and I haven't seen you since the war ended. Outside of the Prophet, I mean. Good job with that, by the way." Draco wiped his fingers on his napkin, and then placed his lunch tray on his bedside table, turning, for the first time, to look at Ginny Weasley with a stern eye. "You don't know me, so how can I be the last person you want to be around?"

Weasley's eyes were wide. "Are you trying to convince me to like you?"

"That would be intolerable. I'm trying to make my environment less hostile."

"It isn't my fault your environment is hostile!" she said in a rather loud voice that some people might consider hostile.

Draco arched one eyebrow and stared at her pointedly until she looked away.

"Unlike you," she said softly, "I can't just hide my emotions. They leak out, tint the atmosphere. I know that, but I don't know how to change it."

"I had to practice extensively to earn my impassivity. Occlumency isn't easy; it requires self-discipline."

Her frown turned into a glower. "Harry couldn't even master Occlumency." A few moments of mulish silence passed. "I have to admit that I'm impressed."

"And you hate it, don't you?"

"And I may envy you a bit. If I were an Occlumens, I'm sure the media wouldn't be following me around like they are."

"You mean like they were. No one's bothered us here except for the pushy Healers."

"Right," Weasley said, and she seemed to refrain from rolling her eyes.

The poor girl was now staring and making faces at her warm sandwich. She looked like she needed to be committed, until Draco remembered that she was committed. As was he. He would have laughed if it wasn't so damn depressing.

"Look," he said already regretting what he was about to say. "I could teach you."

She snorted, which made him regret the offer even more. "Why would you do that?"

"Well, for one thing, maybe it's the red hair, as the media likes to say, but you have an explosive temper that could ruin your image. If you don't want the media to focus on your romantic spats or for your teammates to assume you're too volatile to play first-string, you need to control it. I happen to know that the real source of your anger isn't derived from the color of your hair because, to be honest, I'd be angry too if I had to date Potter for even one year. But besides your reputation, your Quidditch career is on the line. That should be motivation enough."

"Okay, but what's it to you if I ruin my reputation or my career? Why do you care?"

"Oh, believe me, I don't. I just thought I'd do a nice thing for you...."

Weasley's brows lifted in expectation. "And in return?"

Draco smiled. "You would help me relieve the boredom."

"I am not making that deal!"

"What? No, Weasley, don't be disgusting! I mean teaching you will be amusing, and that will relieve the boredom! Circe's left tit, get your mind out of the gutter!"

She gave him a calculating look, but Draco already knew he'd won her over. The corner of her lips was tugged up into a half smile and trembling as if she was fighting it. At least he'd done what he'd set out to do and wiped the ugly scowl off her face.

"Alright, fine," she said, composing herself. "I'll let you teach me Occlumency."

Draco rolled his eyes again. "How kind of you."

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Their first lesson began that night after dinner, when the Healers generally left them alone. For a while after lunch, Weasley had been distracted enough. At the very least, the wrinkle in her forehead had disappeared, even if she still didn't bother with conversation or normal human interaction. That was all right though. Draco had always known that Weasleys had no manners.

Once the Healers had considered them strong enough to be out of bed for longer than their daily exercise period, they'd made the sitting area by the window a little more comfortable with a small table for tea or card games. Now they sat in the armchairs facing each other. The glowing orbs of light floating on the ceiling were dimmed for the evening hours, and the light of the moon hadn't quite yet risen over the London skyline.

"Listen, before we begin," Weasley started, but Draco interrupted her.

"Ah, ah. There's no backing out. My sanity depends on this."

She expelled a nervous giggle, and that, partnered with the shocked look on her face, had Draco wondering about her sanity.

"Well, you see, about that...."

"I know you like the sound of your voice, but it's unnecessary in these lessons, Weasley."

She bit her lip and looked down while Draco breathed a sigh of relief.

"Good," he said, drawing his chair a little closer to hers. He reached for her hands, but she jerked away. "Physical contact helps." Her hands drifted back in his direction, and this time she allowed him to grab them.

The feel of skin on skin was surprisingly welcome, Draco thought as he looked down at their joined hands. He hadn't realized until now that he'd been missing physical contact. Sure, every time he saw the Healers they couldn't resist poking and prodding him, but Draco hadn't felt a welcome touch in ages. He had been so used to his mother touching his shoulder, kissing his head, and grasping his hands—just in sheer relief that he was still around for her to do so—that he'd taken her gestures for granted. Weasley's fingers were cold, and when he looked into her face, he saw terror there.

"I haven't practiced Legilimency in a long time, so I don't know how well this will work," he informed her.

Maintaining eye contact, she asked, "Do you have to use it to teach me Occlumency?”

Draco shrugged. "We could try without it, but the easiest way to tell if you are learning is by using an offensive approach. Here, just look into my eyes—yes, I know it's intimidating, but you can do it—and we'll... start."

He concentrated his consciousness into a point and channeled it into Weasley's eyes, imagining a bottomless well and himself falling into it, but... something was stopping him. Draco pulled back, his grip on her hands loosening in surprise.

"What am I supposed to do?" Weasley asked, oblivious of Draco's confusion.

"What are you doing?" he asked, examining her now with more consideration than before.

"Nothing! You didn't say to do anything."

"What were you thinking about?"

She blushed and looked away. "Nothing in particular."

Hmm. Interesting. He'd have to analyze that reaction at a later time.

"Fine. I was just going to dive in first, so you'd know how it felt, but let's go ahead and set up your defenses." Weasley nodded and watched him attentively, so he continued. "The easiest way to begin is to use visualizations. Imagine a door, and think of yourself locking whatever you're trying to hide behind the door. When your mind comes under attack, bring up this door to keep the Occlumens out. As time goes on, you won't need the visualization anymore.

"So," he said, grabbing her hands again. "Think of a door and tell me when you're ready."

Weasley closed her eyes, her brow furrowing in concentration. Draco noticed how light her eyelashes looked laying so close to her skin, and he knew redheads were supposed to be pale, but Ginny Weasley wasn't. Even if the mess of freckles dotting her face and arms didn't make her skin appear darker, her career required her to spend hours at a time in the sun, and maybe most redheads burned, but she tanned. He took stock of the weight of her hands. Her grip was firm and a little bit clammy, but he could feel the calluses resultant from clutching a broom daily.

When she opened her eyes, he suddenly noticed the color: a light brown edged with a darker brown. Nothing fancy. They were kind of flat and pretty unspectacular, but there was something behind them that prevented him from entering her mind, and that intrigued him.

She squeezed his hands and said, "Ready."

Once more, Draco concentrated on siphoning his consciousness into the darkness of Weasley's eyes, and once again he was met with resistance. No, that was an understatement. It was as though a brick wall had been constructed just behind her pupils. Her mind was completely protected.

"Is something supposed to be happening?" she asked.

"Yes, Weasley, something is supposed to be happening," Draco said through a clenched jaw. "I can't get in."

"Are you sure? Maybe I'm just naturally gifted."

Draco scoffed. "If you're naturally gifted, then I'm a poor man, and the last time I checked my bank vault, I am far, far from poor."

Weasley rolled her eyes. "Then what's the problem?"

Draco stood up, but he had nowhere to go and nothing to do. That's what these lessons were supposed to be for: a distraction, an occupation, an activity. Anything that wasn't lying on a hospital bed trying to forget that he was supposed to be "ill." What a load of hogwash. If he was ill he'd remember it! But he didn't remember anything after getting a drink... somewhere. On some day? At noon. No! Dusk? Well, it didn't matter. Draco Malfoy was being held hostage at St. Mungo's, and he didn't like it. As soon as he got out of there, his funding would end, that was for sure! Harsh? No! No one treated a Malfoy this way with no explanation (or even with one) and got away with it.

"The problem is that I literally hit a wall. I keep meeting it and bouncing back. If you were using Occlumency properly, I would get in, but there wouldn't be anything to see except what you allow me to see."

Weasley stood up all huffy. "Well, I would know how to use Occlumency properly if you could teach me!"

Draco was starting to think her emotions were ruled by her hair, and now he wondered who'd had it worse in their relationship: Weasley, who'd had to deal with pompous Harry Potter, or Potter, who'd had to deal with emotionally unstable Ginny Weasley?

"Oh, enough. I wasn't insulting you," Draco said. "For once."

Now they were both standing, and it was, Draco had to admit, awkward. To give himself the appearance of purpose (and it was important to always maintain that appearance as Malfoys should never dawdle uselessly), he went to the window and looked out at the Muggle streets of London. He didn't look at anything in particular, and really wasn't taking in any of it, but he knew he looked pensive, and that was all that mattered. He stayed posed there until Weasley cleared her throat, and then he turned around as if surprised to find he wasn't alone.

"I'm glad it didn't work," Weasley said, and that blasted wrinkle in her forehead returned. Hufflepuff's fancy badger! She acted as if she was in the middle of a crisis or something, and it was ruining Draco's attempt to ignore said crisis. "There's something I've been hiding, and you should hear it from my mouth, not my thoughts."

Oh, what now? "Go on," Draco said with a severe expression on his face that only seemed to make her more nervous. She sank back down into the chair, her fingers gripping the arms for support.

"Have you tried opening the door?" She pointed to the other side of the ward at the door leading out into the corridor.

"No. Why would I?"

"I don't know! Why wouldn't you?" Now she looked annoyed. Great. "Do you think we're here fairly? I don't. So I went out into the hall to have a look around."

"And?"

"Well, I found out that the door should have been locked!"

Draco suddenly became more attentive. "Locked? But only closed wards have locked doors."

She nodded significantly, her eyes wide and grave.

As he took a few steps closer to her, he asked, "Weasley, what ward are we on?"

Her first attempt at answering came out an unintelligibly whispered mumble.

“Try that again?”

“The Janus Thickey Ward!” she snapped.

Well, that made no sense. Only patients with permanent spell damage or mental instability were kept in the Janus Thickey ward, and Draco had neither suffered permanent spell damage nor been declared unstable. As far as he knew. This was absolutely ridiculous! Could this be an honest mistake?

“Are you sure?” he asked.

She stood up from the chair, outraged. “Yes, I'm sure! I saw the plaque on the door, the name of the Head Healer for the ward, and our patient charts. I'm positive.”

"And you weren't going to share this little fact with me?" he asked, absolutely furious at her gall. How long had she been planning to keep this information from him?

"Yes, I thought about being petty and keeping it from you, but what does you knowing change? Nothing! We're still stuck here. We still don't have any answers!"

"Maybe we can get them now! Perhaps there has been some sort of mix-up. We need to let the Healers know!"

Weasley sneered—actually sneered!—at him. "Now who's being foolishly optimistic? The Healers haven't listened to us before today. What makes you think they'll listen to a couple of people they think are too damaged and dangerous to leave in an unlocked room?"

Her eyes, the eyes he'd only just thought flat and unspectacular, actually blazed with the fire of her emotion. Draco knew best how to be cool, not just in his manner, but also in his very mood, but she... she was like a burn. You didn't know it was there until you touched it, and then all the pain poured out. She was painful to look at in all her burning, angry glory.

"I am not damaged! I am perfectly sane, and I will not abide by this!"

"Then, please, go ahead and fix it. Use your Malfoy influence and make things right!" She stormed back to her bed and petulantly wrapped herself in her sheets, turning her back on Draco.

He looked around the ward, but what else could he do but the same? It wasn't until he was likewise ensconced in his uncomfortable bed that the truth he'd just learned and the one he'd instinctively known finally collided, refusing to be ignored any longer. And that was the game he'd been playing all along, wasn't it? Ignorance wasn't really bliss. He should have known better.

He and Weasley were in a mess of trouble.

Well. Shit.

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.
.

Three: Escape

Ginny almost wished she and Malfoy were on speaking terms because the Dungbomb she'd dropped the previous night had been hard enough to deal with alone. Instead of splitting the burden or strategizing their next step, she and Malfoy stubbornly ignored each other while they waited for the Healers to bring breakfast, though Ginny was beginning to suspect that Malfoy was trying to annoy her. She sat up in bed with her arms crossed in a belligerent refusal to interact with him, and Malfoy copied her pose exactly, down to the scowl on her face and the twiddling of her toes.

She wanted to tell him off for being childish, but that would go against everything she currently stood for. In other words, she refused to be entertainment for Draco bleeding Malfoy.

"Gooood morning, dears!" Healer Gibby said as she backed into the room with a food trolley.

Ginny didn't bother responding in kind as she had the last several days, but Malfoy wiped the scowl off his face and gave an annoyingly perky (for him), "Morning, Healer."

A multitude of Healers took care of Ginny and Malfoy. Ginny had a suspicion that the majority of them were training, and the Janus Thickey Ward was the perfect ward to disabuse such wet-behind-the-ears Healers of their notions of optimism. There was no hope for the patients in ward forty-nine, and the sooner they learned that not all cases could be healed, the better.

Gibby was the kindest Healer; Ginny had to give her that. The rest of their caretakers were cold and to the point. They came in, did their duty, and left without ever saying a word—even if they were spoken to. Healer Gibby, on the other hand, was a sweet middle-aged lady who treated her patients like her own children. She went out of her way to make conversation, and even when Ginny and Malfoy met her attempts with silence, she never lost her glow. Ginny had a suspicion that Healer Gibby stayed on this ward to prove that optimism was a kind of medicine of its own.

For the eleventh morning in a row, Ginny received her breakfast in sullen silence, ignoring Healer Gibby’s chatter as easily as she’d ignored her noisy roommates at Hogwarts.

“What about you, dear? Did you sleep well last night?” the Healer asked Malfoy as she pushed the trolley around to his bed.

“Could have been better,” he replied.

“Oh?” She actually looked concerned!

“See, Healer, I think there’s been a mistake. I just discovered last night that I’m in the Janus Thickey Ward! Isn’t that ludicrous? I’d like to speak to someone about how such a mistake could have been made.”

“Oh. Oh, dear.” She patted Malfoy’s knee, and even through the corner of her eye, Ginny could see tears welling in Healer Gibby’s. “I’m so sorry. There’s been no mistake.”

Ginny glanced at Malfoy, and watched as the optimism bled out of him. He clenched the edges of the tray in his lap, and his friendly expression turned sour.

“If there has been no mistake, then what is wrong with me? I have a right to know. Do you know how much money my family donates to this hospital every year? If I am not moved to an open ward or told what ails me, that funding will stop. Now.” His tone was even and his volume was no higher than his normal speaking voice, but it was clear that his calmness was a farce. Underneath his words, an unmistakable anger roiled unlike anything Ginny had ever witnessed—perhaps because she shared his anger now, and the anger he’d displayed in their school days had been childish and irrational in comparison.

“My dear, I am not qualified to speak to you about such things.” Gibby now placed her hand on Malfoy’s shoulder, but his disgusted glare convinced her to keep her hands to herself. Her lips trembled as she pushed the trolley back around his bed. “Please. Just know that there has been no mistake. And I’m so sorry!”

She ran the rest of the way out of the room, and Ginny could hear her sobbing straight down the corridor, the creaking wheels of the trolley fading as she fled further away.

“That went well,” Ginny said.

Malfoy’s humiliation at the hands (or tears, rather) of Healer Gibby put the Quaffle in Ginny's pitch, which gave her the opportunity to break their silence. The standoff hadn’t lasted very long, but, then again, Ginny didn’t want to go through this ordeal by herself. She’d pretended to be asleep the previous night when Malfoy had crawled out of bed and tried the door for himself, and the devastated, frightened look on his face she’d seen as he'd returned to his bed proved to her that he didn’t want to be alone in this either.

Even if he didn’t know it just yet.

“Bugger off, Weasley. You were right, all right? You were right.”

“Oh, you want me to bugger off, do you?” Ginny pulled a wand out from under her leg and held it up. “Since you want to be left alone, I guess I’ll just have to take this with me.” She might have smirked a little, too. But only a little.

Malfoy’s mouth dropped open. “Where did you get that?”

Ginny shrugged, twirling the wand between her fingers. “Nicked it off good ol’ Gibby while she was giving me lunch. Good job making her cry. She probably won’t come back for ages now.”

“Do you know what this means?” Draco asked, shoving his breakfast tray to the end of the bed and swinging his legs over the side.

“Probably.”

“We can break out of here! We can escape!”

“Yes, that was my thought when I stole the wand,” Ginny replied with a sarcastic roll of her eyes. “Do you know what this means, Malfoy?”

Where before he’d been nearly overjoyed (as overjoyed as a Malfoy could be anyway), now he was wary. “What?”

“You are dependent on me. I have the wand, so you have to do what I say.”

“There aren’t very many places you can hide a wand here where I won’t find it, so if you don’t get us out of here as soon as possible, I will have to take the wand from you.”

Ginny clutched the wand to her chest. “You wouldn’t.”

Malfoy sneered. “You really don’t think I would? And don’t think hiding it on you will deter me from taking it, because I would be more than happy to search you for it.”

Ginny gulped as her flush spread quickly from her face to the rest of her body. A very tiny, disgusting part of her loved the idea of him searching her body, but the rest of her was indignant at such a declaration.

“We should eat some breakfast first, at least,” Ginny said.

“If you can call this breakfast,” Malfoy muttered.

“It’s the first meal of the day, so, yes, I do think you can call it breakfast.”

Malfoy approached Ginny's bed. "Has anyone ever told you that you're cheeky?"

"They don't have to tell me, do they? Hey, what are you doing?"

Malfoy had one knee on the bed, looking as though he wished to join her, and Ginny backed herself to the edge in retreat. He didn't answer her, just crouched over her as she continued her attempt to flee. When they were nose to nose, her back pressing down into the mattress, he lifted his hand. She didn't try to stop him when it moved towards her chest, just stared into his eyes, too aware of the thin fabric of her hospital gown between them. Her nipples tightened in anticipation of his touch, and her breathing became shallower. When his eyes came nearer, hers fluttered shut, waiting for the warm press of his lips on hers.

He ripped the wand out of her hand and returned to his bed before Ginny knew what was happening. Her eyes opened again, and he was smirking and twirling the wand in his fingers, looking smug and leaving a tight, empty expectation in her stomach.

"Now you have to do what I say," he said. "Or... I could not include you in my plans at all."

As she sat back up, Ginny frowned in disapproval, her ears burning with embarrassment at her reaction. How long had it been since her last kiss with Harry? Since the last time she'd slept with him? Too long. Long before they'd broken up more than a month ago. "I didn't think you'd be so cruel as to leave me behind,” she said to Malfoy, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Why not? Slytherins have been called many things, but what we are first and foremost is self-serving. You were in my way, so I took what I wanted."

He was such a slimy git, and his little speech proved it, but the way he said "I took what I wanted" made Ginny's face burn and her body ache. She hadn't felt wanted in so long—that was one of the reasons she and Harry hadn't worked out—but Draco Malfoy didn't want her, and she honestly didn't want to be wanted by him. At least she didn't think so, though her body seemed to say otherwise.

Being manipulated so easily loosened Ginny's tongue in a bitter, awful way.

"That doesn't sound much like you. I remember you being a little coward. You had all these ambitions and couldn't achieve them because Harry always foiled your plans."

She shouldn't have provoked him. He was the one carrying the wand after all, but she couldn't help herself. She was tired of being disposed of like something useless, as if Ginny Weasley's sole purpose in life was to defer to others and push out babies.

"I'm not like that anymore," he said, his jaw clenched so tight, she imagined his teeth breaking.

"Oh, so you're a proper Slytherin now? Mr. Big, Bad, and Terrible who takes what he wants because he's so big and bad?" Ginny stood up, her breakfast tray falling to the floor with a loud clatter. When she spoke, she pointed a finger in Malfoy's face. "You are not leaving me behind like a bad Sickle. I am worth more than that whether you see it or not, and if you don't take me with you, you will suffer the consequences."

Again, they were nearly nose to nose, but this time Ginny had her wits about her.

"What can you do?" Malfoy asked with a scoffing laugh.

"More than you think. More than everyone thinks," she seethed. She wasn’t little Ginny Weasley anymore, the baby of the family who had to be protected and cared for and... guarded!

"If you're so ready to go, then let's go," he said, and Ginny was relieved that he'd chosen not to question her further. She didn't know what the consequences she had spoken of were; all she knew was that this subject was hitting too close to a pain already deep inside her, and she would throw herself out the window before she admitted her weakness to him.

Maybe that was why she was in the Janus Thickey Ward. Had she jumped out a window for her pride? Ginny struggled to remember and failed, but that didn't feel like what had happened.

"Fine! Let's go!" She grabbed a dressing gown hanging on a bed post and put it on. "I'm ready!"

He shoved past her to the door, the wand gripped firmly in his hand. "Just don't get us caught."

Ginny breathed in deeply and clenched her fists to keep herself from replying, but the effort made her head want to explode.

Malfoy tried the doorknob without effect, so he pointed the wand at the door and whispered, "Alohamora." They heard a click, and this time when he tried to open it, the door swung inwards.

He stuck his head out of the room to look around, and then motioned to Ginny to follow him. The corridor was deserted, but she could hear the sound of voices coming from the lobby. It sounded like all the Healers were congregating around the reception desk.

"Here," Malfoy said as he tapped Ginny on the head with the wand.

There was a brief sensation like someone had cracked an egg on her head. When she looked down at herself, she saw right through her body. A Disillusionment Charm.

"Now we need a distraction," she said. "I've got an idea."

Before Malfoy could stop her, she crept down the corridor to the last room and snuck inside. Two people were sitting up in their beds finishing their breakfasts, but the door opening alerted them to her presence. As quietly as she could, she made her way to one of the patients, a woman whose head and hands were completely wrapped in bandages. Ginny was horrified as she took in the mess around her bed: eggs scattered all over the sheets, the bacon sitting limply on the floor, and her mouth covered in bandages preventing her from eating. She wanted to help, but there was no time and Ginny had her own problems, so she activated the alarm charm installed in the bed for emergencies and hurried out of the room.

She couldn't see Malfoy in his Disillusioned state, but she didn't have time to search for him anyway. She barely managed to crush herself against the wall before five Healers stormed down the corridor, and as soon as they passed, she had to run to catch the door to the lobby before it closed.

One Healer remained behind the reception desk looking concerned but oblivious to Ginny's presence. She was starting to wonder if Malfoy had made it through the door when a firm, invisible grip on her arm settled the matter.

“Nice thinking,” he whispered.

His hand slipped down her arm until her hand was clasped gently in his. It was strange to feel the warmth of his fingers and be unable to see them clearly. Strange... but pleasant.

He pulled her along after him towards the stairs, staying to the walls as much as possible. Ginny’s heart beat faster as they made their way down the spiral staircase. She didn’t know what they would do when they got out of the hospital, but just the idea of being free again made her spirits soar. She’d take the bloodthirsty media over the quiet seclusion of St. Mungo’s any day.

Thinking of what awaited her when she got out, Ginny wondered what Malfoy’s life was like now. She’d seen him in the Daily Prophet every now and then in the past few years, which was a change. After his family’s trials directly after the war, he and his mother had stepped out of the public’s eye. It was thought that they’d left the country, only returning when wizarding Britain had forgotten about them. About four years ago, Draco Malfoy had come back into the spotlight. Ginny wasn’t sure what he did for a living—if he did anything at all—but the press had been kind to him. That or he never did anything to warrant bad press.

Unlike Ginny, who’d managed to keep from making headlines for the majority of her relationship with Harry until the dramatic conclusion. She wondered what the press was saying about her now that she was supposedly insane.

She thought about Alice Longbottom, Broderick Bode, and Gilderoy Lockhart, all of whom had been so damaged that they were no longer themselves. Even Lockhart, who Ginny remembered as eager to sign autographs, hadn’t understood why he was famous. And Bode and Mrs. Longbottom had been incapable of speech and completely unaware of their surroundings. Where had they gone? Had they been cured?

But Ginny was alert, aware, and capable of speech. She knew who she was. She looked in the mirror in the bathroom every morning and saw herself, no fur or strange protrusions or discolorations that might keep her in the Janus Thickey Ward. The only memories she was missing were the ones that led her to St. Mungo’s. So why was she here?

“Weasley!” Malfoy hissed.

Ginny shook her head, bringing herself back from her thoughts.

“Listen....”

Footsteps. Someone was coming up the stairs. There wasn’t enough room for she and Malfoy to plaster themselves to the wall this time. They would have to retreat back up the stairs—losing progress and potentially revealing themselves with their own footsteps—or hide on another floor.

Ginny looked around for the nearest door, spotting one only one turn up the staircase. She pulled Malfoy towards it, but it wouldn’t budge. Locked.

Malfoy whipped the wand back out to unlock the door, and then shoved her inside, where she promptly tripped over something heavy and clanging. Both of them stiffened and waited for the noise to stop reverberating, and then held their breaths, expecting to be caught.

"Good going!" Malfoy said in a harsh whisper.

"If you hadn't pushed me, I wouldn't have fallen over a...." It was too dark to see, but Malfoy lit the wand tip, which illuminated the tiny utility closet they'd fallen into. "A bucket!"

Malfoy made no response. Instead, he pressed his ear to the door, listening for the sounds of people climbing the stairs.

"What is a broom closet doing in the middle of a staircase anyway?" Ginny muttered in irritation.

"Will you be quiet?" he hissed back.

Ginny threw her hands up in capitulation, turned the bucket over, and sat down on it, her elbow resting on her knee as her head perched on her fist.

Moments passed until Malfoy said, "I think it's clear." Then he doused the light.

Ginny stood back up, but he didn't move.

“What?"

"There's no doorknob."

"Then use the wand!"

"I tried that already. It's not working."

"What do you mean it's not working? It got us in here, didn't it?"

"Here, you try it, then!"

He shoved the wand into Ginny's hands, and then they tried to switch positions without making any more loud noises. Unfortunately, this meant squeezing herself past Malfoy, which meant putting her hands on his upper arms to steady herself, which in turn led to him placing his hands on her waist. They turned around, trying not to step on the bucket again or anything else that might be laying perilously on the floor, until Ginny was in front of the door. They quickly released each other, but even as she concentrated on unlocking the door, she could still feel the imprint of his hands on her body.

She couldn’t let that distract her right now, though. She wanted to get somewhere safe, where she could think about her stupid reactions to Malfoy’s touch in peace and freedom. They had to get out of the closet first in order to achieve that.

"Alohamora!" she whispered. When she pushed on the door, it didn't budge. She tried a few other spells she knew, and then in a normal, albeit irritated, tone tried a Reductor Curse for good measure. She groaned and let her forehead fall on the cool wood.

"Any luck?" Malfoy asked sarcastically.

Ginny's jaw clenched. "No."

"Well," he said as he took her previous place on top of the bucket, "looks like we're stuck here until one of our jailers gets us out. Thanks for your brilliant effort though."

She contemplated a Bat Bogey Hex, but the spell would surely backfire in such a confined space.

She was almost willing to suffer those consequences.

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Four: Contributions and Tortures

Draco heard a strange, brief sliding sound. Weasley must have sat down against the door.

"Are we just going to sit here in the dark?" he asked as he massaged his temples. He was starting to develop a headache, an unpleasant one, and the source of that headache could help by being less of an agitation to him.

There was a throaty sound of disgust before the room erupted with illumination, but Draco could see nothing of her except her vague shape, colored to match the door behind her.

“It’s bizarre seeing right through you,” he complained.

She exhaled in exasperation and said, “Finite Incantatem. Happy now?”

Not really. Draco suddenly regretted both the luminescence and the removal of the Disillusionment Charm as they offered him up for her scrutiny. In the dark or invisible, he could exist without being beleaguered by anyone else's opinion of him, but now he had to sit in this tiny closet with nothing to look at except the ever-present scowl on her face. And just as she was the cause of his headache, Draco knew that he was the cause of her scowl.

Weasley had been right about him early that morning: Draco Malfoy was a coward. He'd been right too: his cowardice was completely self-serving. As soon as he and his mother had escaped their trials, relatively unscathed thanks to Harry bloody Potter's testimony, they had withdrawn to the continent to evade media and public attention. It had been his mother's wish, and he'd gone with her because it just so happened that his mother's request had coincided with what served Draco best as well.

Draco didn't even know how many years he had been gone, and after years of peace and anonymity, they had returned to their homeland and quickly become swathed in attention. Eyes that would have swung right past them in France, watched them guardedly as if expecting he or his mother to attack. Those who hadn't seen them in person—and Draco had endeavored not to be present amongst the public as much as he could—could read about their comings and goings in the gossip rags that called themselves newspapers. But the Malfoys were contrite and well-behaved, and the media could not make money off well-behaved people, even though they tried.

So Draco did not like scrutiny. None of his accusers had lived through what Draco had, and to be judged so easily for actions he had been unable to prevent chafed against his pride and exacerbated his bitterness. He did not need the baby Weasley's judgment here, too.

"How long do you plan on staying here?" she asked several minutes later. She sat with her knees up, her heels flat against the floor, and her arms, with the wand dangling in one hand, settled on top of her knees.

Draco shrugged. "Until the door unlocks."

"And if it doesn't?"

He noticed her chewing on her lower lip, the crease in her brow one of worry, not displeasure. "I'd rather be stuck in here with you than out there with them," he answered truthfully. He hadn't been lying when he'd told her that she wasn't the last person he'd want to be hospitalized with. If they could somehow get along long enough to work together, they might even manage to make it out of the hospital.

Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but her face grew redder at his words, and she looked away from him to stare at the wall.

"Nervous, Weasley?" he asked with a smirk.

She shrugged, keeping her gaze averted.

He had an unnatural desire to reach out to her and touch her—not necessarily in a lewd way, either—just to make sure she was real. The closet was so small, their feet were nearly touching, and he wouldn't have to reach far to take her hand. The feel of her skin on his just yesterday had reminded him how isolated Draco still was. In order to avoid surveillance by the public, he had kept to Malfoy Manor as much as possible, traveling via private means—usually Floo—as convenient, and only venturing out when necessary.

That's what had made his visit into Diagon Alley so out of character for him when—

Draco's head pounded. He couldn't remember! Why couldn't he fucking remember?

"Are you all right?"

He released his tight grip on his head to meet Weasley's concerned eyes. No judgment or scorn. Just concern, though she did seem to question his sanity. That was appropriate. Draco was questioning it, too.

"Fine," he answered.

"Are you claustrophobic?"

"I said I'm fine, Weas—" But her eyes stopped him. They were actually tear-filled with an angry slant to her eyebrows, the worried crease still in her forehead. She looked caged and wild and ready to lash out at the slightest provocation.

"Are you?" he asked, wondering what in the hell he was doing trapped in this closet with this emotional woman.

"I hate being locked up," she answered, steel in her voice. "I don't like the silence or the loss of control or the darkness."

The light from the wand flickered, and every time the spell failed, red sparks flew out of the tip instead.

"Why don't you give the wand back?" Draco suggested, hoping she wouldn't attack him without provocation. He'd spent the last several days thinking that Weasley was just as sane as he was, but there had been no evidence to suggest that. What did he really know about her? Maybe she did belong in the Janus Thickey Ward, and he'd agreed to set her free upon the world!

"I can't," she said. "Without a wand, I'm powerless to fight back."

Nope. Nope, nope, nope. This woman was mad. Completely mental.

"Fight back against what?" He didn't dare ask "who." He was the only person around and he didn't want to give her any ideas.

"Everyone," she said savagely. "Do you know how they treated me after the war?"

Draco stiffened. "Who?"

"Everyone!" she repeated. "After everything I did... after everything that was done to me.... My family, Harry, everyone ignored it. They pretended it didn't happen. We'd lost Fred, so I didn't matter anymore!"

Draco had had his own problems during the war. His sixth year of Hogwarts had been the worst of his life. By the time the Dark Lord had taken over the school, Draco hadn't cared about anything anymore except himself and his family, but he remembered what had happened behind the walls. He remembered the kinds of detentions the Carrows had forced students to serve, and he remembered the example they'd made of Ginny Weasley. But he hadn't cared. He'd only wanted to get by without special notice from anyone, including the Death Eaters who had thought him a pathetic ally.

Draco didn't know how to proceed from here. He didn't want to rile her up even more, provoking her to attack him for the sheer fact that there was no one else around to take her abuse. So he humored her as best as he could, hoping to placate her enough to take the wand from her. "What happened to you?" he asked.

However, it didn’t seem as though much effort was needed from him to subdue her. She suddenly deflated; where her body had been tense before, it now went limp. The light from the wand steadied, emitting sparks no longer, revealing the expression of deep bitterness on her face. It went beyond the worried wrinkle in her brow, into her eyes, into her very spirit. The Dark Lord and the Death Eaters hadn’t been the only ones defeated during the war. Ginny Weasley had lost, too.

“I don’t like being contained. It reminds me of the time I spent by myself after the war, locked up in my room because I couldn’t handle everyone’s grief over Fred’s death on top of my own. No one asked me what happened to me while I was at Hogwarts. Not when I got pulled out of school after Easter break. Not when Harry returned. Not when everything ended. It was like my contributions and tortures didn’t matter.”

How different they were. Draco wanted his contributions and tortures during the war to be forgotten. He chose to lock himself up where no one could reach him. But that was the nature of their contributions—of the sides they’d fought for. Winners received glory. Losers only shame.

Draco remembered how the vestiges of Dumbledore’s Army had fought against Snape and the Carrows’ regime. Ginny Weasley had taken on Potter’s role as leader with Longbottom and wreaked havoc on the castle. She’d suffered for it, and the only people who’d known about it had been inside Hogwarts’s walls. Of course her family and Potter wouldn’t know or care. Potter was too full of his own importance to care about anyone else. How she’d continued to date him for years after the war, Draco didn’t understand, but there must have been some self-loathing or denial involved. How could she let herself be with him otherwise?

Emotion flickered across her face, unnamable but scarring, and Draco satisfied his earlier urge and reached out to take her hand. She was so surprised, the light spell ended, engulfing them in darkness once again. Draco pretended he hadn’t placed his hand on top of hers. Even though she couldn’t see, he turned his head, refusing to acknowledge what he’d done. Then he was surprised when she turned her hand over, entwining their fingers in a firm grip. He almost wished he could see the expression on her face. Maybe she was pointing the wand at him right now, ready to cast a curse to punish him for his unwanted touch.

That didn’t happen though, for her hand was ripped from his grasp when the door suddenly opened and Weasley fell backwards onto the floor. Above her stood a man in brown robes, the patch on his breast revealing him to be a member of the cleaning staff.

“Wha—” he said stupidly.

Draco considered bolting out the door and down the stairs. If he ran fast enough, he might overwhelm anyone he encountered and actually manage to escape. But Weasley was using her elbows to lift her upper body off the floor, and the janitor stood directly over her, trapping her there. He wanted to be self-serving and leave her behind, but he needed the wand Weasley was still holding, and there was something self-serving in that excuse, too.

“I’m so sorry,” Weasley was saying. “We were looking for a kitchen and got locked in a closet instead! We’ll just be heading back to the Artifact Accidents floor. I think I’ve lost my appetite anyway.”

The janitor looked like he bought the story. He stepped to the side of the door and apologized, reaching a hand down to help her up, but then voices floated up the stairs, and both Weasley and Draco froze.

“Oh my! What are you doing out here?” asked Healer Chiswick, one of their terse Healers, as she stood rooted on a stair below them.

Her companion, a male Healer-in-Training, said nervously, “I-is that a wand?”

Draco face-palmed as Weasley tucked the wand under her body and shook her head emphatically.

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.
.

Of course, the wand had been confiscated and returned to its rightful owner, and Draco and his faithful companion were returned to their ward, where the wood-paneled walls looked more and more like prison bars.

With each passing day, the mood in the room grew increasingly despondent, with a hint of bitter, flaming anger roiling under the surface. All he had to do was look at Weasley to know what she was feeling. As for him, he was starting to care less and less about hiding his own emotions. What did it matter, anyway? He and Weasley were companionable in their silences, and only spoke to each other when they were alone. Without agreeing to any sort of stratagem beforehand, both of them pretended to be adversaries when they had witnesses and allies when they had none.

In the post-dinner hours, they devised plan after plan for escape, but without a wand, nothing short of attacking a Healer as he or she entered the door seemed plausible. And now the Healers were more careful with their wands than they’d been previously.

“We have to be subtle, Malfoy! We can’t attack people with bedpans and hope no one notices a trail of bodies left in our wake.”

“What other option do we have? Do you want to get out of here or not?”

“Yes, but I don’t want to hurt anyone. That would make us just as bad as them.”

That silenced Draco, even though he didn’t agree. Normally he would take a more subtle route, like Weasley was suggesting, but they’d spent days scheming with no conclusive plans to show for it. Maybe they needed to use a little force.

“We have to be careful,” Weasley said in a gentler tone. “They’ve already got control of us. We don’t want to do anything to make them tighten the reigns.”

“How do you mean?” Draco asked.

“What if we attack someone and get caught? We’d only prove that we are in fact dangerous. They might start tying us to our beds. They might keep us in a body bind. That would be a far worse outcome, don’t you think?”

He could hear the fragility she tried to hide under the words. If the Healers tied her to her bed, she would spiral down into her madness at a faster rate. He tried to imagine being hospitalized with her while she screamed and cried to be freed. The thought made his stomach lurch—and not for her sake, either. What would happen to his sanity trapped in a room with her while hers drained away?

He didn’t tell her that she was right, but she accepted his sullen silence as agreement.

They hadn’t gotten anywhere in the days since their first escape attempt, but they’d bonded over their resentment of their caretakers. Even Healer Gibby had lost some of her optimism; now she fulfilled her duties with one wary hand on her wand at all times and without chatter of any sort.

Despite the tense situation, their plans came to fruition. Two weeks after their first failed escape, they set their first plan in motion.

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Five: On the Edge

Ginny held her hand over her mouth as tight as possible, trying to restrain her giggles. Across from her, Malfoy, hiding underneath his bed just as she was hiding under hers, shot her a glare, raising a finger to his lips to command silence. But she couldn't help it! The giggles were a nervous, involuntary tic. Laying on her back, staring up at her own bed springs, she could not only hear her heart beating inside her head, she could feel each of its pulses shooting through her. The silence, the stillness, they made her nervous, and thus... the giggles.

She could tell just by the sounds of their footsteps which Healer's duty it was to administer Ginny and Draco's potions today. The heavy clack-clack-clack of thick-heeled, unattractive shoes announced Healer Unger, a heavy-set woman who walked as if every step crushed something she loathed. Of all their Healers, she was the least likely to laugh at a joke, and probably the exact wrong person to prank.

A Healer-in-Training was tagging along today, and from under his lime green robes, Ginny could see his leather shoes, which seemed to be in need of a good polish. He tread more lightly than Unger, as if afraid to wake the room's occupants.

However, there were no occupants to be seen... unless one looked at ground level.

"They've escaped!" the Healer-in-Training squeaked.

"No," Healer Unger said with certainty, "they couldn’t have.”

"But there's no one here!" the trainee said in a shrill voice that Ginny now realized was his normal tone.

A snort escaped the confines of her hand, and she belatedly pressed her other hand to her mouth to cover it. Both Healers went quiet, and then... clack-clack-clack...clack.

Healer Unger's bulbous nose came into view, and Ginny lost it. She clutched her stomach as the peals of laughter rolled out; not even the Healer's massive frown could deter her shrieking mirth.

Unger waited until Ginny's laughter died down before she called Ginny and Malfoy to reveal themselves. As Ginny stood up and dusted off her back and derriere, she caught both Malfoy's frown and the Healer's disapproval. She felt slightly like a first-year confronting Professor McGonagall for the first time, except she cared very little whether Healer Unger approved of her or not. There was no points system at St. Mungo's for good behavior, and if there was, Ginny and Malfoy would have been well into the negative by now.

She played the part of a serious, apologetic patient as she climbed back into bed and received her potions from the Healers. But when they walked out the door, she turned to Malfoy and found a mischievous grin on his face, and suddenly she felt like she had the most points in all of St. Mungo’s.

"You gave it away too early," Malfoy said in his worst chiding voice. The adrenaline rush from pulling a prank was still too high for him to be anything but amused.

"It was hopeless, this one. It was just our bad luck that we got Unger today. She wouldn't freak out like Gibby would."

"Haven't we terrorized Gibby enough?"

Ginny mock-frowned. "Haven't we been terrorized enough? They'll get a taste of their own medicine and they'll like it!"

"Must admit," Malfoy said, getting comfortable with his hands locked behind his head. "Their medicine tastes better than ours."

Ginny choked on her laughter. "Yeah."

Ugh. Why was she laughing like that? She didn't have to laugh at everything he said. Not all of it was meant to be funny.

"Yeah," she said again, for lack of anything better to say, as she too made herself more comfortable by pulling her sheets up to her chin.

The last two weeks had been the strangest in Ginny's memory. She and Malfoy had become comrades of a sort, uniting over their displeasure for their Healers. At night they planned pranks, and during the day they pulled them off. They'd gone from the most obedient and best-behaved patients to utter nightmares, and they hoped that St. Mungo's would kick them out for all the trouble they caused. Well, Ginny hoped anyway. Malfoy seemed to enjoy the pranks simply as a way to get back at the Healers, and while Ginny felt the same way, she also couldn't completely abandon her optimism. A tiny part of her still believed that her parents would arrive one day to take her home, or, at the very least, tell her what had happened to her. At night, after their scheming, she dreamed up scenarios where she'd been lost, and then, thanks to random circumstances, her parents found her again.

However, that wasn't all she dreamed about.

She glanced over at Malfoy and saw his eyes flutter shut, then shoot open again a few moments later.

When she thought about what she'd told him in the utility closet two weeks ago, her whole body burned in embarrassment. She'd lost control of her emotions, just as she usually did, and told a near stranger, an almost-enemy, her deepest fears. She knew she'd rambled a bit; her bitter anger made her tongue thick and her words run too fast, so she wasn't sure if he'd gathered all that she'd said. But he'd listened to her, and that meant more than he knew. Then there had been a moment when he'd taken her hand, and she'd accepted it. The moment had been interrupted, and they'd never talked of it since, but she'd needed it. How had he known she'd needed it?

She was torn between being too embarrassed to envision what might have happened next and.... Well, she supposed she was just too embarrassed to think about any other emotions he might have stirred up within her.

It was all silly, and she knew she was making a big deal out of nothing, but after Harry, who hadn't listened to her in the entire time they'd spent together, she felt weak for attention. She hadn't noticed she'd been missing it until Malfoy had paid her some, but now she saw where it had been lacking in the last several years.

As Muggles said, hindsight was 20/40.

Now that they were allies, Ginny could envision them as something even more. It was absurd, completely absurd, but sometimes she imagined what it would have been like if she’d dated Malfoy for all those years instead of Harry. She envisioned Malfoy in Harry’s place in memories of kisses, dates, quiet nights at her flat, and family dinners. No, family dinners wouldn’t work, but she tried to make them. She changed the history of her family’s interactions with all of the Malfoys, and suddenly Draco Malfoy became a welcome guest at the Burrow. It was ridiculous. That wasn’t reality. But Ginny still imagined.

“What’s wrong with you now?” Malfoy asked, breaking Ginny from her reverie. How long had he been watching her? He'd been falling asleep moments ago.

“Nothing! Does something seem wrong?”

“Just the look on your face. I don’t need Legilimency to know how you’re feeling.”

“Y-you don’t?” Ginny’s face was suddenly flaming. She pulled her sheets up closer to her chest in a futile attempt to hide from him.

“Look, if it’s about two weeks ago—” How did he know? “—we can try again.”

Wait. What? “Try what again?” Ginny asked, confused.

“Escaping. It’s been entertaining planning out pranks and whatnot, but we shouldn’t give up just yet.”

"Oh... that. I know. You're right. We need to do something. We have to get out of here."

Malfoy smirked, and Ginny's heart palpitated like an idiot.

"I think I have another plan."

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Part of their new plan was their old plan. When the Healers came in to deliver potions or meals, Ginny and Malfoy completely ignored each other and them. To execute their new plan, they had to rid the air of hostility and replace it with an impassive blankness. It was hard for Ginny, who obviously couldn't control her emotions like Malfoy could, but she focused on her desire to be out of St. Mungo's to ground her. The anger was easy to cover when she wasn't currently being violated. The laughter was more difficult to suppress.

At night, Malfoy continued with his promise to teach her Occlumency, and even though he couldn't penetrate her mind for unknown reasons, he still had her practice some techniques he'd used when he was learning. Ginny couldn't tell whether they were effective or whether St. Mungo's was finally wearing her down. She might not have been mad when she woke up in the hospital over a month ago, but perhaps the confinement—or the potions?—were making her mental. Either way, the longer they enacted their plan, the more unraveled Ginny became.

"I hear someone coming!" she said as she stood near the door, listening.

"I'm... almost... finished," Malfoy grunted in reply, each word followed by a metallic scraping sound.

Ginny glanced back, and then ran to help him push the last bed into position. Then they jumped into two random beds and stared unseeingly up at the ceiling as they waited for their breakfasts.

When the Healer opened the door, he paused, just staring at the chaos of the room, his mouth hanging open in horror. Ginny and Malfoy did not react. They continued to stare at the ceiling uncomprehendingly, and only out of the corners of their eyes could they see what Healer Marco was doing. Weeks ago, Ginny wouldn't have been able to contain her snickers, but now she was as silent as the grave and as serious as a funeral.

Healer Marco stepped into the room carefully, though he couldn't move far. Ginny and Malfoy had awoken at dawn to rearrange the furniture, and now it looked like someone had picked up the room and shaken it. The beds, once lined nice and orderly down opposite walls, were now turned onto their sides, their ends, positioned haphazardly around the ward. There was no way to navigate through the room. One would have to crawl under or over the beds, wriggle around the obstacles.

"What have you done?" he asked Ginny and Malfoy, finally turning his eyes to them.

Ginny was in a bed on the right hand side of the room near the door and Malfoy was in the back left corner, in a bed turned to face the wall. Neither of them responded, just continued to stare at nothing.

Marco left, and even though Ginny's body was itching with restlessness, she kept up her act. She currently envied Malfoy's location. With his back turned to the door, he could at least rest his face for a few moments and no one would notice the change in his expression—not that he needed the reprieve with his skill in Occlumency.

It turned out, keeping her expression blank required a lot of concentration, so as Healer Marco returned with Unger, Gibby, and several trainees to put the room back to rights, she kept her thoughts focused on anything else. Fortunately, her mood was black enough that any thought she had contributed to her impassive facade.

She thought about Harry, which inevitably took her to thoughts of the war, which invariably led to reliving every horrible moment in her life. There weren't many, which was good. Before Hogwarts, there had been the day her Grandfather Weasley had passed away. Then her disastrous first year of school, which had led to her possession by a haunted diary. After that—not that that hadn't been traumatic enough—her life had been normal until her sixth year of school. Even her fourth and fifth years, serving under Umbridge's tyrannical rule and the fear of Voldemort's first strike, had been relatively carefree, despite the circumstances.

She hadn't suffered. She hadn't struggled to survive. Not until her sixth year of school. Not until Snape and the Carrows took control of Hogwarts. Maybe she wouldn't have suffered so much if she'd just kept her head down, but how could she have? She'd thought she was alone. She'd thought Harry had abandoned them and that all hope was lost, and while she'd still had breath in her lungs, she had vowed to fight the way no one else would.

And what had she received for her suffering? A tongue lashing from her parents and disregard from Harry. And he wondered why she'd broken up with him! He should have been wondering why it had taken her so long. She knew now that she never should have dated him again after the war, but she hadn't felt safe then, and who could keep her safer than Harry Potter?

Years of her life wasted on a dream that hadn't lived up to the reality. Maybe she really was mad. What sane person wasted her life on someone she felt a simmering, bitter anger for?

She didn't even notice when the beds were moved back to their original positions (with magic this time, which was infinitely easier and faster than manual labor). She didn't notice when her breakfast tray was placed in her lap, and it was only Malfoy calling her name that brought her out of her dark thoughts.

"I think this plan will work," Malfoy said, digging into his well-deserved oatmeal and toast. "If we keep this up, they'll see that we're really mental in no time."

Ginny's appetite was gone. If they kept this plan up, she'd probably really go mental in no time.

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.
.

A few days later, they enacted the next part of their plan.

Healer Gibby and two Healers-in-Training delivered Ginny and Malfoy's daily potions. When they entered the room, they were encountered with Ginny muttering against a wall and Malfoy clapping his hands while staring at something only he could see.

Gibby seemed happier than she had been lately, only too thrilled that Ginny and Malfoy were so compliant. She administered their potions, and they didn't fight her. Then she left the room, chattering away at the two trainees as if Ginny and Malfoy weren't behaving any differently than usual.

Another few days later, both Ginny and Malfoy pretended to mistake the Healers delivering lunch for their mothers. They feigned confusion and distress (only partially faked, the latter), but instead of putting them to sleep, as the Healers had when Ginny had first awakened nearly two months ago, they left Ginny and Malfoy to their anguish. When they were gone, Ginny wasn't the only one who maintained her silence, and Malfoy couldn't hide the disturbed expression on his face.

"Is it just me," he said moments later, "or do they treat us like we're mad when we act sane, and treat us like we're sane when we act mad?"

Ginny didn't answer, but she'd noticed too.

They kept up their plan, acting particularly deranged every few days, and then sped it up a little. The days between their pranks shrank, until they pulled a stunt at least once a day. The time they spent talking after curfew dwindled until their days were nothing but silence. By this point, they didn't need to make plans. They were both lost in their own isolated world, and for Ginny, her world was not a happy place. It was bitter and hateful. There was some regret, but she turned every sad feeling she had into anger, and the anger burned her until she became numb.

On the plus side, the Healers' guards lowered around their two troublesome patients. Wands weren't held as protectively as they used to be, and Healers didn't enter their ward in pairs or groups anymore. But by the time their plan fulfilled their goals, both Ginny and Malfoy no longer cared about it.

Ginny was convinced that she was mad. That was why Harry and her family had treated her torture at school as if she'd exaggerated it. The truth was that she had. There was no possible way that she had co-led Dumbledore's Army in a rebellion against the administration. No way that she'd been tortured with Unforgivables in detention. There was no way that her actions had been of any significance during the war. Now she realized she'd made it all up, and knowing that actually brought her comfort. She'd been wrong about Harry all those years, and now she had the knowledge to make things right with him.

She oscillated back and forth between peace and bitterness, and she supposed she was in St. Mungo's to find the balance between them. If it meant ridding herself of her painful, self-inflicted anger, then Ginny didn't want to leave until that goal had been accomplished.

In a few short weeks, her dreams of escaping the hospital had vanished.

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Six: Pulling Back

Draco sat in one of the armchairs, staring out the window with such intensity that hopefully he would appear on the other side of it. He didn’t move when a Healer entered with a meal; he didn’t even move when the Healer left. He continued to stare out the window, memorizing the shape of the London skyline visible from this height in this part of the city. At dinner, the impending darkness made the view harder to see, and then he realized it had been raining all day, and the blurry vision he had been memorizing had already been imprinted in his head from other days spent staring out the window.

Weasley hadn’t spoken a word in days, and, as a result, neither had Draco. It had been fun for a short time there, when they'd planned their pranks and then pulled them off. He and Weasley got a good laugh at the Healers' reactions. One week, they'd hidden all the trays on which the Healers had brought their food, and then they'd built a tray castle out of them during the night. Another day, they'd flooded the ward by running the faucets in the small bathroom in the ward. And always, they stared silently at nothing, pretending to be mad while slowly going mad.

At least Weasley was going mad, as far as Draco could tell. The silence, the pranks, the way the Healers cared nothing for their mental well-being despite working in a ward that housed mentally unstable patients... they could change a person. But Draco knew all about living through mentally and emotionally scarring circumstances and coming out unchanged. He'd done it before, and he'd protected himself for years since then. The practice worked well for protecting himself now. All you needed to turn you mad was power or doubt. Draco had no power within St. Mungo's or without, and he had never doubted himself. He knew exactly who he was.

Ginny Weasley, however, was only full of doubt. Draco knew that because of their hour locked in that utility closet two months back. She'd returned from war only to have everyone she loved overlook her contributions and tortures. She must have been filled with doubt for years, and her stint here at St. Mungo's only hammered that doubt not only skin deep, but soul deep. Deep enough for her to hide all her emotions in a way Draco could not have taught her with Occlumency.

After the war—fuck, even during it—Draco had known that his family had been on the wrong side, but the Dark Lord had had all the power, and he'd used it to get what he wanted. Draco had been a sixteen year old boy with too large a burden to bear, but he'd always known what and who he was. He'd always had his parents' support. And when the war had ended, he and his mother had moved to France, where no one recognized them or judged them for their own contributions to and tortures from the war.

Draco didn't doubt himself. He never had. So what the Healers were doing here, treating Draco and Weasley as if they were mad, had little effect on Draco, but it did everything to her. He could see her going more insane, day by day. He knew what it looked like, even what it smelled like, because his Aunt Bellatrix had been mad, too. She'd been mad with power, and Azkaban had done nothing but drive her more insane. It looked as if St. Mungo's would be the amplifier for Ginny Weasley's madness as well.

Late into the night, Draco finally turned away from the window, his stomach twisting and eating itself in hunger reminding him of the day he'd wasted inside his thoughts. It was so late that the orbs on the ceiling that usually lit the rooms had been doused for sleep.

Thanks to the darkness, for a moment Draco thought Weasley had fallen asleep, but when he stepped closer to his bed—and so, closer to hers—he saw that she was staring up at the ceiling, wide awake.

"So what do we do now?" Draco asked, his voice shattering the silence and making Weasley flinch even though it had been barely more than a rough whisper.

When she didn't answer, he walked around his bed to stand in between his and hers, his figure looming over her and casting a dense shadow on her face. He nudged her shoulder, and she flinched again.

"Weasley, what do we do now?" he repeated.

Thankfully, this time her eyes darted to him in acknowledgment.

"What do you mean?" she asked, her voice hoarse from disuse.

"The pranks have worked. The Healers don't suspect us now. We need to step up our escape plan. Where do we go from here?"

Her eyes instantly focused on the ceiling again. "I can't leave," she said with more finality than he'd seen since her first fiery days in the hospital.

"Of course you can," Draco said in irritation. "That's what we've been working towards. Leaving."

She shook her head. "I can't. I have to stay here."

"Don't be ridiculous!" He was getting angrier by the moment, and he wasn't sure why. He'd watched her become... this... day by day. He knew the plan would not be easy once she thought she belonged here, and he certainly didn't need to bring her along. So why not leave her behind? Why not escape without her? Draco didn't have answers for those questions, so he got angry instead. "Don't be ridiculous! There is nothing wrong with you! That's why we have to get out of here!"

He wasn't completely correct. Nothing had been wrong with her, but now....

"I can't leave," she repeated, maintaining her staring contest with the ceiling. "It's better for me here. I feel better here."

Draco was pacing now. "That's because here you don't have to think about how your family treated you like shite after the war. You're not mad! You don't belong here!"

Now she looked at him, all that pain she'd successfully been able to hide buried deep in her eyes. "But it's less painful to think that I made it up than it is to have the memory of being ignored. Why didn't my suffering matter? What did I do to make them hate me?"

He sat down on his bed, unsure what to say to that. Why did he feel the need to comfort her? Why was he looking for a justification for her loved one's inattention? He didn’t have answers for those questions, either. Exhaling loudly, he said in a kinder tone, "They... they don't hate you, Weasley. They just... they didn't know what to do with you. It's easier to hide from painful truths than to face them. Believe me, all I've done since the war is hide."

She stared into his eyes, but with the blurry moonlight shining in through the rain streaked windows behind him, his face was cast in darkness, and he wasn't sure that she really saw him. Perhaps she had replaced his shadowy image with one that was more comforting. He was glad to see her eyes tear-free though. He didn't know what to do with weepy women.

"How do you know I'm not mad?" she asked after several tense moments.

Draco shrugged. And then he lied. "You can’t be. You know it when you see it. My Aunt Bellatrix was completely insane. When you're constantly surrounded by that, you get a good feel for it." And then he told a truth. "Believe me. When we arrived here, we weren't mad. I'd have known if we were."

A giggle escaped her lips, but it was so misplaced in the conversation that it disappeared as if it had never existed. "That sounds like something an insane person would say."

"I think everyone's a little mad, to be honest. But we can't lock everyone in St. Mungo's for... suffering. Sometimes we have to...." He stopped and looked away—almost guiltily. If Malfoys could feel guilt, that is.

"What?" she asked, reaching across the divide between their beds to rest a hand on his knee.

"Sometimes we have to move on. That's the only way to shake the madness. Just let it go."

Her hand dropped, and a small smile tugged at the corners of her lips. "I've been acting strangely, haven't I?"

"Strange? No. Not strange at all. You're normal, Weasley, and the hardest thing to accept in life is that we're normal."

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Over the next few days, Weasley seemed to return to her old self, though not completely. There was a reluctance in her, a weakness she couldn’t hide, that took form in the very space she took up. She seemed smaller and less significant and wasn’t as prone to outbursts as she used to be.

It made Draco feel strange to see her that way, though he told himself it had nothing to do with her. Draco had lived every day since the war knowing that people wanted to knock him down several pegs, to teach him a lesson, and he’d done his best to ignore them and show society that he wouldn’t change for anyone. He’d been a boy when he’d committed his crimes, a boy living under grave circumstances that forced his hand. He felt sorry for nothing he’d done.

To see Ginny Weasley, a hero in the eyes of the wizarding world, get knocked down for doing what anyone would consider right rankled. That Potter and the rest of the Weasleys had this kind of power over someone who had fought Death Eaters alongside them—more than once, he could add—made him want to strangle necks. If Draco could push himself through life with his head held high, there was no reason she couldn’t do the same.

To be fair, he’d escaped the worst of society’s scrutiny while she’d lived in the heart of it, but that's what self-serving cowards did. They survived while preserving as much of themselves as they could.

"So what do you think?" she asked as a nervous giggle slipped out.

"I'd prefer it if we could make it look as if a Healer had made a mistake. You know, left the wand behind or something. Then they'll never suspect us, and if we get caught, it won't be our fault."

"But how do we do that short of stealing the wand and then Confunding the Healer to think he or she dropped it somewhere?"

Draco gave Weasley an appraising look. "That's not a bad idea. I don't know how we would trick Unger or Chiswick to leave the wand behind for us, so we may have to resort to doing all the dirty work ourselves."

"What do we do if we're caught?" she asked for the tenth time.

They sat in the armchairs by the window drinking tea as they discussed their new plan, but they were casual about it. There wasn't as much urgency as there had been the first time. For one thing, it had taken days to convince Weasley to escape again; for another, they didn't want to get caught this time, so they were more thorough with the details. However, Weasley was distracted, her attention wandering from their discussion to focus on something outside the window. It was starting to frustrate Draco, who hated to repeat himself, and this conversation was already going in circles.

"We can think about that after we develop a plan," Draco explained for the tenth time. He could tell she was looking for excuses not to go through with their escape, but he wasn't going to be deterred so easily.

She nodded and then lowered her head to stare into her cold tea. All he could see of her face was the crease in her brow that signified her worry.

"What is it now?" he asked a bit harshly. But he hadn't been made to be any kind of caring or sympathetic friend. He didn't know what to do with weak people whose emotions overcame them. These feelings were not meant to be shared in public. They were supposed to be hidden and ignored.

"I said some awful things to Harry, and I don't know how to apologize."

"Why would you want to? He's a prat."

"But he was my...." She looked up at Draco and then away, but she couldn't hide what she was feeling any better than he could care what her problem was. However, her aloofness intrigued him.

"Your what?" he asked.

She stayed silent for so long, Draco didn't think she was going to answer.

"My fiancé. We were getting married."

"And you managed to keep that out of the papers?" Draco asked in surprise. "I step outside to grab a newspaper, and there are headlines the next morning. 'Malfoy Not a Vampire!' 'Heir of Millions Wears Striped Boxers!' 'Draco Malfoy Still Not Dead!' How did you and Potter manage to keep your engagement a secret?"

She released a bitter laugh. "I didn't wear my ring much. I couldn't, really, because of practice and matches. But Harry asked me not to. I... didn't tell anyone. Not even my family."

Draco frowned. "How long were you engaged?"

"Oh, only a couple weeks before I broke up with him." She twisted her teacup in her hands, her thoughts clearly wandering.

Draco waited for her to add more, but when she didn't, he prompted her. "Care to elaborate on what happened there?"

Weasley shrugged. "Harry was talking about children before we'd even announced our engagement. He talked about our life all the time. He knew how many kids he wanted, what their names were going to be, where we were going to live." She looked up at Draco, her expression annoyed. "He talked about moving out of London to Godric's Hollow, about spending our honeymoon in our new home. But that would have required me to quit Quidditch, and I've only just made first-string! He made all these decisions for our life and never consulted me. It was suffocating! I love my mum, but I don't want to be just like her. I can't cook worth a damn, and it is way, way too soon for children. I'm only twenty-four!"

Draco was surprised that the view he'd had of Ginny Weasley was so different from the reality. Before he'd seen the headlines about their breakup, he'd thought of them as Britain's golden couple and sneered at the idea of them. Little Ginny Weasley, who had pined after Harry Potter since she was an ickle firstie, was living her dream life as heroic Potter's girlfriend. He'd thought her dreams had soared only that far, that she'd be content turning into her mother and serving Potter his every desire. He should have known better than to believe what he read in the papers. Most of the articles written about him were full of shite, so why would the most talked about couple in Britain be any different?

It made him strangely proud of her to hear that she wanted more from life than what Potter offered her, and that she'd seen below his false veneer and stood up for herself.

"Again," Draco said, drawing her eyes to him once more, "why would you want to apologize to him?"

"Did you read the papers when we broke up?" she asked incredulously.

"Of course I did. Who didn't?"

"Then you know the kinds of things I said to him."

The corners of Draco's lips tugged up into a reluctant smile. He could feel his face twitching, but he reigned his laughter in tight. "Did you really call him a selfish, parasitic Lethifold with a prick like a Flobberworm?"

Groaning, she covered her face with one hand and nodded her head in assent.

"And did you really say a troll could surpass him in intelligence and that you'd rather have a romantic relationship with a Blast-Ended Skrewt?"

"Yes, yes, yes, I said all those things! Every word the Prophet reported was true!"

Draco couldn't contain his laughter then, and he actually doubled over, his hands clutching his stomach as he fell out of his chair and onto the floor.

"Stop it, Malfoy. It's not funny! You're making a fool out of yourself."

"I... can't. It's just... too... good. A Flobberworm!"

"I mean it!" she cried, slapping his shoulder for good measure. "Stop it!"

Draco attempted to regain his composure, but when he pulled himself back up into his chair, he noticed that she herself was giggling, and then his laughter broke free again.

It took several minutes for both of them to finally control themselves, but the smiles on their faces could not be wiped off.

"Don't ever let me hear of you wanting to apologize to Potter again," Malfoy said as seriously as he could. "I won't stand for such an atrocious lack of courtesy."

She tried to compose her smile as she took another sip of her tea, but she couldn't. Her smile was glowing over the rim of her cup. "Courtesy to whom?"

"Yourself. Potter has the rest of the world fawning over him. I think he'll survive a few harsh words from a maltreated ex-girlfriend."

Her smile softened, becoming more wistful. "You mean ex-fiancée."

"I mean your relationship is over, so who cares?"

She perched on the edge of her chair as if ready to flee. "You know...."

"What?"

Then her hand drifted to the arm of his chair and stopped on top of his. "I never would have thought that Draco Malfoy would be giving me relationship advice. Almost as though he... cares."

"I don't care though," he said, staring at her hand until she withdrew it abruptly. "I don't have enough in me to care. I just want to see Potter knocked down a few pegs."

Her eyes lowered to her now lukewarm tea. "Of course," she said, the smile disappearing from her face.

He was going to leave it at that, but, damn him, he wanted her to keep smiling, and he didn't want to analyze why that was. "But that doesn't mean you can't rise above him in the process. No matter what you may think, Ginny Weasley, you deserve more than what Potter was willing to give you."

She did give him a tremulous smile at that, but her eyes also became shiny with—Draco feared—tears.

"How do you know what I deserve?"

Draco didn't know how to answer. He'd always been self-serving, but how did he explain his desire to see her smile and be more than everyone thought she could be? And he had nowhere to hide in this room, so he couldn't avoid answering the question. She would always be there waiting for a response.

So he gave her as much of the truth as he dared, which was still more than made him comfortable. "I don't. I just want to see you win."
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Seven: Escape, Part Two

"Oh, Merlin, I never thought I'd say this, but it feels so good to wear a bra again!"

"Stop hogging the wand! I need to get dressed too."

Ginny threw the wand at Malfoy and then went back to groping her chest, but out of the corner of her eye, she could see him staring at her, his mouth hanging open in dumbfounded surprise. She met his gaze and said, "I thought you were getting dressed?" When he turned away, his cheeks appeared a little pinker than they'd been before, which made her feel elated in a familiar way. Well, kind of familiar and kind of not, as it had been a very long time since the last time she’d had this feeling.

She sat down at the foot of her bed and watched him Transfigure his hospital gown and dressing gown into real clothes, until he stood before her in trousers and a black button-up shirt that made his pale skin glow. He seemed to have absorbed the moonlight over their many nights in the hospital, but rather than sickly, as he had her first night in St. Mungo's, he looked pristine and dashing.

"See something you like?" he asked without turning around, but if he hoped to embarrass her, he would be disappointed.

Ginny shrugged even though he couldn't see it. "Maybe. Still deciding."

He spun around huffing. "What do you mean still deciding?"

Ginny laughed. "Oh, like you're so smooth. How many women have you wooed in the last few years?"

The extended silence that followed that question made Ginny's stomach sink. She'd only meant it as a joke, but she suddenly regretted it and wished she could take it back.

Malfoy's face was impassive, which Ginny had come to recognize as a sign of his Occlumency hiding some intense emotion. "Women haven't really been a priority for me since the war."

Contrite, curious, mentally kicking herself, she asked, "What about now?"

As he buckled his belt, he shrugged, a tiny smirk on his face. "Maybe. Still deciding."

Despite herself, Ginny grinned. "So, what are we going to do with this guy?"

Their attention turned to the Healer-in-Training they'd left standing and Confunded at the foot of the bed.

“Before we deal with him....” Malfoy said, his words trailing off as he tapped himself on the head with the wand. The Disillusionment Charm fell into place, just as it had over two months ago.

Ginny stood up to receive the charm, and only after both of them were invisible did Malfoy approach the Healer-in-Training.

“You’ve lost your wand somewhere on the ground floor when you were coming in for work this morning,” Malfoy told him. The wand hanging in midair was pointed at the trainee’s face. “It might be a good idea to go look for it now.”

The Healer-in-Training blinked, looking confused but aware. “Where did I put my wand?” he asked himself as he patted the pockets of his robes. Scratching his head, he walked towards the door, with Ginny and Malfoy following behind him. Malfoy unlocked the door with a non-verbal spell, and in his confusion, the trainee didn’t notice that it should have been locked.

He followed Malfoy’s suggestion to go downstairs, creating a shield for the two runaway patients to hide behind. They didn’t have to worry about people noticing doors opening on their own because the trainee opened them for them. Nor did they have to repeat their closet experience, either, because the trainee forged a path for them down the narrow stairs.

As soon as Ginny stepped outside the hospital, back on a nondescript Muggle street, the wand came down over her head again and the Disillusionment Charm deactivated. A moment later, Malfoy’s body made a reappearance, and the ecstatic grin on his face made Ginny’s heart jump and then beat ferociously.

“Just act natural,” he said, collecting himself to the point that the smile fell and his lips formed a thin line. “We’ve got to get away from this area before we’re scot-free.”

He surprised her by taking her hand and placing it on his arm in a gentlemanly gesture, and that long-lost familiar feeling returned. Ginny felt almost giddy, not just because they’d made it out of their prison, but because this man was at her side, claiming her with his casual touch. It didn’t mean anything to him, but it meant everything to her. Harry hadn’t been nearly this affectionate in months. Maybe years. To him, she’d been a receptacle for his new family. He’d been pleasant to her because he'd thought he’d loved her, but what he’d really loved was the idea of her, just as she’d come to realize she’d only loved the idea of him.

She hadn’t realized that she’d missed simple, loving gestures like touches and kisses until she and Malfoy had clasped hands for their first Occlumency lesson—and those touches had been sterile and meaningless. Nothing even close to loving.

But what Malfoy did when he took Ginny’s arm was say that he was willing to pretend to be involved with her for the sake of escaping, and, as sad as it was, that practical gesture was more heartfelt than anything she’d received from Harry since soon after the war. The elation caused by Malfoy’s actions was pitiful and excessive, and she knew she had a tendency to wear her heart on her sleeve. To keep Malfoy from noticing, she practiced some of the exercises he had taught her in order to cultivate her Occlumency. It didn't take as long as expected; she managed to clear her thoughts and control her expression in a handful of moments.

They turned a corner, leaving behind the street on which St. Mungo's was located, and were confronted with the sight of shopfronts, restaurants, and cafes. Both of them paused and their bodies tensed for no reason that Ginny could discern. She looked up at Malfoy and saw the same hesitancy on his face that she was feeling.

Malfoy asked, "Does this remind you of...."

"Diagon Alley? Yeah, it does."

"But that shouldn't surprise us, should it?"

"No, I don't think so," Ginny answered.

She opened her mouth to give voice to a memory long forgotten, but... she couldn't remember the memory, so she closed her mouth again, confused. How did she know a memory was there, then?

She shook her head and tugged on Malfoy's arm. "Come on. We probably shouldn't stay here."

As they walked down the street, the scents of coffee roasting and food being prepared assaulted their noses, and Ginny's stomach began to growl in response.

"If we find a discreet location, we can Apparate home for lunch," Malfoy said with a smirk.

Ginny's cheeks grew warm, and she looked away in search of an empty alley for them to use. Not even a moment later, Malfoy pushed her in a new direction, down a space between two buildings almost too narrow for them. In such a tiny space, Malfoy’s figure seemed taller and broader than she would have described only moments before. He was a slight man, but blocking the exit of the alley as he did, and with the walls just brushing his shoulders, he looked bigger.

“We only have one wand,” he said. “We can Apparate together to my home, and then you can take it.”

Ginny nodded, her mouth dry just being this close to him. He offered his arm to her and held up the wand. Keeping her eyes clenched shut, Ginny waited for the deafening crack that indicated Apparition. Nothing happened.

Malfoy’s eyes were also closed, but his lips were turned down in a frown, and his brow was creased in annoyance. “It’s not working.”

“Again?” Ginny asked. “Maybe you’re a Squib.”

His scowl deepened. “Don’t be disgusting, Weasley. You try.”

Ginny took the wand from him, and he placed a hand on her arm. His touch was doubly scorching on her bare skin, making gooseflesh rise. She glanced at his face, but he seemed unaffected by the casual touch, though she knew that his expression did not always indicate his emotions. Still, she felt silly for reacting—even though it was involuntary!—to his proximity. But Malfoy had said some things to her in the last month alone that she’d desperately needed to hear, and maybe part of her gratefulness emerged as a silly attraction. Yes, that had to explain it. They were so close to their homes, and Ginny knew exactly how she would handle the mess she’d left behind, but she didn’t know how she would handle her new-found crush.

She felt like a schoolgirl, and that was the opposite of what she wanted to be. She wasn’t a shy person. She said what she thought and she had a temper, and the way she was behaving around Malfoy now, all nervous and almost... admiring, made her want to do a Wronski Feint right into the ground. It wasn’t her and it wasn’t who she wanted to be.

She’d broken up with Harry because he’d stifled her in almost every way, even though he’d been kind throughout their whole relationship. But she wouldn’t change herself for a man—for anyone—ever again.

Gripping the wand tight, she thought of the Burrow with its lopsided construction, garden gnomes throwing rocks at the chickens pecking out in the yard, and her mum standing in the kitchen doorway, calling her children in for lunch. She had the destination firmly in mind, and she was more determined to get there than she’d ever been in her life. She took a deliberate step forward, but instead of that crunching, squished feeling of being forced through a tube, her foot landed on solid ground.

“You must be a Squib too, huh?” Malfoy said snidely.

Ginny punched him in the shoulder and was mollified by the soft ow! he emitted.

“Maybe there’s an Anti-Disapparition Jinx in place,” she suggested.

Instead of snapping at her—like he had three months ago when she’d been optimistic for a simple solution to their hospitalization problem—he said mildly, “This far away from the hospital? It doesn’t seem likely.”

Ginny’s heart seized. “What are we going to do?” she whispered. “We don’t have any money. And I’ve only been to St. Mungo’s once before. I don’t know how to get anywhere I recognize from here.”

Malfoy put a hand on her shoulder and pulled her closer to him, which was so comforting. More comforting than she would have thought. Just having him close, knowing that they were in this together—and that he was acknowledging their togetherness—calmed her before madness struck.

“We could try walking?” The upward, questioning lilt of his suggestion tuned Ginny in to his own worry. She wondered how horrifying it must be for him to be stuck in a Muggle area, unable to use magic lest someone see them, unable to travel because they were lost and Knut-less.

“In which direction? And how far?”

Ginny looked over Malfoy’s shoulder to the exit of the alley. Muggles flooded down the street loaded down with sweets and shopping bags, electronic devices held up to their ears. No one noticed them, nor would they. In the shadow of the alley, Malfoy’s black ensemble blended right in, and his bulk obscured Ginny from view. But they couldn’t very well stay in this alley forever.

She sighed, resigned to their fate. “They’ll come after us.”

“Yes,” Malfoy agreed. “We’re too dangerous to wander amongst Muggles.”

“We could try to enjoy as much of the day as we can before they find us,” she said. Her stomach took this opportunity to growl ravenously, and both she and Malfoy chuckled.

“How do we pay for lunch?” Malfoy asked.

Ginny took a step closer to him, her fingers pressing on his shoulders to turn him around. “We don’t.”

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Eight: First Date

They found a cafe nestled between a watch shop and a bakery and took a seat at one of the tables outside, risking an easier capture from Healers who might be searching for them. The day was too nice to spend it inside, so they risked imminent capture in order to feel the sun directly on their faces for the first time in three months. Draco was relieved to be outside, to feel a breeze, to be surrounded by people who weren't his jailers. Odd. He'd been avoiding people since the war, and now he felt more comfortable in a crowd than he did alone. Or semi-alone. Weasley was always with him, which wasn't such a bad thing anymore.

A waitress took their orders and then left them in uncomfortable silence. It had been a long time since the silence between them had been unbearable, even through Weasley's ups and downs and all those emotions.

Weasley laughed in embarrassment. "It's almost like a date, isn't it?"

He and Weasley? Dating? He supposed there was some merit in that notion. She wasn't unpleasant to look at, and he'd come to like her feisty nature. Sure, when it was directed at him, it made his blood boil, made him want to grab her by the arms and push her against a wall, and then.... Well, that idea needed more consideration. Of course, she hadn't been particularly feisty since their second week in St. Mungo's, and the most he'd seen of her had been the wreck her family and Potter had made of her. But he knew what her potential could be and he wanted to see her fulfill it, no matter the cost. Why?

He supposed he'd been quiet for too long because Weasley frowned and looked away, saying, "Just kidding. This isn't like any date I've ever been on."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Draco asked.

"Maybe I've just been lucky when it comes to first dates, but I've never felt more awkward in my life. As a good date, you should at least pretend to be interested in making conversation. Don't just sit there staring at the salt shaker like you don't know what it's for." She rolled her eyes, then turned her attention to the act of people watching.

Draco had never found people watching a particularly interesting diversion, but he'd had lots of practice in it over the last three months. He felt like he knew Ginny Weasley's every expression, emotion, and gesture, and one thing he'd learned about her very quickly was that she was cheeky.

Draco reigned in his smile for the sake of their argument. "I hadn't been aware this was a date. I'm sure I've told you before, but if there's something you want, all you have to do is ask."

Ah, yes. A reaction he had a notable fancy for: her blush. There was something about her embarrassment that he quite liked—perhaps the ferocity in her eyes that indicated her failing fight against her body's involuntary responses. She tried so hard to appear unmoved and failed miserably at it.

"I hadn't been aware you would date me," she muttered.

"I hadn't been aware you had thought about dating me," Draco replied, surprised to be quite honest. Where had this come from? He played the arrogant womanizer on the surface, but as he'd told her, he hadn't had an opportunity to woo women since he was fifteen, and even then he'd been a bit limited—not to mention a horny teenager. His behavior was dictated by what protected his emotions and upheld his family's reputation most. What had she seen in him that would make her even consider dating him?

Her face reddened even more, until it was nearly the color of the tablecloth. The waitress took that moment to reappear with drinks, but she wandered off again swiftly thanks to the uncomfortable atmosphere.

"Don't be ridiculous," Weasley said. Then she muttered something and the only words he could catch sounded frighteningly similar to "Blast-Ended Skrewt" and "pigs fly."

Silence took over once again while Draco allowed her to immerse herself in her people watching, giving her the opportunity to overcome her embarrassment.

When she finally took a sip of the water she'd ordered, he said, "Maybe we should give the first date thing a go."

She choked and nearly spit her water out all over the table, only just managing to keep it in her mouth. "What?" she cried, her voice and her fit drawing eyes to their table. "What first date thing?"

Shrugging, Draco answered, "You were the one who mentioned first dates first, Weasley. I'm merely suggesting that we pretend this perfectly normal outing is our first date. We can try it out and see if we want to pursue the rest of the ordinal numbers of dates."

"Yes," she said with a sarcastic twist in her tone, "that is usually how first dates work. But why would you want to do that?"

"Honestly?"

"Honesty is a pretty good start for a first date."

"I don't even know myself. All I know is that you are intriguing, from your colorful insults all the way down to the color of your cheeks when you're embarrassed."

As if on cue, her cheeks reddened again.

"Or maybe it's because you are the first woman I've come in contact with since the war who wasn't related to me or dull as dust."

Weasley frowned. "You must associate with the dullest women, then."

"That's the point, Weasley. I hardly associate with anyone at all."

She considered him, and he stared back coolly, only breaking eye contact to sip his tea.

"All right, then," she said. "Let's pretend this is a first date. Why not? What else have we got to do?"

“What do we do now?” Draco asked. “As you know, I am inexperienced when it comes to first dates. You seem to be the expert, though.”

Her eyes narrowed, and Draco allowed his lips to turn up into a smirk. “I’m not sure if that’s an insult or a compliment,” she said.

“It’s just a fact,” he answered innocently.

“Well, we start with mundane small talk. For instance—” She perched on the edge of her seat, looking overly-engaged. “—what do you do for a living?”

Draco mulled over his answer, going for the truth rather than a farce. The date might not be real, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t be themselves. Why Draco wanted to be himself he could only guess. But it had been so long since he’d connected with other people. His mother had been his only companion for the last several years, and he’d learned very early on during the war, that the only way to protect himself was to build a wall to keep people out. Since arriving at St. Mungo’s, he’d come to regret his isolation, but he had no idea how to tear the wall down. The easiest way—and thus the hardest for Draco—was honesty.

“I dabble here and there,” he said. “I invest in people and companies that most other people and companies don’t have time for.”

“Like what?” Weasley asked.

He noticed the hint of suspicion in her tone and her expression, and it hit him with a righteous pang. This was exactly why he had avoided everyone since the war. People looked at him and saw someone plotting to do evil deeds, not someone just trying to survive.

Instead of getting angry, he feigned nonchalance, shrugging for maximum indifferent effect. “Various things. Four years ago, I sponsored a boy through a summer Quidditch training program. You might know him, actually. He was just picked up for Pride of Portree.”

Weasley’s gasp was almost satisfying enough to soothe the sting of her earlier slight. “You don’t mean Harris Beckenridge, the Prides's star Chaser?”

“Oh, but I do. And I annually donate a sum of money to St. Mungo’s, Tilly’s Orphanage, and other charitable organizations.”

She looked puzzled. “But how is that a career? What do you get out of giving people money?”

“Respect. Trust. Like I said, I invest in people and companies, so I expect Tybalt Tilly to tell his wards what an honorable and generous man Draco Malfoy is. When the children grow up, hopefully they’ll remember how my donations bought them better food and good quality clothing.”

“And what does that achieve?” Weasley asked softly. Oh, she had some pitying look on her face of which Draco did not approve, but he supposed pity was a better emotion than suspicion.

“My main goal is to turn my family’s reputation around. I want to be able to walk down the streets without receiving suspicious glares. I want my mother to go into a boutique without being denied service. We’ve been hiding for years. Another few years to achieve that goal will be nothing.”

Yes, the pity was there all right, right between her eyebrows. Even that blasted wrinkle in her brow had returned, though not in worry for herself this time, which didn’t make it any easier for him to look at her.

And then she said some words he wasn’t prepared to hear—hadn’t been prepared to hear in many, many years.

“You always talk about your mother. What happened to your father?”

An insane side of him wanted to laugh in her face and laugh for an eternity. How could she ask him that question? How could she not know? The unexpectedness of such an inquiry made his lips twitch into a smile, and it was so out of place—he knew it was—but he couldn’t stop the reaction.

“You really don’t know?” he asked, and she seemed startled, maybe because he was grinning at her. Maybe because his grin was vicious, making him look lethal. Maybe because she had just realized what a very bad question she had asked.

“No,” she mumbled, looking embarrassed now. Good! She should be embarrassed.

“Well, I suppose you wouldn’t. Mother paid off The Daily Prophet to keep them from writing about it, but the story still spread by word of mouth.”

“You don’t have to answer,” she said hurriedly, her hands up in a defensive position. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, no. It’s our first date. You have a right to know.” She’d brought the subject up and Draco had spent so many, many years trying to forget it. Might as well tell the whole story. What was that one phrase? Truth will out? Ridiculous of him to think he could hide this truth from anyone. Including himself.

“At his trial, my father was sentenced to fifty years in Azkaban for conspiracy, treason, and war crimes.”

“I’m so sorry,” Weasley said with a frown. Her hands had fallen into her lap, but he could see her fidgeting fingers twisting and worrying each other.

“No, you’re not. There is no love lost between my family and yours. He did the wrong things. Bad, evil things, and some people would say he deserved his punishment. However, some people thought he should have been punished more. My mother and I made it through our trials without any punishment, and fifty years for my father was nothing. There were people who thought we’d got off easy, so they’d fixed the problem.” He laughed then, a disparaging laugh that startled Weasley, making her jump in her seat. “Someone poisoned my father the day he arrived at Azkaban, and the Ministry wrote it off as an accident. Someone out there thought they knew what my father deserved, and they dished out his punishment with vigilante justice. That’s what happened to my father, Weasley. That’s why I don’t talk about him.”

The waitress chose this moment to return with their meals, but just as before, she disappeared as soon as she deposited their plates on the table. It was clear by the expressions on both Draco’s and Weasley’s faces that an interruption would be most unwelcome.

Tears welled up in Weasley’s eyes; Draco could tell by the way her hand lifted to wipe her cheeks, though he couldn’t look directly at her. Instead, he picked up his fork and attacked his pasta halfheartedly, regretting his crazed anger, regretting telling her anything of the truth.

“I’m so sorry,” she repeated. “I didn’t know. I stayed away from the news for a long time after the war. I didn’t want to see the names or pictures of the dead, and I didn’t care enough to keep an eye on the trials. I was just too tired.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said gruffly. “Another Death Eater was eliminated, so who cares.”

“But he was your father!” she cried. “You’re right. I didn't care for him even as a human being. I had no reason to, but that doesn’t change how you felt about him!”

“How I felt?” Draco said, throwing his fork down. “I was one of the people who didn’t think fifty years was long enough. It was his fault what happened to me during the war. If he had made better decisions before I was born, or if he had succeeded in his mission at the Ministry our fifth year at Hogwarts, I never would have suffered the way I had, wondering if my failure was going to get my family killed. I’d decided before the battle was lost that things would have been better for me if he’d stayed in Azkaban. Yes, it was embarrassing, but I’d rather be embarrassed by my convict of a father than hate my dead one.”

His fists were clenched and shaking on the tabletop. In fact, his whole body was wracked in tremors, and he was afraid he was going to break down and cry. Him! A twenty-five year old man! A Malfoy!

Weasley’s hands slowly reached for his, and he couldn’t move away fast enough; his body was too tense. Then, her skin made contact, and she flipped his hands over, digging her fingers under his until she was grasping him and he was grasping her back. The fierce shaking in his body dissipated the longer they held hands. Even though it was embarrassing, even though he wanted to be in a whole other place by himself, where no one could see him for who he was, he looked into her eyes and saw compassion, not pity, though they were almost the same thing. He saw her tears, and realized that she shed them for his suffering. She hated Lucius Malfoy, but... she didn’t hate his son. And there was something comforting in that.

“A man’s supposed to pay on a first date,” she said, “but this time, it’s on me.”

She stood up, and since she still firmly held his hands, he stood up too. They had no money, so they fled down the street, connected by their touch.

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The Healers found them not long after in a hat shop, where Weasley had done her best to make Draco smile by wearing the silliest hats the shop had to offer. On the way back to St. Mungo's, he and Weasley had shared secret smiles. Maybe they should have tried harder to escape; maybe they should have cared more that they were going back to their prison. But Draco was ready to go back. This outing, and all the emotional repercussions of it, had only reminded him why he lived in isolation, interacting with as few people as possible in his day to day life.

If there was one thing his stay at the hospital had been good for so far, it was keeping other people away from him more efficiently than he'd been able to achieve back home. Ginny Weasley seemed to be the only exception to his life of solidarity though. In the three months they'd spent hospitalized together, she'd become so familiar to him that not even her transgression earlier had made him want to part from her. The idea of a life at St. Mungo's spent alone was unthinkable. Complete isolation had never been for him, after all. Back home he'd had his mother for company.

No, what he needed to protect himself from were people like the ones who had killed his father and the ones who still looked at him and shied away in fear. As if he could hurt anyone! He couldn't injure or kill—let alone name—his enemy even when his own family's life had hung on the line.

He was better off building up a respectable reputation in the background of society. In time, people would come to see him and his mother as they really were and not as they had been. All he had to do was wait.

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Nine: Release

After their almost-escape, Ginny began to see a strange contentment in Malfoy. He smiled for apparently no reason sometimes, wore soft expressions on his face while staring out the window, and appeared to be happy when a Healer came in the room. When they talked, he was liberal with his laughter, and there was still an edge to their conversations that often made Ginny want to grin and blush.

It didn’t occur to her until days after their not-so-triumphant return to St. Mungo’s that the Draco Malfoy who laughed and smiled and behaved like a normal person (though not a normal Malfoy—and that was the bizarre part, wasn’t it?) was one who no longer used Occlumency. His face seemed soft because he didn’t hold it in a sterile, harsh expression. He no longer seemed to worry about revealing his thoughts or emotions.

She worried that he was breaking; maybe St. Mungo’s had finally cracked through his facade. What if the next step was madness? Ginny had already toed that ledge, and she knew what a steep drop it was. If he hadn’t been there to pull her back—no, that was wrong. If he hadn’t been there to tell her she had the strength to pull herself back, she would have fallen completely into madness. But how could she be the support he needed when she’d needed his support only a month ago? Who would pull Malfoy back from the ledge, and who would keep her from toppling over with him?

A Healer came in with their potions, which gave Ginny another opportunity to analyze him in the presence of the enemy. Gone were the days of silent hostility. Now he just seemed to accept their treatment, even going so far as to chat with Healer Unger in a pleasant fashion!

Then it dawned on Ginny. That was exactly what all of this was: acceptance. He had accepted his fate and succumbed to the will of the Healers.

"So you've given up, is that it?" Ginny asked after Healer Unger left.

"What are you talking about?" he asked as he sat on the edge of his bed staring out the window.

Ginny moved to stand in front of him so she could talk to his face instead of his back. Her hands were on her hips and her lips were turned down in a disapproving frown.

"You don't want to escape anymore, do you?"

Malfoy also frowned but he didn't deny it.

"I was like that, too, Malfoy. I thought this was the safest place for me, but you were the one who told me I was foolish. You're hiding from your problems, just like I was."

"Your problems!" he spat in disgust. "Your problems extend to your family and Potter. That's a total of what? Ten people?" He lifted his arm, gesturing aggressively to the window. "There are people out there who killed my father because it suited them better than his given punishment. It's not safe out there for people like me!"

Ginny sneered at that logic. Sneered at him. "My problems don't have anything to do with my parents or Harry; they're internal. You told me that, remember? Well, I'm telling you that that shite you just gave me is exactly that: shite. Malfoy, if the people who went after your father wanted you dead, you'd be dead already. He was in Ministry custody, and you're free."

"There are spells and gates protecting the manor. No one could get through our defenses."

"What about your job? What about Tybalt Tilly, Gloriana Borin, and Harris Beckenridge? You managed to leave your fancy mansion and make connections with them, and you're still here. None of them have killed you."

"It's not like that, Weasley!"

"I know what it's like! Your paranoia is a prison just as much as the walls of St. Mungo's are. You can't live like that, and you can't live in here. We're not mad. We're sane, and we deserve to be free. You haven't done anything wrong, so why should your father's murderer try to murder you?"

He went silent, his expression turning uncertain. She dropped her arms and sat down next to him, sighing.

"You're right," he said with confidence.

"Of course I am."

She was pleased to see him roll his eyes, and she didn't care if it was unMalfoy-like and inelegant. It was human. She'd forgotten over the years—and she suspected other people had as well—that the Malfoys were just human. Flawed like anyone else, capable of making bad decisions, but deserving of forgiveness and redemption.

"I didn't do anything wrong. I did what I had to do. But the world is filled with unreasonable people."

"And you're one of them," she said with a teasing smile as she nudged him with an elbow.

Suddenly, his body froze, and she wondered if she'd gone too far by touching him while he was on the ledge. Had she pushed him over?

"I remember," he said.

"Remember what?"

"What I was doing before I ended up here."

Ginny's own body tensed, but she became more attentive, sitting up straighter and turning towards him more.

Malfoy looked confused. "I was in Diagon Alley for the first time in years. I'd stopped by the Leaky Cauldron for a drink with... someone. I can't remember who it was. Afterward, we stepped outside and I saw.... I don't know. Something. That's all I remember."

"That's good, though! Maybe the rest will come back to you."

"Maybe you will remember something, too," he said, and Ginny had to smile at his optimism while restraining her own.

"Yes, maybe I will." But she didn't believe it.

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.
.

Their talk didn't seem to improve Malfoy's disposition. When Harry had proposed to her five months ago, she never would have believed that in less than half a year her relationship would be over, she'd have a schoolgirl crush on Draco Malfoy, or that she'd wish he'd stop smiling so much. She'd never been able to conceive of him smiling at all. Every mental image she had of him, even in memory, was of him smirking like an arrogant prick, though she knew that hadn't been the only expression he'd been capable of making. He'd had quite the temper back at school, after all.

Malfoy continued to be accepting of his situation, and it grated on Ginny's nerves. She had an itch to be free that sometimes felt like a full-body rash, and Malfoy was a rainy day on her goals. Now she knew what it must have felt like for him to endure her during her descent into madness. Sometimes, she wanted to punch him in the face until he went back to normal. Whatever normal was.

Another week passed, and even if Ginny brought up the subject of escape, Malfoy wouldn't entertain it. It was almost a relief, though, because the planning and hope for escape were exhausting, and Ginny didn't have the strength to do it alone. Neither the actual escape, nor the planning of one. Instead, she learned to avoid the topic altogether, which removed the awkward strain of conversation about Malfoy's willingness to stay locked up in the hospital. Which was better for everyone because then Ginny didn't have any violent tendencies.

There was something kind of peaceful about acceptance this time around. Now she knew who she was and what she'd done, and she didn't need anyone else's support or approval. As long as she remembered to rely on herself, her incarceration was boring but pleasant.

The comfortable atmosphere that had developed since their failed escape shattered one evening three weeks after it, a total of four months and some change since Ginny had woken up in St. Mungo's. A couple hours after their dinner trays had been picked up, Healer Gibby entered the ward blubbering while Healer-in-Charge Meriadoc Goldberry followed behind. Healer Goldberry saw to the patients in the Janus Thickey Ward twice a month to see if their medications needed altering, but his face wasn't nearly as familiar as the other Healers who cared for Ginny and Malfoy everyday. To see Goldberry so soon after his last visit—and especially after dinner when no one usually bothered them—was a surprise.

Both Malfoy and Ginny sat up straighter in the armchairs where they'd been building a house out of regular Muggle playing cards, watching warily as the tearful Gibby and the stern-faced Goldberry descended upon them.

"Miss Weasley," the Healer-in-Charge called, looking over his eyeglasses at his clipboard.

"Yes?" Ginny said, somewhat stunned. In the entirety of her stay at St. Mungo's, she had never been called by her name. Only Malfoy had done that, and to hear it from someone other than a sarcastic, paranoid, emotionally-stunted man was a shock to the system. A tiny, foolish part of her had hoped for the past months that she had been wrongfully hospitalized, but hearing her name from a Healer's lips for the first times said, We know who you are, and we don't care. You still belong here.

"You are being released. Your family will be here to pick you up in the morning."

Ginny's mouth dropped open, and her mind went completely blank. She stared at Healer Goldberry as he flipped through some pages attached to the clipboard, but when he returned her gaze, she found her voice. "W-what?"

"We've observed some improvement, so we're letting you go."

"But what kind of improvement? How have I improved?" At the same time, Malfoy asked, "What about me?"

Goldberry looked at the clipboard again. "No, just Miss Weasley. Maybe next time, Mr. Malfoy."

"What next time?" he demanded at the same time that Ginny asked, "Why am I being released and he's not?"

Both of their questions went ignored. Healer Gibby cried, "It's such good news, isn't it? I always knew kindness was the best treatment!" Then she dabbed at her eyes with the sleeve of her lime-green robe.

"You're leaving at 7 AM sharp, Miss Weasley, so I hope you get plenty of rest before then."

The Healers left, leaving the two patients dumbfounded. Ginny's mouth had fallen open again, disbelief coursing through her whole body, impeding any feelings of joy or relief. She turned to Malfoy and discovered a different emotion. Fear. His fear. There was a panicked look on his face—a subtle expression, really, but there nonetheless. The reflection of the moonlight in his eyes highlighted the emotion he seemed incapable of hiding.

When Ginny reached for his hand, he gave it to her willingly, meeting her halfway. Ginny didn't know what to say. Maybe words weren't needed. Maybe they would only push the stake further into Malfoy's heart, a painful reminder that she was free and he was stuck here. But that was what he wanted, right? He'd come to accept his life at St. Mungo's; there shouldn't be any hard feelings because she was getting the escape she desired.

It took several moments for him to regain his composure and remove any hint of his fear. "Congratulations," he said. Even though the mask was firmly back in place, his words were sincere.

"Thanks," Ginny replied in an exhale. She hadn't realized she'd been holding her breath, but suddenly the dizzy sensation made sense.

"What are you going to do now?" he asked, turning his head away.

She rubbed her thumb back and forth over the skin of his hand, but he didn't look at her. "I don't know. I need to train for the season opener. I bet I'm not first-string anymore."

"What about your family?"

She'd spent hours within each day dreaming about her life outside of St. Mungo's, so she knew exactly what she would do about her family. "They just want to forget about the war, and I don't blame them. I wish I could have put it behind me years ago. So that's what I'm going to do. I'm going to move on, and I'm going to let my family move on."

"Even though they were wrong?"

"People make mistakes. I think their lack of support is going to sting for a long time, but I can't live with the bitterness anymore. I'm making the choice to put it behind me because it hurts too much to hold onto it."

His hand squeezed hers gently, and then she felt his thumb stroking her hand.

"I wouldn't be where I am now without you," she whispered, her gaze piercing the side of his face. She saw his lips twitch up into a smirk, and then his head turned back. She held her breath for what he'd say, and prepared herself to memorize his eyes because she didn't know if she'd ever see their mercurial depths again.

But he didn't say anything, and his eyes latched onto their clasped hands instead of her face. The silence stretched until it tangled and felt awkward in the air between them. Ginny desperately wanted to bat away the web, close the distance between them, have more than just their hands touching. When would she get the chance again?

Perched on the edge of her chair, she leaned forward more, her hand gliding up to his wrist. He watched the path she wrought with intense concentration, his face otherwise expressionless, and she watched him the same way. She knew her face was blank; she'd somehow mastered that skill during her hospitalization, but everything she felt was in her eyes, if only he'd look up and see.

Instead, he withdrew from her, his hand sliding out of her grasp like moonlight sliding through a room. When he stood up, he took Ginny's breath with him, and his eyes never met hers, so he didn't see the tears that threatened to spill.

"I'm exhausted, and you've got a big day tomorrow," he said, his voice hollow, but not as hollow as Ginny's body.

She nodded, though of course he couldn't see it, and as he climbed into his bed, she remained in the chair, her head turned toward the window just in case he looked her way and saw an errant tear fall. With a gentle nudge, she knocked down their half-constructed card house, and the sound of the collapse was viscerally satisfying. Half an hour later, he rolled over when she returned to her bed, and that made her angry. He wanted to avoid her? Fine! Two could play at that game. If he couldn't speak to or look at her, then she wouldn't bother to say goodbye to him in the morning.

She tossed and turned for over an hour, her emotions boiling inside her without an escape. It was just starting to sink in that she would see her family in the morning, that she was leaving this hell hole, and the anticipation made her heart flutter too fast to relax. Returning to her normal practice, she cleared her mind and imagined what the reunion would be like: the tears on both of her parents' faces when they saw her for the first time in over four months; the warm, comforting hugs she would receive from all her brothers; Malfoy on his knees begging her not to leave him.... Yeah, he would miss her way more than she would miss him.

After that, it didn't take long for her heart to settle down, her thoughts to still, and her body to drift off into sleep.

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Waking was harder than falling asleep. When Ginny managed to get her eyes to open, her vision was blurry, and then her lids fell closed, as if the weight of them was more than she could manage. By the time her eyes stayed open and focused, she began to feel the rest of her body. Like a brick, she laid in bed, her limbs too heavy to lift on their own. She tried. Every attempt to lift herself onto her elbows failed.

Someone entered the ward, the clack-clack-clack identifying Healer Unger.

"Oh!" she said, shocked.

Ginny turned her head, but the woman approaching Ginny's bed was most certainly not Healer Unger. In fact, she was no one Ginny had ever met before. The woman had long, strawberry-blonde hair pulled back into a severe ponytail and a plump frame. The eyes behind her wire-rimmed glasses were shocked, but stern, and the wrinkles around her lips suggested someone not prone to smiling.

"You shouldn't try to move. You're weak!" she said, and the voice... the voice was definitely Unger's.

Ginny stopped struggling out of sheer confusion. "Who are you?" she asked, but her voice was so hoarse, the sound that came out was rattling and hollow, like the sound Dementors make. She tried to cough to clear her throat, but she was so weak, she couldn't even manage that.

"Please, Miss Weasley, stop moving. My name is Healer Unger. I'm one of the Healers who has been caring for you during your stay." She said all this while waving her wand around Ginny's body, shining a light into her eyes, poking and prodding, just like they'd done when Ginny had first become conscious months ago.

"You're. Not. Ung," Ginny said, pausing in between each word.

"You are going to wear yourself out. Do you want me to sedate you?"

Instead of replying, Ginny shook her head, remembering what it had felt like to be drugged for two days and not wanting to reenact those early days in the hospital.

The door opened again and another Healer entered. As Ginny studied this woman (short gray hair cut in an asymmetrical bob, stick thin, wrinkled face, red lipstick), she noticed that the distance between her bed and the door was wrong. She turned her head in the other direction, but the two beds closest to the window—the beds she and Malfoy had slept in for four whole months—were hidden behind drawn curtains. However, Malfoy was still sleeping in the bed next to hers, though he looked odd. She couldn't figure out why.

The new Healer reached Imposter-Unger's side and gasped, her hands covering her mouth. Tears pooled in her eyes, and in Healer Gibby's voice, she cried, "She's awake!"

"Yes, Gibby, she is. Would you please let reception know to contact her family?"

"Oh, my dear," Imposter-Gibby said as she stroked Ginny's forehead, "your family is going to be so relieved! Not a day has passed that someone hasn't—"

"Now, Gibby!" Unger prompted.

"Oh, right! I'm sorry. I'll be right back, dear. Don't move!"

As she rushed out the door, Ginny said, "That's Gibby?" This time her voice came out stronger. It was even almost intelligible.

"Yes, Healer Gibby. She's a little... sensitive."

Ginny was content to let Unger continue with her inspection as she tried to reconcile the short, heavyset woman with curly gray hair she knew as Healer Unger with this version of her. Maybe this was her daughter? And Healer Gibby should have been a middle-aged, maternal woman with brown hair. The Healer Gibby who'd just left the room had her voice and maternal instincts—including her propensity to cry at the drop of a hat—but she wasn't the woman Ginny knew.

She looked at Malfoy again, wondering when he was going to wake up and if she'd get the chance to say goodbye—forget the vow she'd made yesterday! She couldn't leave this place without saying goodbye to him, not after everything they'd been through together. Then she realized what was so strange about him. He was lying on his back, his bed sheets pulled neatly up to his shoulders. That wasn't the way he usually slept. He usually snuggled down into the bed, burrowing underneath the sheets until only his forehead was visible.

Turning back to the Healer, who was now pouring a glass of water, Ginny asked, "My family's coming?"

"Yes, they should be here soon." Then the woman put a hand behind Ginny's head and helped her take a drink of the water. "I'm going to help you sit up, and then I'm going to go find something suitable for your breakfast." Well, at least Unger's matter-of-fact care hadn't changed, even if her appearance had.

The bed was tilted at an angle to allow Ginny to sit up with support, and then she was left alone. She took the opportunity to take in her surroundings, noting an extra patient lying in one of the beds across from her... and was that Gilderoy Lockhart reading a book about himself in another bed? If so, he was awfully quiet—much less sociable than he’d been ten years ago. None of this made any sense.

The door slammed open as her parents rushed inside, their eyes wide with worry and tears already falling down their faces. As soon as Ginny saw them, the stress and worry of the last four months, the distress and loneliness she’d felt during her hospitalization, and the shock of waking up in a semi-unfamiliar environment all filled her to the brim, and she started sobbing. Her mum was the first person to reach her bedside, and the feel of her comforting arms pulling Ginny to her chest was more than she could bear. Her dad wrapped one arm around Ginny’s shoulder, and the other around her mother’s, and together they hugged and cried.

Months ago she’d thought that if her parents would only come to visit, everything would be okay. They’d sort things out and she’d get to go home, or, if that wasn’t possible, just seeing them would get her through the days and weeks ahead of her. And now they were here and she was going to be released, but even more than that, she was relieved. The thought that no one cared about her had crossed her mind more than a few times, both when she’d been on the brink of madness and when she’d known herself.

Finally, they all let go of each other, and the Healers conjured chairs for her parents to sit in before leaving the room. Ginny was too weak to wipe the tears off her face, but her mum pulled a handkerchief out of a pocket and cleaned her up. The whole time, her dad held one of her hands, and occasionally rubbed her arm, reminding her how much she had missed human contact in the last four months.

“What happened?” she asked, and this time the sound that came out actually formed the shape of words.

In a soft voice, her mum said, “There was an accident. Well, it wasn’t an accident. More like an attack.”

“Where?” Ginny croaked.

“Diagon Alley. A woman went mad or something and started attacking people. A spell went astray and the front wall of the apothecary collapsed. Healers found you in the rubble, but they weren’t sure if you were hit with a spell or just injured when the building exploded.” Mrs. Weasley covered her mouth but she couldn’t hold back her gasping sob. “They’re still not sure. Your body healed months ago, but you’ve been unconscious for the last four months.”

Ginny had to do a mental double-take at that. Had she heard wrong? Surely she'd heard wrong. When she looked at Mr. Weasley, he only shook his head and patted the top of her hand, his lips trembling.

“Like... a coma?” she asked, trying to understand.

“Yes, sweetheart,” her father answered, and if he said it was true, then it had to be.

“But... what about Malfoy?”

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley shared a confused look. “Well,” Mrs. Weasley said, “he was found on top of you. From what I understand, he was hit with a spell, but he’s also been unconscious since he was admitted. Oh, Ginny, we weren’t sure if you would ever wake up!”

Ginny was pulled into another hug, but her mind had gone elsewhere, even though her weak body did its best to respond to her parents love. She couldn’t process any of this information. Nothing was making sense. How could she have been unconscious? She had four months of memories in the Janus Thickey Ward. Four months of monotony, two attempted escapes, countless potions, and more bad hospital food than she could bear to think about.

Tears spilled again and she sobbed even harder, this time at the thought that those four months hadn’t been real. She’d dreamed them all up in her comatose state, which meant that she and Malfoy weren’t allies. The crush she’d developed, the one that still pumped through her veins, was based on a fantasy of interactions with Draco Malfoy.

When the real Draco Malfoy woke up—if he woke up—he would know her as Ginny Weasley, Harry Potter’s ex-girlfriend and a first-string Chaser for Puddlemere United. He wouldn’t know her. Not how he’d come to know her in the last four months. Even though the Draco she knew wasn’t real, she still regretted never touching him the way she’d wanted to or telling him how she’d felt. She never even got the chance to say goodbye.

The man who had done so much for her sanity had been a figment of her own imagination.

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Ten: Goodbye

After moving to an open ward, Ginny began physical training immediately. She was determined to go home, so no matter how weak she felt, she pushed to keep herself standing, putting one foot in front of the other until she could walk without the aid of a Healer or random objects in her path.

That night, she laid in bed, exhausted to her bones, every muscle aching. And suddenly she remembered.

She and some of her teammates had stopped by the Leaky Cauldron for a meal after practice. She’d noticed Malfoy enter the pub looking stiffly out of place—not because his robes were pristine and shining in the dingy pub, but because he held himself rigidly, as if he knew he didn’t belong. It was strange behavior, and what made it more curious was the woman he’d met at the bar and the tense way they’d conversed. The woman looked increasingly desperate as they continued their discussion, while Malfoy’s expression became more dour. Suddenly, the woman stomped out of the pub, back out into Diagon Alley, and Malfoy finished his drink alone.

Ginny stayed behind while the rest of her teammates departed for home. She watched him over the edge of her mug until he stood up to leave, and then she joined him at the exit.

“Fighting with your girlfriend?” she asked cheekily.

Malfoy wrinkled his pointy little nose. Ginny had thought it a cute gesture from someone with such an air of arrogance and stuffiness. “Hardly. Bad business, that’s all.”

“Oh? And what kind of business are you in?” she asked, feigning surprise but not curiosity. Draco Malfoy was a mystery, the wizarding equivalent of the Loch Ness monster. Sights of him were always being reported but unconfirmed. That she’d spotted him in a pub of all places deserved a reward, but she had no camera to capture her proof.

Now his eyes narrowed, but she smiled back at him blithely. “Are you interested in business with me?”

“It depends on the business,” Ginny said. She might have winked, but she hoped she wasn’t remembering that part correctly.

Malfoy’s face flushed, and she deeply regretted her lack of camera to forever preserve his pink cheeks on film. She’d had an absurd urge to put her hands on his face to feel if the blush had warmed his cheeks. He always looked so pale, cold, and imposing in his expensive robes, with his sneers and smirks adorning his face like masks. She hadn't known until that moment that he was even capable of blushing.

“What do you really want?” he asked suspiciously.

Ginny hesitated because she wasn’t sure. Her relationship with Harry had failed utterly, and when she’d seen Malfoy enter the pub, like a rare species of dragon wandering into a village, she’d wanted to snatch him. Not to cut off his tail or harvest his scales to sell to the highest bidder. She would never do that to anyone, not even to mysterious, snarly dragons. She just wanted to learn more about him, and in the meantime maybe his flame could keep her warm at night.

By now they’d made it back onto the street, the cool March air feeling fresh after time spent in the Cauldron’s dark, warm interior. She’d opened her mouth to try to explain, but the woman Malfoy had met with earlier jumped into their path, hatred boiling in her eyes, her fists clenched and trembling.

“I can’t forgive you for what you did to me and my family,” she said to a shocked Draco Malfoy as she ignored Ginny's presence entirely. She seemed consumed with an anger that could only be directed at him. “The Ministry did us wrong. Did all of us wrong, but I’m going to make it right.”

As the woman drew her wand, Malfoy drew his and pushed Ginny towards the apothecary, yelling for her to get inside. She never made it. Malfoy had been hit with a spell and blasted backwards on top of Ginny, his body covering hers even as the apothecary exploded and stone rained down on them.

The next thing she knew, she’d awakened in the Janus Thickey Ward.

The memory left Ginny gasping, but moments later the gasps turned into body-wracking dry sobs. She pressed her hands over her mouth and clenched her eyes shut, trying to regain control of her breathing, trying not to make a noise that would alert her roommate, even though he was deaf in one ear thanks to a well-aimed Engorgement Charm.

This was too much. Would Draco Malfoy always be on her mind? It made sense that she'd dreamed about him, if he was the last person she'd seen before she'd lost consciousness. Even before she'd entered St. Mungo's, he had interested her in a way that had made her imagination run wild. And the thing about it was, that dream had been so vivid. How could she not believe it had been real? She knew about his conflicting feelings concerning his father, his hopes for his charitable work to rebuild his family's reputation, his paranoia preventing him from going out in public, and his care and consideration for his mother. He was a real person to her, and it destroyed her that he might never wake up—and that if he ever did, she would be no one to him. Except the bothersome woman who had cornered him after a drink to drill him about his work just before a woman went mad and tried to kill him.

If he ever woke up, she wouldn't be surprised if he swore off women for the rest of his life. Oh, but it had only been in her fantasy that he'd been inexperienced with them. Maybe women had fought over him all the time—before. She didn't know because everything she thought she knew about him was wrong.

As her rampant thoughts settled, so did her breathing. Now, along with physically drained, she was emotionally exhausted, too. When she fell asleep, she slept like the dead.

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Ten days passed before Ginny regained enough of her strength to stay active for more than an hour. When she stretched her limits, she could remain standing or moving for nearly two, but she crashed soon afterward and became too weak to carry herself back to bed. Even so, her Healers were letting her go home as long as she promised not to strain herself and to rest often. Her mother and George would pick her up the next morning—and this time, she really was going home.

In the time since she'd regained consciousness, she'd seen more friendly faces and cried more tears than she had in months. All of her brothers—even Charlie, who had arrived all the way from Romania—had visited her as often as they could. Fleur had brought the children, and Ginny had been surprised by how big baby Louis had grown. Luna had picked flowers from her front garden just for Ginny, and one day, the whole Puddlemere United Quidditch team had tromped into the hospital room to see their fallen comrade.

Harry showed up the day before her release with a devastated, apologetic expression and her favorite box of Honeydukes chocolates.

Ginny was starting to feel like a leaky faucet because as soon as Harry stepped into her room, her eyes filled with tears. He flew to her bedside, pulling her into his arms as his own tears fell. All she could do was clench the material of his robe sleeves; she was afraid if she let go, she'd disappear.

"Ginny, I'm so sorry!" Harry cried, a desperate keening in his voice.

Despite herself, Ginny coughed out a laugh. "What have you got to be sorry for?"

He pulled away from their embrace, but he never let go of her hands, and instead of moving to the chair at the bedside, he stayed perched on the edge of her mattress.

"For our fight. I was stupid and cruel to you. All this time, I kept thinking that I should have been there for you. I should have done something to help." He wiped the tears off his face, looking like a miserable, repentant puppy dog.

Ginny was shocked but not forgiving.

"Wait," she said, staring at him with scrutinizing eyes. "Are you saying you've spent the past four and a half months feeling guilty and thinking if we hadn't fought, or if we'd made up, none of this would have happened?"

Harry just looked perplexed, but he was still familiar enough with the alarmed expression on her face to be wary of it.

"Do you know what happened to me at Hogwarts during the war?" she asked.

Now a faintly annoyed expression crossed his face because this was a conversation they'd had several times. It always ended with Ginny's resignation and silence, but not today. "Of course I do. What do you want me to say?"

She patted his hand, and there was something patronizing in the gesture, even if he couldn't tell, though Ginny hoped he could.

"While you were camping in the middle of nowhere, I was fighting a war, and I was losing. Neville, Luna, and I sacrificed so much to do what you weren't there to do. I believed in you in a way few others did those months. I believed you would save us all, and I wanted to do whatever I could to make it easier for you to win. Then you had the nerve to barge into that castle and give me orders after months of not knowing what you were doing or if you were even alive. You ignored my suffering and my contributions to the war as if they were nothing. I've never forgiven you for it. You think that if you had been in Diagon Alley four months ago, I wouldn't have been hurt? No. The only way you could have saved me from this injury was by being at Hogwarts when I needed you.”

She sucked in a trembling breath, trying to keep it from sounding too much like a sob, and Harry's grip tightened on her hand, the corners of his lips turning downward into a more severe frown.

“I know that what you, Hermione, and Ron were doing was important, and it was and it still is selfish of me to wish that you could have been at Hogwarts with me—helping me, protecting me from what I went through. I know it's unreasonable to blame you for the way I suffered when I was the one who made the decision to fight. I know all that. But you could have made it easier for me to believe in you again when you returned. You could have taken me seriously. You suffered, too, but I needed you after the war, and you made me feel like your prize for surviving. Where was my prize for surviving? I wasn't perfect. I'm still not. All I wanted was for you to love me as the broken person I was. I'm sorry, Harry. There is nothing you can do now to salvage the relationship we had. You had your chance, and you blew it."

Her voice had been calm and even, except for that hitch in her breathing in the middle of her speech. Her heart pounded and her stomach rebelled against the lunch she'd forced down earlier in the day. Her eyes were dry, and they drilled into Harry's, refusing to back down, refusing to stay silent. She'd learned well from dream-Malfoy's theoretical Occlumency lessons. She'd learned well from him.

"I know you don't understand," she said in a softer voice. "I've tried so many times to make you see. I've loved you for so many years, but I love myself too much to live this false life we've built. There's nothing you could have done, and the sooner you realize that, the happier you'll be. I meant what I said five months ago. I can't be the Ginny Weasley you want me to be."

There was silence as her speech was absorbed and comprehended.

"Is that it, then?" Harry asked, and she could hear the lump in his throat around which he tried to speak. He blinked rapidly, trying to stem his tears.

"That's it."

He pulled his hand from hers and stood up. She watched him leave in silence, and when the door closed behind him, she had never felt more relieved in her life.

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Later that night, long after she should have been asleep, she crawled out of bed and snuck into the corridor. On quiet feet, she approached the door leading into the fourth floor lobby. The overnight Healer looked up and smiled.

"Lost, honey?"

"Oh, uh, no. I just wanted to ask for a favor," Ginny said. She still felt wary around the Healers thanks to months of resentment, even if those months had been dreamed. There didn't seem to be any hope of the direct approach working, but she didn't know any other way to get what she wanted. She and Malfoy would have hatched an elaborate plan, but that had been an alternate reality, hadn't it? And dream or not, she still didn't have the motivation to scheme alone.

The Healer stood up. "Is everything all right?"

"Yes, everything's fine. I just... I'm being released in the morning, and I want to see Draco Malfoy before I go. No—I know, it isn't visiting hours and it's not allowed, but I think he saved my life, and I just want to see him for a few minutes."

"Oh, sweetie."

Ginny put her hands up. "I promise I won't take long, and I'll go straight back to bed. I'll be careful not to wake any of the other patients either."

She thanked Merlin, Circe, and Dumbledore that Unger hadn't been the overnight Healer that night because thirty seconds later, the Healer was unlocking the Janus Thickey Ward to let Ginny in.

"I have to stay at the desk, but I'll be back in five minutes to lock the door," she whispered.

"Thank you," Ginny whispered back.

Alone with the patients of the Janus Thickey Ward, Ginny somehow felt right at home. The ward looked different from her vantage point at the doorway, and the moonlight was obstructed by the curtains drawn around the Longbottoms' beds. Part of her wanted to climb back into the bed next to Malfoy, fall asleep, wake up, and continue their fantasy routine as they usually did, but it didn't feel quite the same, and she was glad for that. The differences reminded her that she couldn't dwell on her dream life. She had a life to live outside of St. Mungo's.

There was no chair next to Malfoy's bed, so she sat on the edge of the mattress. Malfoy's skin practically glowed in the dark, and his hair caught the smallest traces of light and reflected it back. He looked ill. His features were gaunt, and there were bruise-like smudges under his eyes.

Ginny hesitantly reached out, her fingertip meeting his forehead and then tracing down the bridge of his nose, which looked sharper thanks to the weight he'd lost. She remembered the cute way he'd slept in her dream, with his soft snores and snuffling breath. The contrast of reality was stark and depressing. His chest rose and fell so shallowly that he could have been dead rather than unconscious.

She spent the next few minutes memorizing him and tracing his features. She wouldn't be able to have him, but she could have the memory of him, even if her favorite memories of him were imaginary.

Leaning over his body, she hesitated, hovering just above his face, and then she made a split-second decision she hoped she wouldn't regret. If this was the only chance she would get, she had to take it. When her lips met his, they were gentle, soft, and uncertain. He felt like ice, but her kiss melted him. She almost expected him to respond and had to quell her disappointment when he didn't. He was lifeless.

Then she said softly in his ear, "Thank you for saving me."

She sat back, but the words weren't enough. She remembered how he'd accepted his fate in her dream, how his paranoia of the outside world made him feel safer locked up inside the hospital like a prisoner. She understood that fear now, because someone had blamed him for their suffering during the war, and they'd attacked him for it. Maybe the Malfoy she knew wasn't real, but perhaps his fears were.

She leaned closer again, her fingers sliding gently up and down his arm. Goosebumps rose in his flesh and the response, natural and involuntary as it was, gave her some hope.

“Draco,” she said, her voice soft and hesitant. It felt strange calling him by his first name when she didn't even know him. “You are... more than you think you are. Not a killer. Not a coward. Not evil. And you are more than what everyone else thinks of you, too.” She knew that all too well. He'd shown her how to stand on her own two feet, accept what had happened to her during the war and forgive—or at least forget—how her family and friends had let her down after the Battle of Hogwarts. The least she could do was support him, too. “You have to forgive yourself,” she continued, “for what you did during the war. And you have to forgive everyone else for not believing in you. I believe in you. So....”

She faltered again, unsure of her point. Why was she even doing this? He probably couldn't hear her, and even if he could, why did she think her words would affect him?

“So... pick yourself up and get better soon. Or else.”

She felt foolish trying to motivate his unconscious mind, and when the overnight Healer returned, Ginny was relieved to go back to her room.

He hadn't just saved her nearly five months ago by taking a hit from a spell and protecting her body from the debris of an explosion. In her dream, he'd kept her from losing her mind, reminding her that her strength came from within herself and no one else. And since he'd been her dream, maybe that meant she'd only needed to remind herself of her own strength.

When her mum and George arrived to pick her up the next morning, Ginny felt revived. Gone were the days of anguish and regret. No longer would she fight her present with the memories of her past. Maybe it was cliché, but she had a second chance to live, a new lease on life, and she was ready to face whatever came her way.

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Eleven: Real or Not Real?

The first time Ginny had visited Diagon Alley after leaving St. Mungo's, she'd been filled with both relief and regret. All evidence of the attack had been cleaned up, the apothecary had been repaired, and the shop was back in business, just as it ought to be. She had half-expected to walk out of the Leaky Cauldron to see the neighboring business gaping open like a wound, still steaming and fresh, it's wreckage spilling out into the street.

The apothecary had a brand new face, and Ginny was glad to see business booming. However, without the physical evidence of the attack, she felt disconnected from it. She remembered the woman drawing her wand, remembered Draco pushing her to safety, but the memory was a blur thanks to the shock and adrenaline. She'd already been face down on the ground by the time the apothecary had exploded, so she didn't have a memory of the destruction.

She tried not to dwell on the attack. The best lesson she'd learned from her dream while in the coma had been to move on from bad memories. Ginny couldn't change what had happened to her during her first year at Hogwarts, the war, or the Diagon Alley attack. So she focused on the present instead.

Presently, she stood in front of the apothecary, three months after her release from St. Mungo's. Moving on with her life was all well and good, but she couldn't help but stop and spare a thought for how her life had changed thanks to one horrible incident. She'd changed after all the incidents in her life, of course, but she hadn't noticed until now. Or maybe she hadn't allowed herself to change until that very moment, standing in front of the apothecary.

The crowd bustled around her, jostling her as she stood in the middle of the road. It was nice to feel the reality and vitality of a crowd. Even if it had been imagined, when she remembered her isolation in St. Mungo's, she felt cold to her bones and immediately lonely. She needed this sometimes, to just visit the busiest place in wizarding London and feel... real. Alive. Free. Sane. Safe.

When someone shoved into her shoulder, Ginny couldn't even muster any anger, but she spun around to see who had been so rude and froze in shock.

He was still too thin, his face stretched and gaunt, purple smudges under his eyes. But he was standing, and his eyes were open, and there was a bit of a smirk on his face, which was a vast improvement from his disposition the last time she'd seen him at St. Mungo's. Ginny wanted nothing more than to throw her arms around his neck and squeeze the life out of him—joyously—and she almost did, but she managed to control herself. She couldn't stop the grin that spread across her lips though, so wide it nearly split her face in two.

“You should watch where you're going,” Draco said, the smirk falling into a scowl.

She should have been angry that he was blaming her for his rudeness, but the elation overpowered any other emotion she could possibly feel. “You bumped into me, Malfoy. I was standing in one spot.”

“That's the problem, then,” he answered, crossing his arms in disapproval. “This is a road. You're meant to walk on it, not block the path of people who actually know how roads work.”

“Let's walk, then,” she said, gallantly gesturing down the street in invitation.

“Has anyone ever told you that you're cheeky?” he asked as he kept up with her leisurely pace. They walked where the crowd directed them, moving like a leaf drifting on a current in a stream, destination unknown.

Ginny shivered, but she wasn't sure why. “They don't have to tell me, do they?” she replied in a cheeky tone. She shivered again, a tingle of deja vu overwhelming her. The weird familiarity reminded her that this Draco was not the one she'd dreamed about, and her smile descended into a disappointed frown. She hadn't really needed reminding, but the thought sobered her anyway. There was no point feeling excited that he was conscious and well; they were no one to each other.

“No,” he replied, the corner of his lips twitching upwards for a moment. “I suppose you would be aware of your own cheekiness, and that in itself is quite cheeky of you.”

“I'm glad you approve.” She rolled her eyes and stepped to the left to avoid an active child running helter-skelter and unchaperoned through the busy street. “Is there a reason you bumped into me today, or were you just looking to start an argument?”

He shoved his hands in his pockets as he mulled the question over, his lips puckering in thought. “I wasn't trying to start an argument at all. I was just wondering if you were real.”

“Real?” she repeated, her eyes cutting over to him. Ginny could hear every beat of her pounding heart over the cacophony of Diagon Alley shoppers, like a bomb ticking down the seconds to an explosion. Nothing else mattered except for the muscle in her chest pumping blood through her veins: not the people around them, not the way her breath caught in her throat, not even their history—and lack thereof. She didn't dare read too far into his words, but she couldn't stop her mind from latching onto them.

He shrugged. “Apparently I was in a coma for a few months. After I woke up, I was isolated in a private ward—the best that money could provide—so now...”

She knew exactly what he meant even if he didn't have the words to describe it, and her pulse quickened even more as she realized that he understood how she felt. “So now,” she continued for him, “you don't know what's real and what's not. Maybe you're still dreaming.”

His shoulders sagged in what had to be relief. Since he'd bumped into her, he'd been too collected, too composed. He had been afraid, just like Ginny had in the weeks after she woke up, that the dream hadn't ended.

“Did you dream, too?” he asked, his voice low.

Her cheeks warmed, and the heat spread throughout her body within a matter of moments. “Yes,” she admitted. “It was terrifying.”

“Do you wish you were still asleep?”

His eyes burned into hers and Ginny shivered again. Perhaps he was using Occlumency now because his expression was unreadable. She wished she had his skill to hide her true feelings.

“Sometimes. In a way it was easier than... this. Than real life. And there were parts of my dream that I enjoyed.” She stared at the back of the man in front of her, afraid to meet Draco's eyes lest he see the full truth about the enjoyable parts of her dream. “But I never want to feel that lack of control again. That was the worst part.”

He nodded as if he understood. And maybe he did. His mind had also been trapped inside his unresponsive body for months. Maybe that lack of control had manifested in his dream, just like it had in hers.

“What do you know about the woman who attacked us?” he asked.

Ginny was relieved about the change of topic, and she tugged him down a side street, an offshoot of Diagon Alley, as she answered. “She was captured, tried, and sent to Azkaban. Someone died in the attack and a lot of people were wounded. She'll rot in a cell for several years. That's all they reported in the Prophet. I still don't know why it happened.”

“I do,” he said, and her head turned quickly to meet his gaze. He placed a hand on her arm, stalling her. “Let's take this conversation somewhere a little more private.”

Talk of the attack had caused the October chill in the air to settle in her bones. While she did feel secure in the middle of the crowd—because it meant she wasn't imprisoned in a hospital room anymore—part of her still felt unsafe, like anyone at any moment could pull out a wand and start firing off spells. It would have been so easy for her to adopt dream-Draco's paranoia and turn into a recluse after being released from St. Mungo's. But that wasn't the kind of person she was. She didn't run from difficult memories; she faced them and conquered them until she was the one in control.

That didn't mean she didn't have her limits, though.

She nodded at Draco in response. “Where did you have in mind?”

He offered her his hand, an eyebrow arching in question. Ginny had no reason to trust him at all, but she gave him her hand anyway, and then he Disapparated with her in tow.

Ginny had never had the misfortune of visiting Malfoy Manor, but she'd heard about it from Harry, Hermione, and Ron. Their description of the imposing gates and the massive house had been weak compared to the reality in front of her. She did a double-take as a white peacock strutted past the gate. They must have kept them for the aesthetic. Ginny certainly couldn't imagine the Malfoys caring for the birds as pets.

With a wave of his wand, the iron bars opened and Draco gestured for Ginny to follow him through.

Ginny wondered what it meant that Draco Malfoy had taken her to his home. She wasn't afraid, and maybe that was folly to trust him so blindly, but she was nervous. There was an awareness between them, a tension that begged to be recognized. And Ginny felt a sadness for the potential of the alternate universe in which she'd lived while unconscious. She'd become pretty adept at reading the Draco in her dream, and they'd been something like friends before she'd woken up. This Draco was practically a stranger—a stranger she'd hit on just before they'd been attacked and he'd saved her life. Did that experience make them something to each other?

A pang reverberated in her rib cage as she thought of what could have happened between them if her dream had been real. She remembered how he'd pulled away from her that last night before waking up. He'd physically and emotionally withdrawn, so perhaps their relationship would have been just as it was now: a strained product of happenstance.

Draco broke the silence after a few moments, but his gaze stayed focused on their destination, leaving Ginny to absorb his words without his scrutiny. “Her name was Victoria Beckett. She contacted me with a business proposal, but it was clear soon into our meeting that she wanted a handout. Don't get me wrong,” he said with a quick glance at Ginny before he turned his head away. “I make charity my business, but Mrs. Beckett didn't make a very good case. She told me the sum she'd thrown at me was her due, but she wouldn't tell me why. She stormed out of the pub, but I suppose she thought a different tactic would work when you and I had the misfortune of meeting her on the street.”

A swift chill coursed through Ginny's body as she put Draco's information together with her memory of the event.

By now they'd reached the front doors of Malfoy Manor, and here Draco paused, his hand on the elaborately decorated door handle as he met Ginny's eyes. “I'm sure you know my father was sentenced to Azkaban after the war?”

Ginny nodded, and flashes went off inside her mind, flashes of alarm or deja vu or foreboding. Maybe all three.

“He died soon after arriving. He was murdered by a guard, a man named Beckett. I wouldn't be surprised if the two Becketts were related somehow.”

He opened the door, but Ginny couldn't make her feet move to follow him inside the manor. Her legs were shaking too hard; her feet were numb.

“Was it...” she began, licking her dry lips as her mind raced. He stopped and turned around, his face blank. “Was it poison? The way your father was killed?”

His brows knit together in confusion. “How did you know? The Ministry wrote it off as an accident, and my mother did what she had to to keep news of his death out of the Prophet.” He took a step closer to her, his hands clenched in twin fists. “How did you know he was poisoned?”

He'd told her so. In her dream. On their failed-escape first date. But she didn't tell him that. Instead, she shook her head and stepped through the door. “A guess,” she replied. “What happened to the guard?”

“He was fired. Mother made sure of it. Besides that... I don't know. I can't imagine he was punished too harshly for getting rid of my father. Come on.”

Draco beckoned her down a hall and through a set of double doors that led to a parlor. He gestured to a stiff chair that looked more decorative than functional before he slumped onto a settee, bonelessly exhausted.

“How long have you been out of St. Mungo's?” Ginny asked as she took a seat, perching delicately on the chair. It seemed impossible not to ruin something so fine, but she was determined to leave the furniture as unsullied as she'd found it.

“A couple days,” he answered, one hand over his eyes. His breathing was aggressive and loud as he sucked in lungfuls of air. He tried to regulate his breathing, to hide the severity of his gasping, but it was clear how much of an effort it was. He reminded Ginny of she and Ron as children, racing each other up the stairs in the Burrow and trying not to sound winded when they reached the top.

She jumped back up. “What are you doing wandering around Diagon Alley if you've only just been released? You need time to recover! Just because you can stand and walk doesn't mean you should. Honestly, what were you thinking?”

“I was thinking,” he said, his hand dropping from his face and his tone neutral, “that for several months, I dreamed I was isolated and confined. For the last two months, I've been stuck in a hospital room recovering. I was thinking that I wanted fresh air; I wanted to be around people; I wanted to make sure the dream was finally over.” His gaze bored into her, and she waited with bated breath for what he would say. “I wanted to see the damage that had been done, and instead I found you.”

The intensity in his eyes burned her, and before she could stop herself, her secret fell out of her mouth. “I dreamed about you,” she said. Her heart was racing, and she imagined the vibrations from her pulse shook the admission right out of her. She turned her head away from his piercing gray eyes, too afraid of what she'd see there.

Draco sat up a little higher, his arms keeping his body steady. “Pardon?”

“I dreamed about you,” she repeated. She scratched at the surely expensive material of her chair idly, picking at a snag in the thread with a fingernail. “We were locked in the Janus Thickey Ward together. Just you and me, alone without answers. We didn't have magic and we kept... slipping. The isolation, the confusion, our pasts, they ate at us until we were broken. We had only ourselves to build each other back up again.”

Movement from the settee made her head swivel back in his direction. His limbs shook, but he stood up despite the muscle-deep exhaustion, and his face—oh, his face. Occlumency didn't hide the shock in his eyes or smooth the crease in his brow that Ginny was so familiar with from her dream. She began to tremble as soon as she saw his expression, and the trembling increased as he moved closer to her.

Her body was shaking so much, she could hardly form words, but she pushed them out, unsure of how to stop what she'd started. “W-we played pranks on Healers that didn't care about our health, and we d-drank potions without being told what they were for. We escaped—twice—but we were caught and returned both times, and I shared my secrets with you and you... you shared yours with me.”

Now Draco stood directly in front of her. When he dropped to his knees, Ginny wasn't sure if the last of his strength had finally left him or if he only wanted to be on her level, so he could see into her eyes with ease. His hands lay on the chair next to Ginny's thighs, his fingers curved as if searching for purchase in the silk.

“What kind of secrets did I share?” he asked, his voice rough. His eyes were impenetrable, but that didn't stop Ginny from staring into them, looking for the man she knew. He was there. She knew he was.

“You told me about your line of work and how you invest in your family's future through charity and businesses and people who will speak well of you later. You told me about your paranoia and how you've been a recluse since returning to England. You told me about your father.” Her voice lowered. “About how you blame him for what happened to you during the war.”

His hands slid on top of hers, stilling her scratching, and the heat of his palms burned her all the way to her stomach.

“And you told me,” he began, the corners of his lips lifting so slowly, “how much you hate losing control. How your family was too involved in their own grief to notice the contributions you made during the war and how you suffered. How Potter saw a perfect life with you that you no longer saw with him.”

It was a wobbly thing, but she smiled back at him, not daring to hope but hoping anyway. She lifted her hands to her lap and flipped them over, palms facing upward, so that instead of him simply grabbing her, they were holding each other. She saw him now in the gray depths of his eyes, the man she'd come to know over the course of four months of imprisonment and isolation. The only Draco Malfoy she'd ever known. Her Draco Malfoy. She squeezed his hands tighter, testing—just as he'd done earlier when he'd bumped into her in Diagon Alley—whether or not he was real. She almost couldn't believe it was him.

"You know, the strangest thing happened about a week after you left," he continued, his gaunt cheeks stretched by his blossoming smile. "I was sitting in one of the chairs, pulling out my hair because the room was too quiet, and all of a sudden, I heard a voice. Your voice. I'd thought I'd finally lost it. After weeks of edging into madness, I'd finally crossed the line. But your words pulled me back into rationality and gave me the strength to keep going.

“You told me that I was more than I thought I was and more than what everyone else thinks of me. And you know what?” He startled her by laughing.

“What?” she asked, puzzled by his sudden mood.

“You were wrong. I had the strength to keep going because I wanted to tell you how very wrong you were. I know who I am, and I'm exactly what everyone thinks of me. You don't have to paint me in a favorable light just because you see something in me that deserves better. The world isn't black and white like that. I've done terrible things in the name of my family, just like my father did. He didn't get a free pass for the things he'd done, and neither should I, but that doesn't mean I can't try to change.”

He struggled to rise, and Ginny held his arms steady as they combined their efforts to move him so that he was sitting on the edge of the settee again, with Ginny now perched beside him. His smile fell as he tried to catch his breath, but he waved away her attempts to soothe him.

“I thought I wanted to be around people. That's why I went to Diagon Alley today. I didn't want to be alone anymore, just me with my mother as my sole companion. But when I got there and saw that there was nothing to see at the apothecary, I began to panic. There were too many people, and I'd already been attacked once, just as I'd always feared. Then I saw you, and no one else mattered. Because....”

He dropped his hands and looked away, his face suddenly becoming impassive in that way that told Ginny he was using Occlumency. It was a defense mechanism. Not only was he trying to hide his feelings from her, he was also trying to hide them from himself.

She grabbed his chin, turning his haggard face back to her until their eyes met. “Because as long as we're together, we can make it through anything. Just like we did in the Janus Thickey Ward. You and me against the world.”

His head jerked downwards in a nod. “You see, I'm a bit of a self-serving coward, and I'd rather face the world with you than be stuck in a dream or this manor alone. I can't do it without you.”

Ginny smiled to herself and tugged him closer, her lips hovering a hairsbreadth away from his. “We're moving a bit fast for a second date, don't you think? Maybe we should wait until the third before having this conversation.”

His smirk came back out as his hands slid up her arms to cup her face. “Has anyone ever told you that you're cheeky?”

“They don't have to tell me, do they?” she answered before finally, finally pressing her lips against his.

His lips crushed hers with such gentle insistence, as if he thought she would break if he pushed too far, as if he thought he'd dreamed her. But Ginny wasn't fragile anymore. He had shown her that she was strong. She retaliated against the very idea of fragility until she'd pushed Draco down on the settee and she was poised over him. She pulled away to look into his eyes again, and he stroked her cheek as he delved inside her mind, skimming the surface of her memories of their shared consciousness, just enough to know the truth for certain.

She felt both his fingers on her face and the flutter in her head as they relived their nightmare, and when he closed the mental connection, she laughed. Those four and a half months had been just as real as anything Ginny had experienced in her life. He was real. She didn't understand how or why, but it didn't matter because it was all real.

And their future? That was real, too. As Ginny pressed her lips against Draco's again, she couldn't wait to see what the world had in store for them.

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The End