Christmas was the Dark Lord’s favorite time of year. He liked to leave those who opposed him a nice Dark Mark floating over their house as gift. Voldemort became particularly vengeful at the sight of other people being merry on this “Muggle” holiday. This Christmas, he had a great surprise in store. And he was thinking about putting a big, glittery bow on it, just for shits and giggles.
Only his most trusted Death Eaters (there were a grand total of three) knew what he had in store. Draco Malfoy, the only son of the late Lucius Malfoy, happened to be one of them. Voldemort’s high esteem for his father coupled with Draco’s uncanny ability to make people suffer had helped Draco to rise quickly in the Death Eater ranks, while his Hogwarts classmates were still hovering around “boot-licker” and “useless goon.”
Draco was enjoying a quiet non-Christmas at Malfoy Manor when he was summoned. He was polishing his wand by the light of the fire. It had gotten some unfortunate bloodstains on it from the last time he had gone out with the Dark Lord. They were a bitch to clean off. Unhappily, he didn’t trust any of his servants well enough to make them do this type of cleaning for him. He remembered his mother used to be very good at cleaning wands, but she was rotting in Azkaban. How unfortunate that she had been put away before she could be any use to him. He had no wife of his own to pawn this kind of duty off on. Such was the life of a confirmed evil bachelor. Draco sighed.
It was at that moment that Wormtail chose to stick his grubby head into Draco’s fire. “Mr. Malfoy?” he asked in a pathetically servile tone.
“Yes?” Draco turned toward the fire so he could see the older man’s balding head bobbing around in the flames. It gave him a perverse joy.
“It’s Christmas Eve,” whimpered Wormtail.
“Is it? I hadn’t noticed?” Draco drawled, acerbically. “Worried you’ll be getting coal in your stocking again this year?”
“Sir,” said the severed head, “the Dark Lord requests your presence.” Wormtail had an unusual amount of fear behind his beady eyes. The Dark Lord didn’t trust him enough to tell him what was going on but he had been around long enough to know it wasn’t going to be pleasant. He only hoped he wouldn’t be losing another hand this time. He knew Malfoy would cut him up into lots of tiny little pieces and leave them underneath the Christmas tree, all with a smile on his face if the Dark Lord would let him.
There was an unspoken animosity between the young Death Eater and the older one. Wormtail was jealous of Voldemort’s confidence in Draco. Malfoy had only been a Death Eater for five years and he was already closer to the Dark Lord’s ear than he. Draco, on the other hand, was constantly irritated by the sniveling animagus. He truly hated wizards who weren’t proud of what they were.
“You can tell our Lord that I am on my way,” Draco announced as he rose from his chair.
There was something peculiar about the Slytherin young man. Everything about him, the way he moved, spoke, and acted was careful and composed. But there was something just below the surface – something like anger that he was trying desperately to keep in check. At any given moment he seemed likely to lose his precious control and rain fiery vengeance down upon any hapless soul that crossed his path, retribution for some secret wrong that had befallen him long in his past. What that wrong might be, Wormtail didn’t know; no one did. Draco played it close to the vest.
* * *
The Weasleys always had Christmas at the Burrow. All the Weasley children were grown up now. Ginny, the youngest, had gotten married and moved out three years ago, leaving an empty nest. But they all came back for the holidays. No one else could make a Christmas Eve dinner quite like Molly Weasley. This year she went all out. The table was covered in dishes that the boys just couldn’t seem to keep their hands off. Molly’d swat them and tell them it wasn’t ready yet and they’d go back into the living room, pouting, only to make another run at the food a few minutes later.
The only one she would let into the kitchen was her daughter, Ginny. It wasn’t because Ginny was the only girl. She was just the only one not interested in stealing food ahead of time. She wasn’t that hungry, to be honest, but there would be no way to keep her mother from shoving food down her throat. Molly always made sure she was eating enough, even now when she was all grown, Molly would send owls asking what she had to eat and if Ginny didn’t respond, Molly would send parcels full of food items than Ginny and her husband would never be able to eat by themselves.
Ginny was leaning against the kitchen cabinets, staring at her fingernails, as Molly put another pie in the oven. She really wished she could stop biting her nails; they looked horrible. There had been a short time, about when she first got married, when she had been able to keep them nice. She had started biting them again several months ago, and now they were nothing more than stubs. She quickly put her hands behind her back when Molly stood up from the oven, frightened that her mother would have something to say about it.
“So where’s Harry this time?” Molly asked, brushing a strand of fiery red hair out of her face with an oven mitt covered hand.
Her daughter cringed involuntarily. Her husband, Harry Potter, worked for the Ministry of Magic and was always off somewhere doing good deeds or saving young children and old ladies. This was the second holiday in a row that Harry hadn’t showed up to the Burrow. Molly was anxious to see her favorite son-in-law. She had always been particularly fond of Harry, ever since he had asked her how to get onto the platform that fateful morning at King’s Cross. Oh, he had been so polite.
“I – I’m not sure exactly,” stuttered Ginny, unable to come up with a suitable lie with her mother looking at her like that.
“Secret mission?” Molly chuckled, and continued busily moving about the kitchen.
“Uh,” lied Ginny, “yeah.”
“You’d think the Ministry would let him tell his own wife where they were sending him,” she grumbled, while rolling out the dough for another pie.
Ginny shifted uncomfortably from one foot to another. She really hated keeping things from her mother. But then again, there was no sense in ruining everyone’s Christmas by telling her the truth. Just because she was miserable didn’t mean everyone else had to be. Ginny sighed. “You’d think,” she agreed with a false smile. “But you know the Ministry, they’re trying to keep everything tight lipped. There’s a war going on.”
At the mention of the war, Molly’s face changed to a thoughtful, sour expression for just a moment. Quickly, she composed herself again. “Not in our house there isn’t.”
Ginny had to smile her first real smile at that. She knew things were horrible in the outside world, but coming home was like wrapping herself in a favorite blanket to keep the monsters away. She always felt safe here, with her family that she loved more than anything in the world.
* * *
“Finally,” sighed George as he sat down to the table, “I’m starving.” He pulled up his chair and shoved his napkin in his shirt with a greedy look on his face.
“I’d think you’d be full by now,” teased Molly, “the two of you ate a whole pie behind my back.” George and his twin brother, Fred, beamed at one another, pleased with themselves.
The entire family squeezed around the small table, with Arthur Weasley at his tradition spot at the head. “Well,” he said, trying to keep the peace as always, “I think everything looks wonderful.”
“Yes,” agreed Bill whole-heartedly. “Thanks, Mum.”
Ron coughed loudly, barely concealing the words “suck up” from Bill’s hearing. Bill shot him a death glare. Everyone else laughed heartily. It felt good to be home again. It was easy to fit into their old routine, like a glove.
“We should say Grace,” Percy pointed out, with the air of a glorified hall monitor, just before everyone dug in to their meal.
“Rubba dub dub, thanks for the grub. Yay God!” declared Fred proudly. “Let’s eat!”
They didn’t need any further encouragement to begin shoving food into their mouths. Lively conversation filled the Burrow as they all piled food high on their plates. The Weasleys could eat faster than any other family Ginny knew of, mostly because if you didn’t eat what you wanted quickly then someone else would graciously eat it for you. She could usually keep up with her brothers. She had actually beaten Ron in an eating contest once. Fred and George still teased him about it. But today she pecked at her food, and moved it around her plate a lot to make it look like she was eating.
“Not hungry, Gin?” Ron asked with a mouthful of food. He looked at her with sympathetic eyes. “I know you haven’t been feeling well since…”
Molly dropped her fork with a clang. Everyone else became suddenly silent. “Since what?” she demanded.
Ron shifted under the weight of his mother’s gaze. He looked around desperately for some assistance. Ginny was white-faced, pleading him with her eyes to stay silent. “Since… since… well… Harry… you know…” Discovering that he was only digging himself deeper into a hole, Ron decided to be silent.
Realizing she was going to get nothing further out of her youngest song, Molly turned to Ginny. “Are you sick, Ginny dear?”
“No, Mum,” Ginny replied sullenly, “I’m fine.”
Never one for leaving things alone, Molly pushed on. “Are you sure…? You don’t look well and Ron’s right, you haven’t touched your food.” She looked at her daughter long and hard, trying to puzzle things out in her head. Then her face contorted and her mouth formed a large “O” as if she had finally figured out the mystery. “Are you pregnant?” she hissed, barely containing her glee.
Ginny, too surprised for words, did not answer.
Molly leapt from her chair, clasping her hands to her chest. “I’ve wanted grandchildren for so long!” All the boys sunk lower in their chairs, and hung their heads. Dinner had taken a sudden turn for the uncomfortable. They wished they could get out of the dining room some how, and not be around for what they knew was going to follow, but were somehow glued to their chairs. And none of them wanted to leave as badly as Ginny did.
“Mum…” she said in a small voice, her face beginning to flush.
“Are you sure? How long have you known? How come you didn’t tell me?” Molly rushed to her daughter’s side, peppering her with questions. It killed Ginny to see the eager look on her mother’s face. What was worse was the knowledge that she was about to break her mother’s heart.
“Mum…” Ginny said again, “I’m not pregnant.”
“Oh.” Molly paled, feeling very foolish. Ginny looked absolutely wretched. She kicked herself for jumping to conclusions. She had just wanted a grandchild so badly. “Well what’s wrong then?”
If possible, the room became even more silent. All the boys seem to find something incredibly interesting to look at on their plates. Ginny closed her eyes, feeling as though she was about to jump off a cliff. “Harry and I are getting divorced,” she said flatly.
She still had her eyes closed when her mother shrieked, “What!?!” so she wouldn’t be forced to look at the disappointment in her face. “Why?!?” she demanded. Ginny, feeling as though she was going to cry, didn’t answer. She had never wanted to be alone so much in her entire life.
Angrily, Molly whirled on Ron. “You knew about this didn’t you?” Ron’s silence confirmed her worst suspicions. In fact, all of her sons had a similar guilty face. “You all knew about this!” she exclaimed.
“Now, Molly dear,” said Arthur, clearing his throat so he could be heard for the first time. “Perhaps we should give Ginny a chance to speak.”
“Did you know about this, Arthur?” Molly demanded, not listening to him.
“No, no,” her husband shook his head fervently. “This is the first I’ve heard about it,” he said truthfully.
Satisfied, she returned her attentions to her youngest son. “How long have you know? You’re his best friend. He must have told you everything!” Molly shouted at poor Ron, who wriggled under her glare.
“He hasn’t really told me much… He doesn’t want to talk about it. Won’t tell Hermione either…” he admitted, sheepishly. Molly continued to glare at him, expecting answers to her other questions as well. “Er – I’ve know since the beginning, I guess. Harry moved in with me and Hermione when it happened…” His mother’s eyes went wide. Once again, Ron realized that he had put his foot in his mouth. He cursed underneath his breath, careful not to let her hear him. He didn’t need her yelling at him for that as well.
“You’re separated?” she prodded Ginny. “How long?”
“Five months,” Ginny confessed, still refusing to look at her mother. “But we were having problems before that—“
“—Was he cheating on you?” Molly
Ginny’s eyes flew open. “What?” She abruptly stood up, exasperated. “No! Mum! This is Harry we’re talking about! He’d never… He’d… He’s Harry.”
This seems to placate Molly. She knew in her heart that this was true. After all, Harry was very well mannered. “You weren’t cheating on him were you?” Molly pleaded. “Because I thought I raised you better than that.”
Ginny sighed. “Mum… You did.”
Silence enveloped them. Ginny stared at her plate, wishing she could reverse time. She had planned on telling her parents, but not like this, not on Christmas Eve. Merry Christmas, your baby is getting divorced. She couldn’t make her marriage to one of the best guys in the world work because she was still hung up on one of the worst. She didn’t even realize she was running from the room until she was already halfway up the stairs.
She was glad that they knew her well enough not to come after her. She was glad her room hadn’t been changed since she was eight. She was glad for the familiar comfort of her bed. She sank to the worn mattress and covered herself with her blankets, the way she used to do when she thought there was a monster under her bed. There was something about failing in front of her parents that made her feel like a little girl again. She closed her eyes tightly, and hoped that they would understand.
She wanted to stay in her room forever.
God, she thought, that couldn’t have gone any worse.
* * *
It was cold outside. The wind was cold on Draco’s face despite his hood. He stared up at the house. There had been a time when he wondered what it looked like and would lay in bed at night trying to picture her there. He wondered what she was doing and hoped she was happy. He hadn’t done that for years now. It had been months since he had even thought of her. But he couldn’t keep himself from speculating as to which room was hers. Was it the one with the light on? Was she up there now? Was he there?
“You ready?” one of the other Death Eaters grunted. Draco couldn’t remember his name. Truth be told, they all sort of blended together. And he had never taken the time to get to know any of them.
Draco nodded the affirmative. He had been ready for this for a long time.
The door came easily off its hinges. Draco had expected better wards. After all, they were one of the most prominent families of the Resistance. Maybe they had grown careless. Maybe they didn’t think they’d be attacked on Christmas. That had been the Dark Lord’s plan, of course.
One of the redheaded boys shouted the alarm, Draco didn’t know which one. They all blended together as well. It didn’t matter anyway; they weren’t what he was here for. He glanced quickly around the room. It was a pitifully small house. His target wasn’t anywhere to be seen. He bounded up the stairs, leaving his henchmen to do all the dirty work.
He heard more screaming behind him. It was a sound he had gotten used to by now.
There was faint light under just one door, the one he had seen from the outside. The rest were dark. He had been right, it was her bedroom. He felt inexplicable rage bubble up inside of him. Everyone else was downstairs. He hoped what he thought was going on in there wasn’t going on in there. He didn’t know if he could stand it. It would, of course, make his job a lot easier.
Draco pushed the door open. He had to resist the urge to knock. He nearly broke his wand with his tight grip when he saw the lump on the bed. She sat bolt upright, her hair all disheveled. He didn’t allow himself to think how fetching it looked. It was only after he stared at her for a moment that he realized she was alone. It was just her in the bed.
“Where’s Harry Potter?” he asked gruffly, trying to mask his voice something he had never done before.
“He – he’s not here,” she stuttered. It must be a frightening experience to find a Death Eater in your room. And now, with the door open, she could hear the shouts from downstairs.
With a few murmured words, Ginny was bound in magical ropes. “Where is he?” he asked again with his wand pointed straight at her head. She could tell by the tone of his voice he thought she was hiding Harry. He sounded furious about it.
“I swear! He’s not here!” she cried, knowing she wasn’t convincing him. Harry had spent every Christmas at the Burrow since he had finished Hogwarts, even before the two of them had been married. And no one besides their closest friends and family knew they were getting divorced. Harry wanted to avoid it appearing on the front page of the Daily Prophet.
The Death Eater removed something from the billows of his robe. It was a vial with some kind of potion inside. Instinctively, Ginny backed away, fearing anything that a Death Eater would carry around in his pockets. Seeing her wide eyes, he chuckled, amused by her discomfort. “Veritaserum,” he said simply as he knelt on the floor near the bed.
Ginny visibly relaxed. She put up minimal resistance when he put a few drops in her mouth. She was so eager to convince him she was telling the truth, she didn’t even wait for him to ask her Harry’s whereabouts again before she started spouting details. “Honestly, he’s not here! I don’t know where he is! He didn’t tell me where he was going!”
Draco was oddly relieved and annoyed at the same time. The Dark Lord would not be pleased. He had planned the murder of Harry Potter for so long. He had been coaching Draco toward this one goal for years now. Draco had been eager to learn.
For some reason, Ginny didn’t stop talking there. She really didn’t want to tell this Death Eater all the details about her personal life. She hadn’t even wanted to tell her own mother. But she couldn’t help herself, not under the compulsion of the truth potion. “I haven’t seen him in weeks, thank Merlin. We’re getting divorced, already started the paper work. We’ve been separated for months now. He’s really broken up about it and I feel just awful for hurting him…” Even with his dark hood obscuring his face, Ginny could tell the Death Eater was gaping at her. Oh, how he wished she could shut up.
Draco was gaping at her but not for the reasons she supposed. For the first time in a long while, he felt sparks in his heart. “You’re getting divorced?” he repeated. In his excitement, he forgot to disguise his voice. Unfortunately for him, Draco’s drawl was unforgettable to anyone who ever heard it.
“Malfoy?” Ginny shrieked. She had always known he was trouble, but she had never pictured him like this. Her brothers always said she was too trusting.
Sheepishly, Draco removed the hood from his face, revealing his silver blond hair and pale skin. He looked strange, different from the way she remembered him. It was his power; power that happened to come with a boatload of confidence. His presence was incongruous with the fluffiness of her room and, suddenly, she was ashamed of it.
“Yes,” she reiterated, “we’re getting divorced.”
She had never been able to read him. There had been many times when she wished she could. He had an odd look in his eyes. Ginny knew it meant something. It made her feel warm all over. She blushed like a schoolgirl.
Draco grinned stupidly. She was getting divorced. He could’ve done a dance, maybe write a song. His first instinct was to lean over and kiss her right then and there. But that might not be wise. What if she didn’t want to kiss him? He considered asking her out on a date. But the more that he thought about it, the more he realized that there couldn’t have been a more highly inappropriate time to ask her out.
For one thing, she was still technically married. For another, he had taken her hostage. Finally, he was pretty sure some of guys he had come there with had just murdered several members of her family. These were all bad beginnings to a relationship, as a rule.
“Er…” He searched for something to say in a situation like this. “There’s something I want to ask you. Later, not now. But it’s important that you understand what I’m about to say.” He paused to run his fingers through his hair. While he did, his visage softened considerably. His voice assumed an intense, earnest tone. “I didn’t come here alone. Things downstairs aren’t pretty. But I didn’t do any of it.”
Ginny closed her eyes, trying to shut out the sounds from downstairs. She heard him whisper, “I’m sorry,” and felt his body heat as he leaned forward and kissed her gently on her forehead. She heard a shout in the air and she knew it was him, sending the signal to retreat. Then she heard the pop of Dispparation and was alone once more.
When he was gone, she was able to untangle herself from the ropes that bound her. There were tears streaming down her face by the time she was free. She could hear someone still screaming for help downstairs. She was torn between the urge to run to their aid and to stay in here, where she was cocooned in the warmth of knowing she was loved. Her forehead still tingled at the spot he had kissed her. It was the first time she had been happy in months. But it was a happiness she knew wouldn’t last. It would be eclipsed by grief she never knew possible.
She wanted to stay in her room forever.
* * *
Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this sun of York;
And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths;
Our bruised arms hung up for monuments;
Our stern alarums chang'd to merry meetings,
Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.
Grim-visag'd war hath smooth'd his wrinkled front,
And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds
To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,
He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber
To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.
-- William Shakespeare, Richard III
Only his most trusted Death Eaters (there were a grand total of three) knew what he had in store. Draco Malfoy, the only son of the late Lucius Malfoy, happened to be one of them. Voldemort’s high esteem for his father coupled with Draco’s uncanny ability to make people suffer had helped Draco to rise quickly in the Death Eater ranks, while his Hogwarts classmates were still hovering around “boot-licker” and “useless goon.”
Draco was enjoying a quiet non-Christmas at Malfoy Manor when he was summoned. He was polishing his wand by the light of the fire. It had gotten some unfortunate bloodstains on it from the last time he had gone out with the Dark Lord. They were a bitch to clean off. Unhappily, he didn’t trust any of his servants well enough to make them do this type of cleaning for him. He remembered his mother used to be very good at cleaning wands, but she was rotting in Azkaban. How unfortunate that she had been put away before she could be any use to him. He had no wife of his own to pawn this kind of duty off on. Such was the life of a confirmed evil bachelor. Draco sighed.
It was at that moment that Wormtail chose to stick his grubby head into Draco’s fire. “Mr. Malfoy?” he asked in a pathetically servile tone.
“Yes?” Draco turned toward the fire so he could see the older man’s balding head bobbing around in the flames. It gave him a perverse joy.
“It’s Christmas Eve,” whimpered Wormtail.
“Is it? I hadn’t noticed?” Draco drawled, acerbically. “Worried you’ll be getting coal in your stocking again this year?”
“Sir,” said the severed head, “the Dark Lord requests your presence.” Wormtail had an unusual amount of fear behind his beady eyes. The Dark Lord didn’t trust him enough to tell him what was going on but he had been around long enough to know it wasn’t going to be pleasant. He only hoped he wouldn’t be losing another hand this time. He knew Malfoy would cut him up into lots of tiny little pieces and leave them underneath the Christmas tree, all with a smile on his face if the Dark Lord would let him.
There was an unspoken animosity between the young Death Eater and the older one. Wormtail was jealous of Voldemort’s confidence in Draco. Malfoy had only been a Death Eater for five years and he was already closer to the Dark Lord’s ear than he. Draco, on the other hand, was constantly irritated by the sniveling animagus. He truly hated wizards who weren’t proud of what they were.
“You can tell our Lord that I am on my way,” Draco announced as he rose from his chair.
There was something peculiar about the Slytherin young man. Everything about him, the way he moved, spoke, and acted was careful and composed. But there was something just below the surface – something like anger that he was trying desperately to keep in check. At any given moment he seemed likely to lose his precious control and rain fiery vengeance down upon any hapless soul that crossed his path, retribution for some secret wrong that had befallen him long in his past. What that wrong might be, Wormtail didn’t know; no one did. Draco played it close to the vest.
* * *
The Weasleys always had Christmas at the Burrow. All the Weasley children were grown up now. Ginny, the youngest, had gotten married and moved out three years ago, leaving an empty nest. But they all came back for the holidays. No one else could make a Christmas Eve dinner quite like Molly Weasley. This year she went all out. The table was covered in dishes that the boys just couldn’t seem to keep their hands off. Molly’d swat them and tell them it wasn’t ready yet and they’d go back into the living room, pouting, only to make another run at the food a few minutes later.
The only one she would let into the kitchen was her daughter, Ginny. It wasn’t because Ginny was the only girl. She was just the only one not interested in stealing food ahead of time. She wasn’t that hungry, to be honest, but there would be no way to keep her mother from shoving food down her throat. Molly always made sure she was eating enough, even now when she was all grown, Molly would send owls asking what she had to eat and if Ginny didn’t respond, Molly would send parcels full of food items than Ginny and her husband would never be able to eat by themselves.
Ginny was leaning against the kitchen cabinets, staring at her fingernails, as Molly put another pie in the oven. She really wished she could stop biting her nails; they looked horrible. There had been a short time, about when she first got married, when she had been able to keep them nice. She had started biting them again several months ago, and now they were nothing more than stubs. She quickly put her hands behind her back when Molly stood up from the oven, frightened that her mother would have something to say about it.
“So where’s Harry this time?” Molly asked, brushing a strand of fiery red hair out of her face with an oven mitt covered hand.
Her daughter cringed involuntarily. Her husband, Harry Potter, worked for the Ministry of Magic and was always off somewhere doing good deeds or saving young children and old ladies. This was the second holiday in a row that Harry hadn’t showed up to the Burrow. Molly was anxious to see her favorite son-in-law. She had always been particularly fond of Harry, ever since he had asked her how to get onto the platform that fateful morning at King’s Cross. Oh, he had been so polite.
“I – I’m not sure exactly,” stuttered Ginny, unable to come up with a suitable lie with her mother looking at her like that.
“Secret mission?” Molly chuckled, and continued busily moving about the kitchen.
“Uh,” lied Ginny, “yeah.”
“You’d think the Ministry would let him tell his own wife where they were sending him,” she grumbled, while rolling out the dough for another pie.
Ginny shifted uncomfortably from one foot to another. She really hated keeping things from her mother. But then again, there was no sense in ruining everyone’s Christmas by telling her the truth. Just because she was miserable didn’t mean everyone else had to be. Ginny sighed. “You’d think,” she agreed with a false smile. “But you know the Ministry, they’re trying to keep everything tight lipped. There’s a war going on.”
At the mention of the war, Molly’s face changed to a thoughtful, sour expression for just a moment. Quickly, she composed herself again. “Not in our house there isn’t.”
Ginny had to smile her first real smile at that. She knew things were horrible in the outside world, but coming home was like wrapping herself in a favorite blanket to keep the monsters away. She always felt safe here, with her family that she loved more than anything in the world.
* * *
“Finally,” sighed George as he sat down to the table, “I’m starving.” He pulled up his chair and shoved his napkin in his shirt with a greedy look on his face.
“I’d think you’d be full by now,” teased Molly, “the two of you ate a whole pie behind my back.” George and his twin brother, Fred, beamed at one another, pleased with themselves.
The entire family squeezed around the small table, with Arthur Weasley at his tradition spot at the head. “Well,” he said, trying to keep the peace as always, “I think everything looks wonderful.”
“Yes,” agreed Bill whole-heartedly. “Thanks, Mum.”
Ron coughed loudly, barely concealing the words “suck up” from Bill’s hearing. Bill shot him a death glare. Everyone else laughed heartily. It felt good to be home again. It was easy to fit into their old routine, like a glove.
“We should say Grace,” Percy pointed out, with the air of a glorified hall monitor, just before everyone dug in to their meal.
“Rubba dub dub, thanks for the grub. Yay God!” declared Fred proudly. “Let’s eat!”
They didn’t need any further encouragement to begin shoving food into their mouths. Lively conversation filled the Burrow as they all piled food high on their plates. The Weasleys could eat faster than any other family Ginny knew of, mostly because if you didn’t eat what you wanted quickly then someone else would graciously eat it for you. She could usually keep up with her brothers. She had actually beaten Ron in an eating contest once. Fred and George still teased him about it. But today she pecked at her food, and moved it around her plate a lot to make it look like she was eating.
“Not hungry, Gin?” Ron asked with a mouthful of food. He looked at her with sympathetic eyes. “I know you haven’t been feeling well since…”
Molly dropped her fork with a clang. Everyone else became suddenly silent. “Since what?” she demanded.
Ron shifted under the weight of his mother’s gaze. He looked around desperately for some assistance. Ginny was white-faced, pleading him with her eyes to stay silent. “Since… since… well… Harry… you know…” Discovering that he was only digging himself deeper into a hole, Ron decided to be silent.
Realizing she was going to get nothing further out of her youngest song, Molly turned to Ginny. “Are you sick, Ginny dear?”
“No, Mum,” Ginny replied sullenly, “I’m fine.”
Never one for leaving things alone, Molly pushed on. “Are you sure…? You don’t look well and Ron’s right, you haven’t touched your food.” She looked at her daughter long and hard, trying to puzzle things out in her head. Then her face contorted and her mouth formed a large “O” as if she had finally figured out the mystery. “Are you pregnant?” she hissed, barely containing her glee.
Ginny, too surprised for words, did not answer.
Molly leapt from her chair, clasping her hands to her chest. “I’ve wanted grandchildren for so long!” All the boys sunk lower in their chairs, and hung their heads. Dinner had taken a sudden turn for the uncomfortable. They wished they could get out of the dining room some how, and not be around for what they knew was going to follow, but were somehow glued to their chairs. And none of them wanted to leave as badly as Ginny did.
“Mum…” she said in a small voice, her face beginning to flush.
“Are you sure? How long have you known? How come you didn’t tell me?” Molly rushed to her daughter’s side, peppering her with questions. It killed Ginny to see the eager look on her mother’s face. What was worse was the knowledge that she was about to break her mother’s heart.
“Mum…” Ginny said again, “I’m not pregnant.”
“Oh.” Molly paled, feeling very foolish. Ginny looked absolutely wretched. She kicked herself for jumping to conclusions. She had just wanted a grandchild so badly. “Well what’s wrong then?”
If possible, the room became even more silent. All the boys seem to find something incredibly interesting to look at on their plates. Ginny closed her eyes, feeling as though she was about to jump off a cliff. “Harry and I are getting divorced,” she said flatly.
She still had her eyes closed when her mother shrieked, “What!?!” so she wouldn’t be forced to look at the disappointment in her face. “Why?!?” she demanded. Ginny, feeling as though she was going to cry, didn’t answer. She had never wanted to be alone so much in her entire life.
Angrily, Molly whirled on Ron. “You knew about this didn’t you?” Ron’s silence confirmed her worst suspicions. In fact, all of her sons had a similar guilty face. “You all knew about this!” she exclaimed.
“Now, Molly dear,” said Arthur, clearing his throat so he could be heard for the first time. “Perhaps we should give Ginny a chance to speak.”
“Did you know about this, Arthur?” Molly demanded, not listening to him.
“No, no,” her husband shook his head fervently. “This is the first I’ve heard about it,” he said truthfully.
Satisfied, she returned her attentions to her youngest son. “How long have you know? You’re his best friend. He must have told you everything!” Molly shouted at poor Ron, who wriggled under her glare.
“He hasn’t really told me much… He doesn’t want to talk about it. Won’t tell Hermione either…” he admitted, sheepishly. Molly continued to glare at him, expecting answers to her other questions as well. “Er – I’ve know since the beginning, I guess. Harry moved in with me and Hermione when it happened…” His mother’s eyes went wide. Once again, Ron realized that he had put his foot in his mouth. He cursed underneath his breath, careful not to let her hear him. He didn’t need her yelling at him for that as well.
“You’re separated?” she prodded Ginny. “How long?”
“Five months,” Ginny confessed, still refusing to look at her mother. “But we were having problems before that—“
“—Was he cheating on you?” Molly
Ginny’s eyes flew open. “What?” She abruptly stood up, exasperated. “No! Mum! This is Harry we’re talking about! He’d never… He’d… He’s Harry.”
This seems to placate Molly. She knew in her heart that this was true. After all, Harry was very well mannered. “You weren’t cheating on him were you?” Molly pleaded. “Because I thought I raised you better than that.”
Ginny sighed. “Mum… You did.”
Silence enveloped them. Ginny stared at her plate, wishing she could reverse time. She had planned on telling her parents, but not like this, not on Christmas Eve. Merry Christmas, your baby is getting divorced. She couldn’t make her marriage to one of the best guys in the world work because she was still hung up on one of the worst. She didn’t even realize she was running from the room until she was already halfway up the stairs.
She was glad that they knew her well enough not to come after her. She was glad her room hadn’t been changed since she was eight. She was glad for the familiar comfort of her bed. She sank to the worn mattress and covered herself with her blankets, the way she used to do when she thought there was a monster under her bed. There was something about failing in front of her parents that made her feel like a little girl again. She closed her eyes tightly, and hoped that they would understand.
She wanted to stay in her room forever.
God, she thought, that couldn’t have gone any worse.
* * *
It was cold outside. The wind was cold on Draco’s face despite his hood. He stared up at the house. There had been a time when he wondered what it looked like and would lay in bed at night trying to picture her there. He wondered what she was doing and hoped she was happy. He hadn’t done that for years now. It had been months since he had even thought of her. But he couldn’t keep himself from speculating as to which room was hers. Was it the one with the light on? Was she up there now? Was he there?
“You ready?” one of the other Death Eaters grunted. Draco couldn’t remember his name. Truth be told, they all sort of blended together. And he had never taken the time to get to know any of them.
Draco nodded the affirmative. He had been ready for this for a long time.
The door came easily off its hinges. Draco had expected better wards. After all, they were one of the most prominent families of the Resistance. Maybe they had grown careless. Maybe they didn’t think they’d be attacked on Christmas. That had been the Dark Lord’s plan, of course.
One of the redheaded boys shouted the alarm, Draco didn’t know which one. They all blended together as well. It didn’t matter anyway; they weren’t what he was here for. He glanced quickly around the room. It was a pitifully small house. His target wasn’t anywhere to be seen. He bounded up the stairs, leaving his henchmen to do all the dirty work.
He heard more screaming behind him. It was a sound he had gotten used to by now.
There was faint light under just one door, the one he had seen from the outside. The rest were dark. He had been right, it was her bedroom. He felt inexplicable rage bubble up inside of him. Everyone else was downstairs. He hoped what he thought was going on in there wasn’t going on in there. He didn’t know if he could stand it. It would, of course, make his job a lot easier.
Draco pushed the door open. He had to resist the urge to knock. He nearly broke his wand with his tight grip when he saw the lump on the bed. She sat bolt upright, her hair all disheveled. He didn’t allow himself to think how fetching it looked. It was only after he stared at her for a moment that he realized she was alone. It was just her in the bed.
“Where’s Harry Potter?” he asked gruffly, trying to mask his voice something he had never done before.
“He – he’s not here,” she stuttered. It must be a frightening experience to find a Death Eater in your room. And now, with the door open, she could hear the shouts from downstairs.
With a few murmured words, Ginny was bound in magical ropes. “Where is he?” he asked again with his wand pointed straight at her head. She could tell by the tone of his voice he thought she was hiding Harry. He sounded furious about it.
“I swear! He’s not here!” she cried, knowing she wasn’t convincing him. Harry had spent every Christmas at the Burrow since he had finished Hogwarts, even before the two of them had been married. And no one besides their closest friends and family knew they were getting divorced. Harry wanted to avoid it appearing on the front page of the Daily Prophet.
The Death Eater removed something from the billows of his robe. It was a vial with some kind of potion inside. Instinctively, Ginny backed away, fearing anything that a Death Eater would carry around in his pockets. Seeing her wide eyes, he chuckled, amused by her discomfort. “Veritaserum,” he said simply as he knelt on the floor near the bed.
Ginny visibly relaxed. She put up minimal resistance when he put a few drops in her mouth. She was so eager to convince him she was telling the truth, she didn’t even wait for him to ask her Harry’s whereabouts again before she started spouting details. “Honestly, he’s not here! I don’t know where he is! He didn’t tell me where he was going!”
Draco was oddly relieved and annoyed at the same time. The Dark Lord would not be pleased. He had planned the murder of Harry Potter for so long. He had been coaching Draco toward this one goal for years now. Draco had been eager to learn.
For some reason, Ginny didn’t stop talking there. She really didn’t want to tell this Death Eater all the details about her personal life. She hadn’t even wanted to tell her own mother. But she couldn’t help herself, not under the compulsion of the truth potion. “I haven’t seen him in weeks, thank Merlin. We’re getting divorced, already started the paper work. We’ve been separated for months now. He’s really broken up about it and I feel just awful for hurting him…” Even with his dark hood obscuring his face, Ginny could tell the Death Eater was gaping at her. Oh, how he wished she could shut up.
Draco was gaping at her but not for the reasons she supposed. For the first time in a long while, he felt sparks in his heart. “You’re getting divorced?” he repeated. In his excitement, he forgot to disguise his voice. Unfortunately for him, Draco’s drawl was unforgettable to anyone who ever heard it.
“Malfoy?” Ginny shrieked. She had always known he was trouble, but she had never pictured him like this. Her brothers always said she was too trusting.
Sheepishly, Draco removed the hood from his face, revealing his silver blond hair and pale skin. He looked strange, different from the way she remembered him. It was his power; power that happened to come with a boatload of confidence. His presence was incongruous with the fluffiness of her room and, suddenly, she was ashamed of it.
“Yes,” she reiterated, “we’re getting divorced.”
She had never been able to read him. There had been many times when she wished she could. He had an odd look in his eyes. Ginny knew it meant something. It made her feel warm all over. She blushed like a schoolgirl.
Draco grinned stupidly. She was getting divorced. He could’ve done a dance, maybe write a song. His first instinct was to lean over and kiss her right then and there. But that might not be wise. What if she didn’t want to kiss him? He considered asking her out on a date. But the more that he thought about it, the more he realized that there couldn’t have been a more highly inappropriate time to ask her out.
For one thing, she was still technically married. For another, he had taken her hostage. Finally, he was pretty sure some of guys he had come there with had just murdered several members of her family. These were all bad beginnings to a relationship, as a rule.
“Er…” He searched for something to say in a situation like this. “There’s something I want to ask you. Later, not now. But it’s important that you understand what I’m about to say.” He paused to run his fingers through his hair. While he did, his visage softened considerably. His voice assumed an intense, earnest tone. “I didn’t come here alone. Things downstairs aren’t pretty. But I didn’t do any of it.”
Ginny closed her eyes, trying to shut out the sounds from downstairs. She heard him whisper, “I’m sorry,” and felt his body heat as he leaned forward and kissed her gently on her forehead. She heard a shout in the air and she knew it was him, sending the signal to retreat. Then she heard the pop of Dispparation and was alone once more.
When he was gone, she was able to untangle herself from the ropes that bound her. There were tears streaming down her face by the time she was free. She could hear someone still screaming for help downstairs. She was torn between the urge to run to their aid and to stay in here, where she was cocooned in the warmth of knowing she was loved. Her forehead still tingled at the spot he had kissed her. It was the first time she had been happy in months. But it was a happiness she knew wouldn’t last. It would be eclipsed by grief she never knew possible.
She wanted to stay in her room forever.
* * *
Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this sun of York;
And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths;
Our bruised arms hung up for monuments;
Our stern alarums chang'd to merry meetings,
Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.
Grim-visag'd war hath smooth'd his wrinkled front,
And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds
To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,
He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber
To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.
-- William Shakespeare, Richard III
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