C1: We All Fall Down

The roar of the crowd became muffled as Ginny focused on the goal posts only tens of feet in front of her. No matter how much her hearing narrowed, the screaming fans and the gusts of wind that buffeted her broomstick could not completely drown out the commentator’s voice as he narrated her descent down the pitch. The picture he painted with words illustrated a scene of battle rather than a mere Quidditch match, but Ginny couldn’t help but think that the description was apt.

It had been a long match due to the bitter wind. Quaffles thrown for a pass often flew right back into the Chaser’s face, and Bludgers that needed no assistance to fly found more power when carried on the gale, which made the already hazardous ball even more dangerous for everyone flying in the air with them. The cloudless sky also left no cover for the blazing sun, making visibility challenging as everyone squinted into the light, into the gusty air, as they attempted to tell apart one player from another.

The Holyhead Harpies’ opponents, the Tutshill Tornados, were the least of Ginny’s concern as the Tornados’ Keeper preemptively approached, leaving the goal posts clear for a shot if Ginny could only see through the sun and outsmart the wind.

To make a long story short… she couldn’t. And she lost the Quaffle, which was picked up by Blavinsky, the Tornados’ star Chaser, who sped off toward enemy territory, A.K.A. the Harpies’ goal posts.

“If you keep that up, we’ll get this game wrapped up as early as next week!” the Keeper’s choppy voice yelled, the sentiment broken up and carried by the wind that stole Ginny’s Quaffle.

Draco Malfoy grinned at her with as much sincerity as he was capable of. Which Ginny knew was none at all. He looked like an idiot toad in his goggles, his lips spreading wide in an expression of satisfaction as if he’d just caught the juiciest fly. He hadn’t even done anything during that encounter! The wind had done his job for him!

Ginny flew away in disgust, urging her broom to go faster, to catch up to Blavinksy so she could regain her honor and also the Quaffle. But she was fighting a losing battle against the elements and hadn’t even made it to the center of the pitch when the commentator’s extended vowels delivered the bad news on the wind.

“GOOOOOOOO—OOOOOOOOOOOOO—OOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAL! Ten po—Tutshill!”

“Dammit!” Ginny screamed, and she was grateful to the wind for swallowing her curse before the referee heard it and gave her a warning for unsportsmanlike conduct.

Her relief was short-lived as a force slammed into her from behind and shoved her off her broom. She was falling, her breath stolen both by the blow and the billowing air. Her body careened toward the ground, manipulated by pockets of air currents until she half-believed she was in the middle of an actual tornado.

The ground ascended toward her… closer… closer… until lack of breath made her vision go black.

She never felt the impact.

---

The weight of Weasley’s flailing body knocked the wind out of Draco as he swooped in under her and caught her in his arms. Which was appropriate because it wasn’t like there wasn’t enough wind on this glorious day already.

Gravity and the brunt of her weight made him lose his balance, which he attempted to regain using sheer will and also his thighs.

But it was useless. The Nimbus 9000 broomstick that the team’s sponsor required the Tornados to use was a finicky instrument, a touch too sensitive to forces outside of the rider’s control. The broom spun with the imbalance of Draco’s load, toppling both himself and Weasley sideways to the ground.

They fell about three feet, but it was the second time Draco had had his breath knocked out of him in the last three minutes, so he was fairly certain he was dying. He couldn’t die, though. If he died, he didn’t get workers’ comp.

Down here on the ground, fifty feet below the match taking place in the air, the sound of the jeering, cheering audience and the wailing of the wind were so muted and far away, they might as well have stepped inside an adjacent room. Or sunk to the bottom of the ocean. No one seemed to have noticed that a Bludger had smacked Weasley clean off her broom, or Draco’s heroism in saving her from her fall, or Weasley ungraciously toppling Draco off his own broom as well.

He squinted into the sky, but even his tinted goggles could not pierce the brightness of the sun to discern what was happening above them. Perhaps their teammates had noticed the fall after all and could not free themselves from the ridiculous wind.

A groan brought Draco back to earth as Weasley made a feeble attempt to lift herself off Draco’s chest. Her head blocked a bit of the sun, which was a relief to his fatigued eyes.

“Welcome back. Did you enjoy your nap?” Draco asked.

He relished in her recoil as the identity of her landing pad sank in. She scrambled off him and up to her feet, her face, now unshadowed, beet red and angry.

Draco rose onto his elbows and waved at her in dismissal. “No, no. No thanks necessary at all.”

“Thanks for what?” Her voice seethed with pent-up violence, and her hand reached into her robes before slowly returning to her sides.

“Catching you from your fall. Saving your life. The usual.”

He stood on wobbly legs and nearly fell back down as she invaded his personal space, her pointed nose nearly touching his own very pointed nose.

“You do not—” Her mouth closed. Opened again. Flapped a few more times without releasing any more words that actually existed.

Before she could figure out how to form new sentences, the referee and their teammates began landing around them. They must have finally realized they were a couple players short up there—or the wind had died down just enough to allow them to dive down safely. Surely he and Weasley hadn’t been forgotten….

They were pulled apart from each other, led in different directions as the team medics descended upon them to check for injury. Draco supposed he was happy that he had not been incapacitated enough to have to file for workers’ comp after all.

He wasn’t smiling because of that, though. He smiled because Weasley could try to deny it all she wanted, but both of them knew what he’d said was true.

Draco had a knack for saving Ginny Weasley’s life.

C2: Burnin’ Up For You, Baby

As a medic ran diagnostic spells all over Draco and the team manager shoved a bottle of water at him for drinking purposes, he considered how this whole fiasco started.

Draco’s life-saving hobby began with a fire.

Well, no, to be more accurate, he supposed it had started long before the fire with a war. Or maybe it went even further back to his childhood and upbringing.

Perhaps that was too far back. It was a touchy subject anyway, so maybe he’d just skip that part.

It started with a fire. And a pub.

Over the last few months, Draco had found himself in the Leaky Cauldron wallowing in self-pity for various reasons—not that he needed any reason to pity himself. One day he had discovered quite by accident the only known cure for his misery in a plate of chips lovingly fried by the Leaky Cauldron’s surprisingly buff cook.

Draco had never eaten a chip in his life. Fried potatoes had been strictly prohibited from the Malfoy household’s menu due to the unhealthy quality of cooking them in oil and also because, frankly, Malfoys were too good to eat potatoes in any fashion whatsoever. Food of the lower class, his mother called them. Root of the desperate! Draco had rebelliously tasted a potato for the first time at Hogwarts, and even then only once.

His mother still did not know his potato secret.

Alcohol was strictly against his diet per the Tornados’ nutritionist, so when Draco had found himself inside the Leaky Cauldron one dark night, he’d sat at the bar and contemplated the menu for over half an hour. His schoolboy rebellion had reared its ugly head, and thus the tradition of Draco eating chips to smother his misery had been born.

He had been eating chips at the bar, reminiscing about his war days, when Weasley and half of the Harpies had swarmed the pub in a tizzy about their most recent win. They hadn’t even bothered to change clothes, the sweat on their Quidditch kits still mostly fresh.

Why they had come all the way back to London to celebrate in the dingy Leaky Cauldron instead of patronizing a finer establishment closer to the pitch they’d played on in Yorkshire, Draco hadn’t a clue, and he’d been annoyed about it. Couldn’t a man bask in his discontent whilst eating a plate of chips drowning in ketchup without half a Quidditch team reveling in the background reminding him how much better other people’s lives were?

No, apparently not.

Draco had tried to ignore them, but their raucous voices kept penetrating his brain and interrupting his thoughts. Another man might have been glad for the distraction. Not Draco. No, how else was he supposed to pity himself if he couldn’t even replay the most awful memories of his life in peace?

Finally he had given up trying to stay miserable and decided to glare in the Harpies’ direction while stuffing his face with chips instead.

Weasley apparently was reenacting the winning play from their match, her arms waving and body turning as if she were riding an invisible broom and throwing and dodging invisible balls. Her eyes were bright with excitement and animation (or maybe alcohol), and her teammates listened with rapt attention even though they had witnessed the actual events firsthand along with her. They were so absorbed in the show that none of them noticed when Weasley’s sleeve swept over the candle lighting their table.

Her sleeve caught fire. The vigorous waving was not strong enough to put out the flame, but it did produce enough air to encourage the flame to grow larger by the second.

Draco didn’t even think. He grabbed his tankard of non-alcoholic beverage and sloshed it right over Weasley’s head. Comically audible gasps filled the entire pub as he stood there frozen, his arm and the tankard still outstretched.

Weasley slowly turned around, her eyes wide in outrage until they landed on him, which caused them to narrow.

“You’re welcome,” Draco said with a sneer. “Didn’t you notice you were on fire?”

One of the Harpies gasped again and reached for the hanging fabric of Weasley’s sleeve, lifting it to show everyone the hole and singe marks from the flame.

Draco knew she was too proud to thank someone like him, so he left before she could start screeching.

He didn’t even get to finish his chips. As it turned out, though, the satisfaction of the expression on her drenched face was an even better cure for his morose mood.

The next time they’d met at a function both had been required to attend, Draco had made sure to rub Weasley’s continued existence into her face. He’d shared the story far and wide with his teammates, her teammates (who had fawned over him like the hero he was, even if Weasley refused to give him any credit), and anyone else in the league who had the misfortune to stand still long enough to listen to him.

The Daily Prophet had even reported the story in one of those feel-good columns in the middle of the paper. Draco had thought the event worthy of the front page, but ever since the first publication, reporters had inundated Weasley with questions about Draco’s heroic actions, and that felt just about as good as a front-page feature.

The longer the story had circulated, either in print or by word of mouth, the more beautiful Weasley’s expression grew every time Draco saw her. Now, all it took was a single glance in his direction for her face to flush, her ears to turn as red as tomatoes, the color rising to her cheeks making her hair look pale in comparison the rest of her beet-red features. Her whole body would tremble, particularly in her hands, as if the sight of him spurred thoughts of shaking his hand vigorously to her mind. Or maybe wringing his neck.

She always looked moments away from exploding. Literally. In his head, Draco referred to her as Mount Weasley whenever he saw her thus affected by his presence. You know, because any minute she was going to pop her top like a volcano… incinerate them all in lava… extinguish thousands of lives in the aftermath with the volcanic gases she was sure to spew….

The metaphor was funnier in his head.

Not including Draco’s most recent actions during the Quidditch match of which they were still in the middle, he had saved Weasley’s life three other times after the fire incident, and Weasley still had the same reaction to him today that she did those months ago.

And Draco took pride in the fact that Ginny Weasley was hot for him, even if the heat she felt for Draco stemmed from inexplicable outrage and not ardor.

At least she felt something for him at all.

C3: Choked Up

The second time Draco Malfoy “saved Ginny’s life” had been an accident. He insisted that his every move that night had been deliberately calculated, but Ginny knew better. She knew Malfoy, and Malfoy was not the type of person to save her life on purpose. So what if he’d come to her rescue four other times before and after the accidental incident? The second one had been the one that was unintentional.

And Ginny would defend this position until the day she died. If Malfoy ever let her.

They’d both appeared at a fundraising event sponsored annually by the British and Irish Quidditch League. The money collected that night had been split between each team’s chosen charity, and Ginny had been overly excited when the final earnings of the night had been tallied and announced—to her detriment.

The Harpies supported Protego, an organization that provided shelter and resources to victims of domestic violence. At the end of the event, a grand total of nearly 300,000 Galleons raised had been announced by the Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports. The large, shocking number had set a record for the league, and in the midst of the pleased shock that spread through each person in attendance, Ginny had made the unfortunate decision to stuff an eclair in her mouth.

Gasping and chewing at the same time were not conducive to breathing. Feasible, maybe, if one was careful. But Ginny hadn’t been careful—she’d been surprised. And then panicked as the pastry lodged in her throat, prohibiting her ability to breathe.

She laughed because the adrenaline from the great news continued to course through her. Then she coughed, trying to dislodge the obstruction. Then tears pierced the corners of her eyes, and some of the other players sitting at her table began to notice her distress.

She stood up as if a vertical position would help the food continue down her esophagus, but gravity decided to fail her in this instance. Outside of her table, no one else seemed aware of her predicament, assuming, she supposed later when she wasn’t dying, that she had stood up to applaud the amazing outcome of the fundraiser like many others had. It had been unfortunate that at the same moment she’d risen to her feet, everyone else gave a standing ovation, their applause both self-congratulatory and succeeding in masking Ginny’s alarm.

The women at her table finally rushed to action, but before they could do more than push back their own chairs, Ginny was shoved from behind. The force of her abdomen colliding with her chair did just the trick, the collision putting enough pressure on her diaphragm to shoot the chunk of eclair out of her mouth and onto her dinner table.

While Ginny coughed and breathed, her friends stared behind her with expressions of awe. Effusive gratitude spilled out of her lips as soon as she’d caught her breath, and then died on those same lips, much like her eclair, when she turned around.

“I was going to apologize,” Malfoy said.

“And?”

He shrugged. “Now I’m not.”

Ginny began to fume, and her outrage only burned hotter as her friends finally got out of their seats to converge on her. Only, they didn’t actually go to Ginny. No. In fact, they swarmed right past her and surrounded Malfoy, praising him and patting him on the back and explaining in vivid and embarrassing detail what he’d done for Ginny. Again.

“You realize this is the second time I’ve saved you, don’t you?” Malfoy had asked, his eyes sparkling with glee.

Ginny wanted to claw his face to wipe the smug smile off it. Or pick up the hunk of eclair sitting cold, sad, and moist on the table and stuff it in his mouth to shut him up. Her temper continued to rise until she began to shake, and it occurred to her, suddenly, that her reaction was disproportionate to the situation. Maybe Malfoy was annoying for soooo many reasons she would have been glad to list, but the fear she’d felt while she’d been choking had been real and all-encompassing, and whether it was an accident or not, whether it was Malfoy or not, she should have been grateful. She should have thanked him.

But she didn’t, and she wouldn’t.

As Ginny came out of the memory, the team medic, Lloyd, patted Ginny down, watching her carefully for twinges and winces that might indicate pain and injury. Ginny considered the anger that Malfoy elicited from her.

“Is this how an adult woman should act?” she asked herself.

“Er, yes?” Lloyd said, a puzzled furrow in her brow.

“Not you. But thank you for answering.”

Ginny had the feeling it had been the wrong answer. But what did Lloyd know, anyway?

On the other side of the pitch, Malfoy, too, was being poked and prodded, and as though he had felt her eyes on him, he turned his head to look back at her. The goggles were perched on top of his head now instead of over his eyes, so Ginny saw when he winked. She looked away, her cheeks flushing, her hands balling into fists.

“Are you in pain?” Lloyd asked, too observant for her own good.

“No, I’m fine, honestly.” Ginny forced herself to relax, to release the tension in her hands, her shoulders. To slow her breathing and her heartbeat. The last thing she needed was to be taken out of the game because her anger was misconstrued for injury. If she was forced to sit out, she’d go mad with her outrage. Quidditch was the best outlet she had for emotions she couldn’t control.

Lloyd didn’t seem convinced by Ginny’s answer, but she nodded and banished away the monitors and numbers that floated in mid-air, informing her of Ginny’s physical state.

Gwenog forced herself through the wall of players that surrounded Ginny and Lloyd and stopped next to the cot Ginny was sitting on. “Well? Can she play?”

“Certainly. I detect no injuries, and I suspect that’s thanks to Malfoy’s quick reflexes. He didn’t hesitate to go after her. If it weren’t for him—”

Ginny jumped to her feet, and the cot disappeared in a lilac cloud with a soft poof. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. We get it! Malfoy’s amazing. All hail Malfoy!”

Gwenog and Lloyd both cocked their heads to the side, their expressions scrunched up in bemusement.

But another voice floated through the air, much too close for comfort.

“It’s about time you recognized my brilliance,” Malfoy said.

All the hair on Ginny’s body stood up. It was as though his name was Taboo’d, the mere mention of him enough to summon him to her side.

He came up beside Gwenog, his lips curved in a smile, his eyes wide with surprise or mischief or accusation. Ginny wasn’t sure because she couldn’t make eye contact with him. She stared at his feet instead. A two-inch thick line of mud covered the hems of his robes. How strange. She couldn’t imagine Malfoy allowing himself to become dirty. She’d always thought him fastidious about his clothes, the way she expected most rich people would be.

Or maybe he didn’t care about a bit of mud because clothes were expendable. He had enough money to replace them if need be.

Ginny shook her head, her gaze rising from his hem up, up, up to that face that made her shiver in revulsion. No, it wasn’t revulsion. It was just anger that the sight of him inspired in her, and maybe that was part of the reason she was so angry. He no longer disgusted her. When had that happened?

“I’m glad to see you’re injury-free,” Malfoy said, his smile transforming into that sneer that she loathed. The one that she always interpreted as You’re alive because of me. Your life belongs to me.

He held his hand out to her for a handshake, and Ginny stared at that open palm. Gwenog and Lloyd were still there, silent witnesses to this interaction. It would be unsportsmanlike to refuse his hand. It would be ungracious not to express some form of gratitude.

At the moment, Ginny didn’t want to analyze why Malfoy made her so angry. She wanted to get back on her broom and fly back up into the air, fighting the wind and the Tornadoes for the Quaffle and every last point. The game couldn’t restart until she acknowledged him.

She met his eyes and shook his hand. But she didn’t thank him.

C4: Not Just a River in Egypt

“Jesus Christ,” Ron said as he trespassed on Ginny’s sanctuary, the flat she lived in in Wales where she could hide from the press, her adoring fans, her family (sometimes). But never herself. No, unfortunately, Ginny could not hide from herself.

Blinking in the bright light emanating from her front door, obscuring Ron’s features from view, Ginny groaned out, “Why are you cursing like a Muggle?”

Ron closed the door, encasing them in darkness, which he remedied with a flick of his wand. Light shined from the tip as he gingerly came closer, careful with his feet so as not to step on her empty bottles and all the rubbish she’d left on the floor.

“Hermione says it sometimes and then covers her mouth like she didn’t mean it. It makes me laugh to see her face when I use it because she can’t say anything without sounding like a hypocrite.”

“How romantic.”

Ginny groaned again when he reached the lamp in the corner and turned it on, her head pounding now that her brain was being stimulated against its wishes. She slowly lifted herself off the floor, flopping onto the sofa as if that would make her a better host. Why she bothered, she didn’t know. For one thing, the sofa felt no more comfortable in her inebriated state than the floor did. For another, she didn’t care what Ron thought and hoped he’d bugger off any second now.

Instead he started picking up her trash, which meant he planned to stay for a while. Normally she would have fussed at him for making her feel incompetent in her own home, but the result would be a clean flat, so maybe enduring him for a while would be worth the outcome.

“Heard about the match,” Ron said.

Oh, good. They were getting straight to the point. “Did Malfoy tell you about it?”

“No.” He lifted a bottle to his nose and took a sniff, a shudder going through him as the smell registered. “Malfoy told Harry, who told me.”

The exceptional amount of alcohol she had consumed all day made her whole body numb and floaty, which stifled the physical manifestation of her anger. In fact, under the influence, her anger was mere irritation.

She said nothing because opening her mouth in this state always led to her feeling like the immature one of the two. Ron continued picking up her rubbish and depositing it on her kitchen counter, the bottles lined up like marching soldiers, the sweets wrappers and crisp bags in a neat pile, the dirty dishes stacked precariously in her full sink.

Ginny leaned her head back and closed her eyes, suppressing a groan as the world spun around her.

Finally, Ron returned to the sofa and sat down, pressing a cold glass of water into her hands. Ginny desperately wanted to drink it, to wash out the bad taste in her mouth, to try to clear her head. But she didn’t want to give Ron the satisfaction of knowing exactly what she needed, and she was loathe to get rid of the tingly numbness in her body.

“You know,” Ron said in an offhand fashion, “Malfoy’s team isn’t allowed to drink alcohol.”

She jerked away from him, affronted by the casual mention of her nemesis’s name.

“Did Harry tell you that, too?”

“No, Malfoy did. At Victoire’s birthday party, which you didn’t attend.”

“You didn’t need me with Malfoy there.”

With an exasperated roll of his eyes, he said, “For the last time, we haven’t replaced you with him.”

She’d never said they had, but why was it so difficult for him to understand her refusal to attend family events to which Malfoy had been invited? Why did he and Harry and Hermione always act like she was being unreasonable about this decision? She wasn’t used to being seen as less level-headed than Ron, and she certainly despised feeling that way in her own home.

Changing tracks, but only slightly, Ron pleaded with her. “Can we talk about the match, please?”

“What is there to talk about? I owe Malfoy five life debts now. And also we lost. What else could we possibly discuss about my uneventful weekend?”

“You’re right,” he said grimly as he stood up. “I guess there’s nothing left to say.” He went to the door and opened it a crack, harsh light once more flooding the small flat, leaving Ginny blinking in its wake. “Dominique’s birthday party is next week. Malfoy might be there. If you don’t show, the only people you’ll be disappointing are your nieces, who adore their famous Aunt Ginny. The rest of us? We don’t care anymore if you visit or not.”

He let himself out at that point, and the lamp he’d turned on earlier turned off with his absence, leaving Ginny sitting in the dark once more.

“What a bastard,” she said with an annoyed huff, though she couldn’t help but feel like she was the irrational bastard here.

“No, I’m not,” she said to herself.

But there was no one to convince. She was alone.

By the time Ginny mustered up enough energy to pull herself off the sofa and out of the dark, her buzz had all but disappeared, leaving behind a head that felt stuffed to the brim with cotton and a stomach that revolted against her, threatening to dispel its contents against her strict wishes. Three glasses of water and a shower had her almost back in tip-top shape, her head and stomach now only weakly rebelling against her.

Ron’s visit had been short, and he hadn’t said anything Ginny hadn’t heard before. This time, however, she decided to read between the things he’d said. Instead of You should be friends with Malfoy because Harry, Hermione, and I are idiots who’ve forgiven him, so you should, too! Ginny heard, You shouldn’t let Malfoy stop you from doing things you want to do, like spending time with your family!

This time she would give Ron the benefit of the doubt by assuming he’d stopped by with the intention of communicating the latter sentiment and not the former.

Shopping was her first order of business post-shower, because she had decided she was going to Dominique’s birthday party. After all, it wasn’t every day one of her nieces turned two, and she wasn’t going to let Malfoy have any sway over her decision to see her family.

If her arrival at the party smoothed things over with said family, too? Well, that was just a lucky coincidence. This was one-hundred percent an opportunity to show Malfoy that she didn’t care one bit about him, that his presence did not affect her life or her choices.

Because it didn’t.

Not at all.

C5: An Inability to Cher

Draco couldn’t help but think of Ginny Weasley as he looked around the Muggle club he, Harry, and Ron had just entered. It was hard not to think of her since she was the whole reason they had come here.

Well, no, not the whole reason.

The third time Draco performed the art of saving Weasley’s life, they’d been in a club in the grey area between Diagon and Knockturn Alley. He didn’t frequent such establishments usually. Too many sweaty bodies plastered together. Too many drunken idiots who became a bit too handsy for Draco’s comfort. Too many sounds and lights that reminded him a bit too much of spellfire and battles.

Clubs were chaotic and awful, and Draco had thought Harry shared the same opinion, but it had been his idea for a boys’ night out. Somehow Draco had got dragged along even though he wasn’t allowed to drink. Somehow he’d let Harry and Ron convince him.

Mount Weasley in her dormant state just happened to be at the same club, dancing under the swirling lights with some of her teammates. Draco had watched her from afar, the smile on her face foreign to him, the loose way she moved her body with people she didn’t hate fascinating him. He had saved her life twice and had delighted in her increasing outrage caused by his audacity to do so every time they met at a mutual function. He’d thought provoking a volcanic eruption was the most fun he could have with her, but seeing her uninhibited and enjoying herself made him wish for other things.

Things he didn’t want to name. Things he couldn’t name because they were so alien to his usual desires and so mundane at the same time.

After the song ended, Weasley left the dance floor. Her eyes caught Draco’s as she turned, and she smiled, which sent a surprised thrill through his entire body that felt a little bit like being drunk. Only for a moment though, because it wasn’t Draco she had smiled at. It was Harry and Ron she’d spotted, and as she drew closer and saw who was accompanying them, the smile disappeared, replaced instead with the scowl with which Draco was better acquainted.

She didn’t even get a chance to greet any of them or voice her displeasure with Draco’s presence. Just before she reached them, the drunken horde throwing themselves against each other noticed Harry and swarmed toward him with excited abandon.

Weasley wasn’t just shoved to the ground. She was trampled, her cries unheard amidst the screaming mass of partiers stomping all over her. Draco was the only one who’d seen her go down, and with a wave of his wand and a blast of orange light, he sent the stampede sprawling backwards, probably causing even more injuries.

Draco offered her a hand to help her to her feet. Brown eyes looked up at him, shock, relief evident on her face before she grimaced.

He clenched his hand and pulled it back to his side, stuffing it into the pocket of his robes as humiliation at her rejection burned through him. But then Harry and Ron were fussing over her, lifting her up, and he realized her grimace had been one of pain. During the trampling, someone had stepped on her hand, maybe spraining her wrist or worse.

It had been on the tip of his tongue to ask if her body parts were insured by the league, but he couldn’t make a joke about something that had the potential to be serious enough to affect her career. Instead, he’d melted into the sidelines, keeping his mouth closed and his hands to himself as her brother and her ex escorted her out of the club to take her to a Healer. And Draco, the last of the party remaining, and also the guilty party as far as the assault on the crowd was concerned, had been kicked out of and banned from the club.

Which led to today and the reason they were in a Muggle club now. Muggles didn’t know who Harry Potter was, so the likelihood of another stampede was extremely low. And from what he had heard, Ginny had not been to another club, magical or Muggle, since the incident.

Draco glanced around with a sneer. He had never been surrounded by this many Muggles before. On the surface they looked just the same as he did, just the same as the revelers in the club in Diagon Alley. The music they danced to was different, artificial-sounding, high-pitched and upbeat. The clothes they wore would have been different if Draco hadn’t been wearing the same fashion.

He hadn’t been able to look at himself in the mirror even though Harry had assured him he looked just like everyone else. That’s what horrified him the most—that people chose to wear these kinds of clothes and thought they looked good in them. A material called denim encased his legs in stiff, tight trousers, and the “tea” shirt Harry had picked out for him was hideously striped and baggy. More denim protected his arms and torso in a jacket. Draco had never worn trainers before, and he hated to admit that they were slightly more comfortable than the dragon-hide boots he favored, though they were equally as hideous as his shirt.

All around the club, Muggle women wore tight metallic dresses and midriff-baring tops over denim trousers while Muggle men wore denim and tea-shirts, like Draco, with extra helpings of denim. The lyrics of the song booming through the club were incomprehensible, but everyone on the dance floor danced to the music in sync, as if they were all familiar with it. They waved their hands parallel to the ground, shook their thumbs over their shoulders, twirled their hands into the air above their heads, and then touched their foreheads while their legs shook in time to the music. They looked possessed of something worse than Tarentallegra. Maybe the Cruciatus.

In other words, they looked ridiculous, and Draco felt ridiculous just standing in the same room as them.

Harry and Ron returned to Draco’s table with drinks, the one they pushed in front of him brown, fizzy, and topped with a lemon wedge.

“What’s this?”

“Don’t worry,” Ron said, raising his voice over the latin beat to which the Muggles continued to sway. “It’s alcohol-free. What is it again, Harry?”

“Coca-Cola. Try it. It’s good.”

Draco took a dubious sip and was surprised by the carbonation, which fizzed its way up into his nose. He snorted, but continued sipping once he recovered. The syrupy sweetness was unlike anything he had ever tasted before. If the drink was supposed to have a flavor, he couldn’t identify it, and, somehow, the fizzing added to the taste as well as the experience. Draco loved it, but he pushed the glass aside and sneered. Like he would ever admit to liking something Muggles made.

He stared at the trainwreck of a club while Harry and Ron continued whatever conversation they’d started at the bar. Draco only tuned in when he heard Weasley’s name.

“I don’t know if she’s coming to the party,” Ron was saying as he swirled the ice around his own glass with a plastic straw. “She wasn’t in a talking mood, really.”

“Did she say anything about the match?” Draco couldn’t help but ask. An internal part of him was rolling his eyes at himself. He was fishing to see if she’d mentioned him, which was stupid because he was well aware of her opinion of him and didn’t need her brother to voice it aloud for his ego to begin bruising.

“No, she wouldn’t talk about that. She did say something interesting though.”

“Oh yeah?” Harry said.

“She thinks she owes Malfoy life debts. Multiple. For all those things you’ve done for her.” He directed the last sentence at Draco, whose whole world shrank around him at the revelation.

Harry and Ron continued discussing the possibility of Draco’s actions forging magical life debts, but Draco paid no mind to their chatter. If Weasley thought Draco saving her life magically obligated her to him, no wonder she hated him. No wonder she’d never thanked him.

Draco had been bound to someone once. It wasn’t the same kind of magic as a life debt, or even the same kind of contract, but he understood the feeling of someone holding his life over his own head for personal gain.

For months, he had badgered Weasley about what he had done for her, never letting her or anyone else forget that she was still alive and unharmed because of him. Never letting her forget that she was ungracious of the gift he’d given her five times. The gift of… her own life.

No wonder she erupted every time they were in a room together.

The idea that this was one of the reasons she refused to befriend him even after half her family had accepted him made Draco physically ill. There was a time in his life when he might have exploited such a power over her—over anyone—but that Draco had died in the war when he was manipulated by the Dark Lord into doing his bidding.

The flow of Harry and Ron’s discussion seemed to run parallel to Draco’s thoughts, because he rejoined the conversation when Ron said, “I’ve done my best to convince her, but at this point, I just don’t see Ginny ever being friends with you. Sorry, mate.”

“Don’t be. She doesn’t need to like me if she can’t.”

“It would just be easier at home if we could all get along.”

Easier for Ron. Easier for Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. But not easier for Ginny, not if she was always holding her breath waiting for Draco to call in her debts. She would suffocate like that, and her family wouldn’t even notice.

It had been greedy of Draco to desire her friendship on top of her brothers’ and Harry’s and even Hermione’s. He didn’t need to force a relationship with her if she didn’t want one. He had been blessed enough in the last year with an abundance of good fortune and forgiveness.

Harry was staring at him, though Draco wasn’t sure how he knew it with the streaking lights of the club flashing against the lenses of his glasses, obscuring his eyes from view. “You know,” he said thoughtfully, “if you’d just let us tell Ginny….”

Draco shook his head and reached for his drink. He was actually disappointed when he drew on the straw only to discover he’d reached the bottom of the glass. “No,” he said. “She doesn’t care that I saved her life five times. Why would she care that I saved both of yours once?”

The very last thing Draco needed was for Weasley to think his friendship with her family and closest friends had been forced on them due to another life debt. It was better if she didn’t know the truth about the beginning of his camaraderie with Harry and Ron.

Just then, the entire club burst into song as every single Muggle screamed in an off-key cacophony over the music:

“DO YOU BELIEVE IN LIFE AFTER LOVE? After love, after love, after love!”

“Jesus Christ, I hate clubs,” Draco muttered. Maybe his opinion would have differed if alcohol had been flowing through his body, but enduring these shenanigans while stone-cold sober was a nightmare.

“Me too,” Harry said with a wretched sigh.

“Then why do you keep dragging us to these places?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” He smiled widely, the sparkle in his eyes penetrating through the lights reflecting off his lenses. “I just can’t get enough of the music.”

C6: Once Upon a Time

Draco saved Harry and Ron’s lives once. Unlike Ginny, once had been quite enough for them.

In the aftermath of the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco had stood trial for his various crimes, but, in the end, the Wizengamot had not deemed him as much of a threat as the Death Eaters he’d conspired with during the war. In an effort to wring out as much justice as possible from those bearing the Dark Mark, Draco, who had not been branded, was given a deal in exchange for a prison sentence so that the Ministry could focus its time and energy on larger threats.

The fact that he had not been taken seriously as a threat had chafed against his ego a little. He had, after all, given Pansy and Blaise and many other classmates the impression that he had good connections among the Dark Lord’s followers. Publicly being denounced as a wannabe instead had stung.

But freedom as a wannabe was preferable to prison with the big boys, so Draco had not voiced his complaints aloud. Eventually, the unfair feeling of exclusion had been replaced with gratitude at his better fortune.

The deal he’d struck had been simple. He would forgo time in Azkaban as long as he willingly offered information about rogue Death Eaters to Aurors until either 1) all Death Eaters and Voldemort supporters had been captured, or 2) Draco’s information was no longer necessary.

It was many years after the war now, and Draco was still helping the Auror Department with their investigations in between Quidditch matches and practices. Somehow, Draco’s aunt’s brother-in-law had escaped justice, and for a time, Draco had worked closely and very antagonistically with Harry and Ron in tracking Rabastan Lestrange down.

The investigation had dragged because the three of them couldn’t get along. Harry and Ron had been specifically assigned to this particular case, so their requests to be transferred to a different case had fallen on deaf ears.

After handling the two war heroes with kid gloves for years, finally, the head of the department, Gawain Robards, had decided maybe Harry and Ron were the best team to go after the last of the Death Eaters. Robards had been tired of dealing with both Potter (to whom he had not wanted give any special treatment just because he’d saved the wizarding world from the darkest wizard to ever live) and Lestrange (who Robards had decided must be dead if his most skilled Aurors hadn’t found him already). Putting Harry and Ron on the Lestrange case served the purpose of giving them just the kind of busy work to make them feel important while getting them out of his hair. So it must have irritated Robards immensely that the two ingrates had thrown his gift back in his face and demanded a new one instead.

And so the partnership between, Harry, Ron, and Draco began.

Robards had discounted Harry and Ron’s skill because of their age. He’d discounted Draco’s stale information out of mistrust. But, in the end, as dysfunctional as their relationship had been, the three of them were the ones who’d found Rabastan Lestrange holed up in an abandoned Black property in Toulouse. When Robards had not granted them backup for the extraction, they had gone in alone. Just three twenty-two year olds with limited formal experience confronting Dark wizards against a single Death Eater cunning enough to evade capture for several years.

The mission had gone south fast. Harry and Ron had found themselves cornered, their wands confiscated from them, and Lestrange had been so focused on finishing the job his master had started that he had either forgotten or discounted Draco as well.

To Draco’s advantage. His first instinct had been to flee while his uncle’s brother was distracted, to leave Potter and Weasley to their deaths and finally, finally be rid of his annoying school nemeses.

Just when he’d been about to Apparate away, he’d been struck with conscience, a rare inner voice whispering to him that Lestrange’s inattention would give Draco the perfect opportunity to save his reluctant partners. To become the hero he had not been during the war. To be the man that Dumbledore had insisted he could be.

Draco had been sure that heroic man didn’t exist, but he must have lived somewhere deep inside himself because Hero-Draco had found a heavy frying pan in the kitchen and smashed it against Lestrange’s temple while the man had been focused on using the Cruciatus Curse on both Harry and Ron at the same time.

He’d gone down like a rock, knocked out in a single blow.

Harry and Ron had stared at Draco, and he’d stared back at them, all three stunned at Draco’s feat of strength and breathing heavily from pain and adrenaline and just a bit of fear that they had never admitted to feeling to one another.

“You saved us,” Harry had said in awe, in disbelief.

Draco had shrugged. “You would have done the same for me.”

It had been true, but it still did not explain why Draco had done it. No explanation would ever be given to that question, not then, and not a year later when he, Harry, and Ron went clubbing together.

They’d returned to England and turned Lestrange in—to Robards’s disbelief. Draco had thought that would be the last of his dealings with Harry and Ron.

He’d been wrong.

Not even a week later, Harry had invited Draco out for celebratory drinks with Ron. Then he’d invited him to dinner with Granger and Longbottom. Then Ron had invited him to his family’s home for Sunday brunch.

Draco wasn’t sure why he’d accepted any of these invitations. He’d probably thought they were jokes at first, but the more often he found himself surrounded by Weasleys and and their ilk, the more reality began to sink in.

Draco had been… adopted by Harry Potter. And it wasn’t out of pity, although sometimes it felt like it was.

When people had asked why Draco was there, at these outings Harry and Ron had invited him to, they had looked to him to explain, and Draco had decided the first time he’d been asked that he didn’t want anyone to know the truth. He didn’t want anyone to know he was capable of good for the sake of being good, so he’d made up an arrogant excuse, a story even more far-fetched than reality, and Harry and Ron’s friends had accepted it for some reason simply because Harry had accepted him.

Everyone had accepted him… except for Ron’s baby sister, who had always looked at him with suspicion, ever since his first brunch at the Weasley household.

It had become a challenge, then, to make her like him despite herself. But somehow, whenever they were together, Draco couldn’t stop himself from saying the wrong thing on purpose, from being arrogant and conceited and everything that she hated. He loved the heat in her eyes and the flush in her cheeks and her confusion over his evolving relationship with her friends and family. He loved that he was capable of being a better person than she thought he could be and she had no idea he was capable of it. He lorded that knowledge over her head as often as possible, even though she didn’t know what he’d done for her brother and her ex-boyfriend.

When Draco had saved her life the first time, in the Leaky Cauldron, when he’d spotted her sleeve catching flame, he’d acted without thinking. Somehow, he was always in the right place at the right time with her, but it had done nothing to change her opinion of him.

Draco had soon discovered how much he enjoyed the challenge she presented. How many times did he have to save her life before she began to see what Harry and Ron saw? Four times clearly was not enough. Would five be enough? Ten?

However, after the revelation at the Muggle club about Weasley’s fear of owing Draco magical life debts—life debts Draco could not even confirm existed—the fun of the challenge had dulled to unenthusiasm.

Even more so than ever before, Draco could not tell her how he had saved Harry and Ron’s life for fear she’d reduce their friendship into a relationship of obligation. The idea that she was incapable of seeing any good in him had once seemed a hilarious joke at her expense.

In light of the way he had teased her about her obligation to him? Now her ostracization just felt deserved.

C7: Pity Party

Ginny braced herself before opening the Burrow’s backdoor and stepping into the kitchen. The breath she’d held as she crossed the threshold whooshed out of her as a projectile slammed into her uterus with a high-pitched screech.

It took a moment for her to process that the projectile had not been a stray Bludger set loose in the house, but a stray child.

“Aunt Geeeeeeee!” four-year-old Victoire squealed, alternating between bouncing on her toes and hugging Ginny, laughter pouring out of her mouth in excitement.

Ginny returned the hug and mimicked her niece's greeting with her own, “Vickyyyyyy!” Then she lifted the girl off the ground and rocked her back and forth, her legs flopping like a doll’s as Ginny squeezed her harder and smothered her face with kisses, Victoire laughing breathlessly the whole time.

“How many times must I tell you, Ginevra? Her name is not Vicky,” Fleur said with a shudder. She stood in the doorway that separated the kitchen from the living room, smiling despite her distaste for her daughter’s nickname.

“If you keep telling me, I’ll find a nickname for you, too,” Ginny teased as she put Victoire back on the ground.

The girl lifted her arms in the air and said, “Again! Again!”

“If I remember correctly,” Fleur said as Ginny instead ushered Victoire to follow her mother into the living room, where, Ginny supposed, everyone else had gathered, “you did have a nickname for me once. A very unflattering one.”

Ginny’s face flushed, her ears burning. “Knew about that, did you?”

“Did you think I didn’t notice how welcoming you were to me before I joined this family? Did you think I was too beautiful to care?”

Fleur spoke with a nonchalance that indicated a lack of injury, but Ginny felt the stab in the words nonetheless. The honest truth was she had thought Fleur too self-absorbed to care what any of the Weasleys thought of her. Now she wondered if that confidence hadn’t been magnified to hide feelings of rejection instead.

“Fleur…”

Fleur waved her hand dismissively. She turned and gave Ginny a tight hug before releasing her quickly and steering Victoire away from the cookie jar on the counter and back toward the living room. “It is in the past. We are family now,” she said with a smile.

Ginny was still considering her previous and current feelings about her sister-in-law—the situation inundated her with a sense of deja vu for some reason—when they entered the living room.

“Oh, Ginny! We haven’t seen you in ages!” her mum said with a wave from the other side of the room, where she was bouncing Dominique in her lap as if she was still an infant.

“Ginny Weasley? The one and only Ginny Weasley, Chaser for the Holyhead Harpies—that Ginny Weasley?” George said loudly as he chummily elbowed Hermione—who, Ginny was dismayed to see, covered her mouth with a hand to stifle laughter. “I can’t believe the Ginny Weasley has graced this humble abode with her presence!”

“It hasn’t been that long,” Ginny insisted.

She was contradicted by a chorus of “Months!” from every single person in the room, which included her entire family, Harry, Luna, and Hermione.

No gleam of silver hair flashed at her from the sea of orange. The fact that she had specifically sought it out irritated her.

“Where should I put my gift?” Ginny asked Fleur.

“I will take it.” As Ginny pulled an oddly wrapped package out of her pocket and returned it to its normal size with her wand, Fleur glared and said, “This better not be a broomstick, Ms. Ginevra Weasley, Quidditch player extraordinaire!”

Ginny only smiled in response.

Her assembled family were crowded together on the sofa, in armchairs, and on the floor, observing what was no doubt a Gobstones tournament taking place in the center of the room. Harry and Percy sat cross-legged over an array of marbles, considering their next moves while Ron waved his hand over the Gobstones, hovering over one and then jerking back to another in an attempt to stall for time. Victoire draped herself over Ron’s back, giggling and assisting by pointing to the Gobstones she thought most likely to win.

Ginny was disappointed to have missed participating in their little tournament. The last time she’d played Gobstones with her family had been the last time she’d stepped foot inside the Burrow, months and months ago, as everyone had said.

Her face heated as she smooshed herself in between her parents on the sofa and gave a babbling Dominique a kiss on her chubby cheek. She couldn’t help but recall a time when she had been sitting on the floor with Bill, the last two standing in the final round of the Gobstones tournament they had started while waiting for lunch to be ready. Ron, Harry, Malfoy, Fleur, and George had already been knocked out of the game, but they all remained crowded around Bill and Ginny, watching to see if Ginny would remain the reigning champion of Weasley Gobstone tournaments.

She’d defended her title well, and while Bill had shaken her hand good naturedly, ever the fair eldest brother, George and Ron had made matching sounds of contempt, their hands flying in the air in defeat.

Ginny had been proud of herself for coming out on top while Malfoy’s eyes had bored into the side of her, watching her every move, making her overthink not only her plays but how she handled the Gobstones, how she reacted to one exploding, her laughter, her breathing. Knowing Malfoy had been so close to her had made her more aware of herself in the one place where she should have been able to relax without worrying about how she would be perceived. She got enough scrutiny from the press and the public. So she had resented Malfoy for coming to lunch with Harry and Ron—just as she always resented his presence at the Burrow—but his scrutiny had been different somehow. Personal.

As she’d risen to her feet, elated by her victory in spite of Malfoy’s attention, she’d made sure not to look at him once. Unfortunately, her painstaking attempts to avoid his gaze had caused her to step on a Gobstone, which had exploded underfoot and sent her tumbling down.

Right into Malfoy’s lap.

Ginny hadn’t had time to feel terror from the fall. She hadn’t had time to think about how a broken tailbone would affect her ability to play in the semi-finals against the Tutshill Tornados the next weekend. In a single second she had slipped and been saved. By Malfoy. For the fourth time.

He had still been sitting on the floor cross-legged, and somehow Ginny had fallen right into his lap like some kind of cliche. Her bum nestled in the nest of his legs, the bend of her knee draped perfectly over his arm, his other arm cradling her back, twin expressions of confusion on their faces as they stared at each other.

Immediately and all at once, her family’s voices had clammored over one another to ask if Ginny was alright, to praise Malfoy for being so perfectly positioned to catch her.

Ginny hadn’t heard any of their voices. She was caught in Malfoy’s wide-eyed gaze, partly wondering how such colorless eyes could have so much depth, and partly wondering if this wasn’t why she had been avoiding him all morning. Had she known she wouldn’t be able to look away?

She began to fidget when the warmth of his body registered through her shock. After falling so fortuitously into his arms, he had tightened his grip on her, as though to make sure she didn’t fall out of his lap as disastrously as she’d fallen off her feet. His arm bracing her under her knees and behind her back had burned against her skin, through her jeans, through the sleeve of his robe, without an ounce of skin on skin contact.

Worst of all was the heat of his torso. It made sense that his arms were hard as iron bands around her. At least, it made a logical sort of sense, if not a practical one. (Why would Draco Malfoy hold her closer? Why didn’t he push her away? Why didn’t Ginny climb out of his lap? These were the practical questions for which she had not bothered to search for an answer.) But with her body pressed against his, her ribs, the side of her breast, an awkwardly angled shoulder, she could feel how solid he was, but also how soft, and his heat rolled off him in waves, burning Ginny up from the outside in.

She had known even then that she would not be able to forget how comfortable Malfoy’s body had been surrounding hers. To this day, she could not remember a time in her life when she had ever felt safer than she’d been in Malfoy’s arms.

Once the thought had crossed her mind, she’d finally shoved herself away from him and returned herself to her feet. She’d spent the rest of the morning and afternoon avoiding Malfoy harder, and, just to be safe, she hadn’t gone back to the Burrow since then.

Until now.

The memory of that Gobstones tournament and its aftermath filled Ginny with heat once more. Her anger was flaring back up, and the object of her anger wasn’t even here to receive it. After Percy was crowned the new Gobstones champion, Ginny dragged Ron off to the side and asked him the question that had plagued her since she’d stepped foot in the living room.

“Where’s Malfoy?”

He eyed her oddly, as if he couldn’t quite believe she cared enough to ask. “He didn’t come. I guess he was avoiding you.”

A physical pang rang through Ginny’s body, but she didn’t want to examine why Ron’s assumption hurt. “Why would you say that?” she asked instead, turning a bit of her ire on her brother.

“Because. He told me he had to do something for Luna today, but she’s standing right over there—” Luna and Harry were by the fireplace, each holding onto one of Victoire’s arms and bouncing her up and down. “—And when I asked her about Draco, she had no idea what I was talking about.”

Ginny shook her head and made a scoffing sound. “What do his lies have to do with me?”

Ron shook his head, too, slowly. The gesture made Ginny feel foolish for some reason. “All of his lies have to do with you, Ginny.” He walked off before she could delve further into that mysterious statement.

Malfoy’s absence continued to mess with Ginny’s head as the afternoon rolled on. The family moved into the kitchen for the birthday celebrations, and everyone smiled and laughed as two-year-old Dominique tried to eat her cake with a fork like a big girl, but only succeeded in demolishing it, cake and icing flinging all over the table. That resonated with Ginny. She felt like she was always making a mess, disappointing someone, somehow. Whether it was missing family events, the excess drinking, or her ongoing feud with Malfoy, no matter what she did and for which reasons, she was always letting someone down or making things worse.

While Bill, Fleur, and Victoire helped Dominique unwrap her presents, Ginny hovered by the backdoor and wondered if anyone would notice if she snuck out. She was itching for a drink to wash away the feelings of inadequacy that had surfaced at the Gobstone-triggered memories, but she didn’t want to indulge here because Ron would stare at her in disapproval, blowing it all out of proportion.

Just as she reached for the doorknob, Hermione came to stand beside her.

“Oh, look,” she said, nodding toward the center of the kitchen where Dominique was grappling with some ripped wrapping paper. “Draco bought her the Quidditch balls to go with the broom you got her.”

Too concerned with her desire to leave, Ginny hadn’t paid any attention to any of the gifts so far, but she paid attention now. Victoire had taken over the unwrapping for her preoccupied little sister, revealing a child-sized wooden chest, just like the one the Holyhead Harpies used to store their Quidditch balls in between practices. It was even painted green with gold accents—the Harpies’ colors. Or maybe it was Slytherin green…. Ginny wasn’t sure.

“It matches my gift exactly,” she said, her throat suddenly dry.

“I might have given him a suggestion,” Hermione said with a shrug.

“Why?”

“He didn’t know what to buy a toddler, so—”

Ginny cut her off. “No. I mean why are you friends with him? After everything he’s done, why do you tolerate him?”

Hermione turned, giving Ginny her full attention as the party continued on around them. “I feel a little sorry for him, don’t you?”

“Why should I feel sorry for him? He was horrible at school, to Harry, to Ron, to you. Then during the war, he did awful things!”

“Did he?”

Ginny unclenched her fists, brought up short by Hermione challenging what was a common, documented truth. “What do you mean?”

“I feel sorry for him because he’s kind of useless. Don’t you think so? He didn’t do anything right during the war. He didn’t kill Dumbledore. He didn’t identify Harry when we were captured and taken to Malfoy Manor, even though he clearly recognized me. He couldn’t capture Harry at the Battle of Hogwarts. He would have died if it wasn’t for Harry. He was a boy who had no talent or skills and could accomplish nothing on his own.”

When she put it that way, Malfoy didn’t sound at all like the demon Ginny recognized him to be. But who had the wrong impression of him? Ginny or Hermione?

Hermione continued on, capitalizing on Ginny’s silence. “You know how Harry is. He only sees the world in black and white, good people and Death Eaters. Snape was awful to all of us, to Harry most of all, but because he sacrificed himself, because he loved Harry’s mother in his twisted way, he’s forgiven in Harry’s eyes. I wouldn’t be surprised if Harry names one of his future children after him.”

A sound that mixed shocked laughter with disgust fell out of Ginny’s mouth. “Luna would never let him.”

Hermione shrugged again. “So is it really so shocking that Harry and Ron would forgive Draco and befriend him after he saved their lives from a Death Eater?”

Ginny was suddenly emerged in ice, her whole body stiffening, her breath lodged deep and immovable in her throat. “He what?”

A small smile stretched Hermione’s lips. “That mission they went on last year. Harry and Ron got themselves cornered by Lestrange. Wandless, literally backed up against a wall while Lestrange performed an Unforgivable on them. Draco could have saved himself. Everything we knew about him from school suggested he was cowardly enough to leave them behind.”

“But he didn’t,” Ginny said. Her fingertips and toes stung with numbness. She was lightheaded imagining the situation Harry and Ron had found themselves in. She remembered that mission. What she remembered most about it was how angry she’d been when she’d learned afterward that the Head of the Auror Division hadn’t sent Harry and Ron to France with backup. They’d come back successful, excited, and a little smug. She hadn’t known how close they’d come to failing the mission—or losing their lives.

“No. And he didn’t take credit, either. They covered it up to save Harry and Ron’s careers, because Lord knows Robards would have taken them out of the field if he’d known Draco Malfoy was responsible for saving two of his Aurors’ lives.”

“They never said. None of them. Malfoy always gloats about saving me… why didn’t he gloat about this?”

Ginny was trembling now. This was just too much information, too much all at once. In her head, memories were shifting, conversations gaining new context she hadn’t had before. The last year was starting to make more sense and less all at once.

“Harry and Ron promised him they wouldn’t say anything, but I made no such promise. And of course Ron told me everything.” An uncharacteristic smirk graced Hermione’s face, and Ginny realized with sudden clarity that she must have acquired the expression from repeated exposure to Malfoy.

Hermione’s voice gentled, as if she knew Ginny was reeling and didn’t want to break her brain further. “Once upon a time, two boys walked into a loo to save an obnoxious girl from a troll. They walked out of the loo the best of friends. Is it so hard to believe that Harry and Ron could go to France with Draco Malfoy and come back wanting him to be their friend, too?”

No. It wasn’t hard to believe at all. She knew Harry. She knew exactly what he was like. They never publicly acknowledged the good deed Malfoy had done, so Harry would have done anything necessary to make sure Malfoy got the recognition he deserved. If that meant becoming Malfoy’s friend, so be it.

If both Harry and Ron, two of Malfoy’s worst enemies, could forgive him to the point of desiring his friendship, it was no wonder the rest of Ginny’s family learned to accept him as well. Ginny had been the only one who couldn’t see past her own anger.

She was starting to realize she had been angry for a very long time.

C8: A Pal and a Confidant

Sundays were days of ultimate freedom for Draco.

As the Tornados’s Keeper, his duty was to remain close to the goal posts, so he didn’t often get a chance to push his broom to its limits. And due to their sponsorship agreement with Nimbus, the Tornados were required to wear and use Nimbus-brand equipment during matches and practice. Sundays were the team’s day off, which meant that it was the one day each week Draco could ride his personal racing broom. The Nimbus 9000 he used with the team was not quite as intuitive or fast as his Starfall 6, which sliced through the air with precision and speed, making Draco feel like he was in constant controlled freefall.

The rush was intoxicating. More intoxicating than anything he felt on the Quidditch pitch using the sponsor’s equipment.

But less intoxicating than the thrill that speared through him at the sight of a tiny flame on the ground below. He didn’t have to fly lower or remove his goggles to identify that flame as a specific head of ginger hair. Ginny Weasley had come to Tutshill to see him, it seemed. He couldn’t imagine what else she’d be doing at the Tornados’s home pitch, so very far away from her team’s home in Wales and her family’s home in Devon.

Draco flew down and dismounted, slinging his broom over his shoulder so he’d have something to do with his hands. He hadn’t seen her since the last time he’d saved her life on this very pitch a couple weeks ago, after a Bludger had knocked her off her broom.

He wanted to ask her how she was doing, if she was sore or bruised, if she would be playing in the Harpies’s match against Pride of Portree next week or if she’d been benched….

Instead he said, “I can’t believe it. Mount Weasley, in the flesh.”

Weasley’s eyebrows rose. “Mount me in the flesh?”

When she repeated his words back to him, they sounded stupid… and suggestive. His face flushed pink, and he was glad most of his complexion was hidden behind his goggles.

“I didn’t mean—I wasn’t—What I meant to say—”

She burst into laughter, cutting off his poor attempts to explain and saving him from humiliating himself further.

Her laughter stunned him. Oh, he’d seen her laugh before, but never during a conversation with him, and never with this kind of bubbly amusement. All of her laughter towards him since their childhood had been full of derision. Since his friendship with Harry and Ron had begun, she’d avoided him too often for him to experience any of it at all—either contemptuous or amused.

She dabbed at the corners of her eyes as she gained control of herself once more. “Hermione was so right about you.” And then before Draco could ask her what the hell that meant, she stole the words from his mouth. “What did you mean?”

Draco swept his broom off his shoulder and gripped the handle tighter. At the moment, he would have preferred to face Rabastan Lestrange again rather than answer her question. There was something about her expression, though, that intrigued him, a tiny ember of hope flaring to life. Hope for what, he didn’t dare articulate even to himself in his thoughts, but her smile, her unsuspicious eyes, her hands dangling open at her sides instead of clenched into fists displayed an amiability she had never shown him before.

Still, his face burned hotter as he responded. “Mount Weasley. It’s what I call you in my head. Until now at least.”

She shook her head. “I don’t get it.”

“‘Mount’ as in a mountain or… a volcano.”

“Oh.” The amusement drained out of her, her shoulders slumping just a little. “Because I explode, I guess.”

Draco shrugged, somehow understanding that her feelings were a little bruised, though he was flummoxed that he had the ability to bruise them. She always brushed him off, always turned up her nose when he spoke to her, as if he had nothing to say that she cared to hear. “The red hair doesn’t hinder the resemblance, either.”

Silence stretched between them after that, Weasley’s countenance falling, her posture slumping. Draco waited expectantly, but she was too busy staring at her feet and chewing on her bottom lip to notice his growing discomfort.

“So….” Suddenly, he couldn’t bear to know why she had come to see him, so he switched his enquiry for a different one. “What did Hermione say about me?”

“Hmm?”

“You said Hermione was right about me. What was she right about?”

Her eyes narrowed, examining Draco from head to foot, her hand at her chin thoughtfully. “I don’t think I can tell you. I think your feelings would be hurt.”

Automatically, indignation swelled his chest, and he threw his shoulders back. Draco’s mind raced wondering what Hermione could have possibly said, wondering if he’d upset her, or if she’d come to her senses about being his friend.

“I’ll have you know that I don’t have any feelings!”

Weasley grinned. “You have at least one.”

“Less than one,” he snarled definitively. He realized as her mouth stretched wider that they’d drawn closer together during this exchange, and he forced himself not to take a step back.

Sudden movement might make her skittish, and he so very badly wanted her to stay.

The revelation wasn’t a new one. There was something about her that had always drawn him to her, even when they’d been at Hogwarts together. Back then, he’d hated himself for his fascination and hated her for her associations, so of course he had never acted on his interest.

He wasn’t acting on it now, either, but that didn’t mean his interest had waned or changed. If anything, her refusal to play nicely with him made her even more alluring. Maybe her hatred of him spoke to his own self-hatred. Maybe he couldn’t rest until he’d collected all of the Weasleys as his friends. Maybe the war had turned Draco into a masochist who couldn’t be content unless he was discontent. There was a whole world of reasons to explain why Draco didn’t want to see Weasley walk away from him.

So he’d do anything to keep her right where she was. With him, in whatever capacity she was willing to stay with him.

---

Malfoy was looking at Ginny strangely—and not just because he was wearing those ridiculous goggles, which obscured his eyes and half his face from her sight. She had likened his appearance to that of a toad when he’d worn them in the last match between the Harpies and Tornados, but up close like this, the likeness was distractingly uncanny. The dark lenses looked like large, lifeless eyes, with the weak sunlight refracting off the lenses resembling a slimy film.

Hidden as his real eyes were, Ginny couldn’t help but feel his gaze on her as acutely as a touch. His open, unnerving scrutiny combined with her shame had her shifting on her feet and wishing she’d stayed in Holyhead.

“Hermione is why I’m here, actually,” she said. Her fingers were entwined together, but she didn’t look down at the ground again. Could Malfoy tell that this was the last thing she wanted to be doing on a Sunday? Of course he could. Ginny’s body language was as subtle as a punch to the face.

“Oh?”

“She told me what you did for Harry and Ron. In France.”

“Did she?”

“Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about!” she snapped, the old Ginny Weasley, the one she was trying to remake into a more patient, sympathetic Ginny, making a sudden reappearance. Softening her voice, she continued. “Saving a life is a significant act. It means something.”

“Does it?” Malfoy asked, his gaze pointed.

The question brought a blush to her face, her shame magnifying. He had saved her life five times and each time she had acted as if he had mortally wounded her instead. She had never expressed gratitude or even spoken well of him for his good deeds. But when it came to her brother and her ex-boyfriend, when it came to her family, their lives were important. Their lives were worth saving. That was the awful realization she had come to at Dominique’s birthday party. For so long, she had felt like her life hadn’t been worth saving and her anger stemmed from the fact that Malfoy continued to do it against her wishes.

When had she started feeling like this? She didn’t know, but her sanity—and perhaps her life—depended on her figuring that out.

“Yes,” she said firmly, her chin rising, her eyes glinting with contention. “And I owe you an apology for never thanking you for saving mine.”

Malfoy took a step back, his expression hidden behind the goggles. Even if his face couldn’t, the surprised side step gave away some of his feelings.

And he’d claimed to have less than one, she thought with amusement.

“I think…” She shoved her hands under her armpits to keep herself from fidgeting. “I think I’ve been—Wait. I can’t have a serious conversation with you while you’re wearing those things.”

“What things?”

She pointed to her temple. “The goggles. You look like a toad.”

Malfoy pulled the goggles off and flung them over his shoulder. “What do I look like now?”

His mouth stretched upwards in a smirk, and the only explanation she could fathom for his smugness was his awareness of her staring at him.

It wasn’t that Malfoy was a handsome man. Some might call him attractive, but Ginny had always found his arrogance too bliding to see anything attractive in him. Perhaps her knowledge of his personality tainted the way she saw him, hiding his physical features underneath a layer of disdain and self-importance. When she looked at him, she saw a man who was too skinny and pale, with delicate hands, all of which suggested someone who did not exert himself or work hard. She saw a pointed nose and chin, sharp cheekbones and an angular jaw, which suggested nothing but made his face striking and painful to look at, not least because his default expression was an unpleasant sneer.

But when he threw off his goggles, it was like a veil had been lifted, the filter of the past melting away until she was seeing Draco Malfoy for the first time in years.

For one thing, he was still skinny and pale, but not as he’d been in his youth, not as she remembered from Hogwarts. He’d filled out, muscles developing from years of Quidditch training. Most of his body was hidden from view under his robes, but the breadth of his shoulders was obvious to her now, as was the thickness of his neck. She should have known, though. She’d felt that chest against her body, felt his arms around hers months ago when she fell into his lap at the Burrow. Delicate hands? Please. She knew from experience how strong his hands were, and how safe they made her feel.

And pale? If she were being generous, she might call his complexion sun-kissed. He would never be tan or golden-skinned, but there was color on his face, which was missing around his eyes from, she assumed, repeated exposure to the sun while wearing Quidditch goggles.

He wore no sneer now. The longer she stared, the more his smug smile began to droop, until he was frowning, his uncertainty evident by the way he loosened and tightened his double grip on his broomstick.

She was shocked by the man in front of her and how he was so different from the man she remembered from years ago. It no longer surprised her that this man was capable of saving a life and not taking credit for it.

“Fine. You look fine,” Ginny finally said with a grimace. A shiver wracked her spine at the same time, and she hoped Malfoy interpreted her reaction as one of disgust. The status quo was easier to live with than her epiphany was.

Ginny wasn’t sure where she’d left off before she’d told him to take off the goggles, and she wasn’t sure how to go back to the topic at hand. Malfoy, however, saved her by opening his mouth.

“Wait, I have something for you.”

“For me?”

He nodded. “Stay right here. I just need my bag.”

Before Ginny could say anything further, he jumped on his broom and raced off the pitch toward a portal that led to one of the locker rooms. His absence gave Ginny a moment to breath evenly, fully, and consider the whole conversation so far.

“Mount Weasley?” she muttered to herself. As far as nicknames went, she supposed it wasn’t a terrible one. Certainly no worse than Phlegm.

A moment later, Malfoy was back and hopping off his broom with the grace of someone comfortable both on land and in the air. The broom hung suspended next to him as he rifled through his bag, until he found what he was looking for and held a drawstring sack towards her. It clinked as she took it.

Bemused, Ginny upended the contents of the bag into her palm. “Gobstones?”

“Marbles,” he corrected her.

“A… Muggle game.”

He took a step closer to her and drew a finger through the marbles in her hand, his skin brushing hers with barely-there touches that made gooseflesh pop up on Ginny’s arms.

“Not a game,” he said, his eyes lowered. “Tokens. Five marbles for the five times I saved your life.”

Ginny tensed, her whole body from her lips to her jaws to her limbs tightening at the memory of the Gobstones that caused the fall into his lap. “Reminders, you mean.”

“No! I’m explaining this all wrong.” That was evident by him running a hand through his mussed up hair, mussing it up even further. Somehow, unfairly, he didn’t look ridiculous. He made her want to run her fingers through the short locks, bringing order to the chaos… or making it even more disorderly.

The marbles glittered in the light of the sun, the colors of the swirls and the cat eyes embedded in the glass bold and bright.

After taking a moment to consider his approach, Malfoy finally said, “I don’t want you to think that you owe me anything because of what I’ve done for you. Not anything. Not gratitude, not payment… not even life debts.”

Ginny’s breath stalled in her lungs to hear her fear voiced aloud by the man responsible for it. How had he known?

“These marbles represent those life debts. I’m giving them back to you because I don’t want them. Your life is your own, and you should not be indebted to me for doing a decent thing. I don’t deserve that kind of payment.”

“Oh,” Ginny said. The marbles rolled around her palm, happy and innocent and inanimate and non-magical. “Oh,” she said again as the gesture sank in.

Her heart was swelling and racing, her chest tightening with the emotion that filled her. She wished she could draw on her outrage, her anger, her hatred, because those feelings were easier to understand. Malfoy had gloated over saving her life for months, but now here he was saying he didn’t want anything from her. There was something wrong about that, something that didn’t sit right with her.

“There isn’t… anything I can do to repay you?” Why did she ask that? She didn’t mean it, not really.

And Malfoy, shaking his head, closed her fingers around the marbles and said, “No, nothing.”

So that was it, then. This is what Ginny had wanted all along. For her fears to be acknowledged and for Malfoy to leave her alone. Why, then, did she no longer want this? The thought of Malfoy never talking to her again and only hearing second-hand information about him from Harry, Ron, and Hermione was as unwelcome to her as a hypothetical future where she could never play Quidditch again.

She looked down at her closed hand, the marbles within her fist, and her heart stuttered. This is what a kind gesture looked like from Malfoy. She wondered what kinds of things he did for her brother, for Harry, for Hermione, for people who actually considered him a friend. If he could do this for her even knowing how much Ginny hated him...? Her entire family couldn’t have been swindled into accepting him, could they?

She looked up finally to find Malfoy watching her, his eyes soft, half-lidded. He straightened as soon as her scrutiny was upon him, blinking away thoughts Ginny couldn’t fathom. She wasn’t ready to push him away yet, not before she could experience his friendship for herself. And she knew exactly how she could repay him for saving her while continuing to keep him in her life.

“Thank you for these,” she said as she deposited the marbles back into their sack. “You know, every time you saved my life, I got angrier, and not just because you were my savior. I hated the act itself. Part of me wished you hadn’t bothered.”

Malfoy flinched. “You mean….”

Ginny crossed her arms. “I don’t feel that way anymore. I am grateful to you. But I don’t need a hero, Malfoy. I think instead I could use a friend.”

“Oh. Well. I could go call Hermione? There’s a Floo connection in the—”

He started to walk off, his gait unsteady, his body stiff. Ginny grabbed his arm and yanked him back, aware, amused by, awed at his disturbed expression. It took a moment for her to identify the hurt that creased his brow and drew his lips downward in a frown. Maybe she wasn’t the only one who could use a friend. Malfoy had many now… could he stand to have one more?

“Why drag Hermione all this way when you’re already here?”

“Me? Are you sure?”

She nodded and squeezed his gift as she stuffed it in her pocket, grateful that the marbles were Muggle in nature and unable to squirt her with putrid liquid.

He looked thoughtfully at his floating broomstick for a moment and failed to hide his pleased smile. She wondered about that expression, about his gift of marbles, about what Ron had said at Dominique’s birthday party about Malfoy’s lies all revolving around Ginny. Malfoy was a mystery to her, and it was no one’s fault but her own. She’d spent so long hating him and avoiding him; she had no idea what her friends and family saw in him now. Maybe he’d let her find out. The smile he tried to conceal by biting his lip suggested he might be willing to give her a chance.

Malfoy gestured grandly at the pitch around them. “Fancy a bit of flying then? I’ll let you use my Nimbus 9000. It’s in the locker room.”

Ginny released a breath of relief, her own lips curving into an answering grin.

“Are you kidding? Those things are awful. That model hasn’t even been on the market for six months yet and I hear Nimbus is already planning a redesign with more versatility and a power level way over the 9000. I am not riding that thing.”

“Just imagine playing professional Quidditch on it,” he said with a sneer. “And we still managed to beat your team on finicky, faulty brooms. What does that say about the Harpies this year?”

Ginny’s eyes narrowed, but Malfoy wasn’t wrong about the Harpies. When she beat him on a flawed broom, she’d gloat about her victory just like a Malfoy would, and then he’d have something to sneer about! “Fine! Gimme the Nimbus.”

He flew out to the locker room and returned with the second broomstick in a matter of seconds, and as they mounted their individual brooms, Ginny said, “If I fall off this thing, you better catch me.”

Malfoy, grinning widely as he kicked off into the air (sans toady goggles), called back down to her, “Of course. What else are friends for?”

End