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Here’s the song, for those of you who’ve never heard it before:
You’ll Think of Me
– Keith Urban
I woke up early this morning ‘round 4 am
With the moon shining bright as headlights on the Interstate
I pulled the covers over my head and tried to catch some sleep
But thoughts of us kept keeping me awake
Ever since you found yourself in someone else’s arms
I’ve been trying my best to get along
But that’s okay
There’s nothing to left to say, but
Take your records, take your freedom
Take your memories, I don’t need ‘em
Take your space and take your reasons
But you’ll think of me
And take your cat and leave my sweater
‘Cause we have nothing left to weather
In fact, I’ll feel a whole lot better
But you’ll think of me
You’ll think of me
I went out driving trying to clear my head
I tried to sweep out all the ruins that my emotions left
I guess I’m feeling just a little tired of this
And all the baggage that seems to still exist
It seems the only blessing I have left to my name
Is not knowing what we could have been
What we should have been
So take your records, take your freedom
Take your memories, I don’t need ‘em
Take your space and take your reasons
But you’ll think of me
And take your cat and leave my sweater
‘Cause we have nothing left to weather
In fact, I’ll feel a whole lot better
But you’ll think of me
Someday I’m gonna run across your mind
But don’t worry, I’ll be fine
I’m gonna be alright
While you’re sleeping with your pride
Wishing I could hold you tight
I’ll be over you
And on with my life
So take your records, take your freedom
Take your memories, I don’t need ‘em
And take your cat and leave my sweater
‘Cause we have nothing left to weather
In fact, I’ll feel a whole lot better
But you’ll think of me
So take your records, take your freedom
Take your memories, I don’t need ‘em
Take your space and all your reasons
But you’ll think of me
And take your cat and leave my sweater
‘Cause we got nothing left to weather
In fact, I’ll feel a whole lot better
But you’ll think of me
You’ll think of me, yeah
And you’re gonna think of me, yeah
Oh someday baby, someday
Think of me
---
And now the story:
---
He woke up early in the morning, at around 4 am. But it couldn’t actually be said that he woke up around then, because he had never slept much to begin with. It had something to do with the bloody moon, which kept shining through the cheap curtains of his cheap London flat, like the glaring tip of the wand of some overzealous Lumos-caster.
But it couldn’t have all been the moon, because sleep continued to evade him even when he blocked it out, pulling the covers over his head and adding a few pillows over that too.
It was the thought of her, who should have been sleeping in his bed, while he was over on the couch grumbling at her, demanding that she leave his house and give him his bed back. He didn’t think she’d actually leave.
It was his own bloody fault. They had gotten along fine before his previously non-existent heart suddenly decided to come into existence – fine meaning that he hated her and she hated him, and they yelled and argued and hexed each other until bat bogeys were attacking him and her hair was an awful shade of green.
It was during a squabble over the last blueberry scone that he did it. She had disarmed him, and looked like she was ready to turn him into a slug. But he had more than enough experience with being a slug, and knew that he didn’t like it one bloody bit. So he, the extraordinarily stupid Slytherin-who-should-not-have-been-a-Slytherin, had pushed her into the wall and kissed her, hoping she would be surprised enough to not turn him into a slug.
She was surprised, alright. So surprised that she dropped her wand. He should have let her go then. But he didn’t. Because he was too spectacularly stupid to do so. And he stayed just like that, with his lips on her blueberry-scone-flavored ones, until she started to struggle, and even then, he hung on. Hung on for dear life because he thought he would die if he let her go.
At this point, the Sorting Hat was thinking that it had made a mistake. Draco Malfoy was showing an incredible amount of valor. Twelve years ago, it should have sorted him into Gryffindor and not Slytherin, because any cunning knew-what-was-good-for-him Slytherin would not have tried to kiss a protesting Ginny Weasley.
Because all Weasleys, minus Percy, did not need wands to fight. A fist in his stomach caused Draco to double over and finally let go. By that time, Ginny’s fabulous right uppercut had hit him squarely in the jaw. With a final slap across the face, Ginny pushed him away, huffed, and marched out of Draco’s miserable London flat…
… And right into Seamus Finnigan’s decidedly less miserable flat two floors below. It was, of course, against Order orders, for Ginny to be leaving the safety of a prominent Death Eater’s home, but Finnigan was practically a Death Eater himself – sort of – so she could go running into his arms if she wanted. Even though Draco didn’t want it. But who cared what he wanted? Obviously not Ginny.
She never came back. Sent the apprehensive young Irishman to collect her things instead. Clutching his wand a bit more tightly than was necessary, Ginny’s new flatmate vaguely muttered something about Ginny not liking mad blond nutters, said something reminiscent of an apology – though he couldn’t fathom what he should be sorry for, since it definitely wasn’t his fault that Ginny left Draco – and left with two suitcases full of Ginny’s things.
At first, he pretended not to care. He tried to get along as if nothing had happened, as if Ginny Weasley had never been sent to live with him in the first place. Everything was okay – until two days later he finally realized, while putting a bowl of milk on the floor, that her stupid cat still lived in his flat. And her ridiculous Muggle records from the ‘70s were haphazardly strewn underneath his bed.
And what irked him the most was the fact that his favorite sweater – the expensive, luxuriously soft, Slytherin-green one that Ginny fell in love with, which was perfectly understandable since it looked simply marvelous with her hair – was nowhere to be found.
He was leaving the building to attend a Death Eater meeting, for the sake of keeping up appearances. He was, after all, one of the Dark Lord’s favorites, and above all, a spy was a spy and he could not be discovered. Especially since Potter was no longer around to come save him – not that he wanted anyone to, of course.
Daphne Greengrass was entering the building, arm-in-arm with Theodore Nott, and clutching a bag of what looked like blueberry scones. Passing her in the doorway was utterly inevitable. It wasn’t like he could turn around and run away. He had enough of running away, and it never seemed to work anyway; each time, running away had only taken him closer to his problems.
So he walked up to her and tried to say something, but judging by her expression and his state of mind, there was nothing left to say. So instead, he scowled and snapped, “Take your stupid Muggle records out of my flat because I refuse to touch them. And take your bloody memories! I don’t need your Pensieve. Take your cat. And where’s my sweater?”
Daphne looked disturbed for a moment, then brushed past him, pretending he wasn’t there. Over her shoulder, she called, “Theo, I think I’ve misplaced my records, Pensieve, and cat. Can you find them for me? And I have no idea what happened to that sweater.” Then she walked away.
Nott warily looked at Draco and clutched his wand a bit more tightly than was necessary.
“A properly done Cruciatus followed by a Bat-Bogey and two Alohomoras will open my door,” Draco said flatly, then left.
When he returned to Pureblood Villa later that evening, with the knowledge that Seamus Finnigan, murderer of fifteen Death Eaters, was the Dark Lord’s new most wanted man, he found his flat thankfully empty of any cats and records, and the only Pensieve in the cupboard was his. All in all, he felt a whole lot better. But his sweater was still missing.
But the man he had to talk to, Seamus Finnigan Polyjuiced as Theodore Nott, happened to be sharing his flat with a certain someone Draco did not really want to see – or actually, someone he really, really wanted to see, but didn’t have the nerve to do so. He was, after all, no bloody Gryffindor.
The Sorting Hat sighed in relief and looked rather smug – or at least, as smug as a shabby hat could possibly look.
Draco went out flying that night, trying to clear his head, but the moon was too bright, the air was too cold, and it started to rain. Instead of coming back with a clear head, he came back with a headache and a stuffy nose.
Since flying was no longer an option, he started to clean. Malfoys were known for their almost obsessive cleanliness, and having a Weasley in his flat had disagreed with that. He was happy that he could finally be rid of her filth so he could have the clean house he deserved. Well, he tried to convince himself that he was happy… and failed miserably.
As he cleaned, he wondered what life would be like had Potter defeated the Dark Lord instead of the other way around. Malfoys should not have to clean anything, but the Dark Lord had taken everyone’s money, mansions, and House Elves, and there really wasn’t anyone else to clean his flat for him. Would it have been the same way if Potter had won? Potter didn’t really seem like the type to take everyone’s money and use Malfoy Manor as headquarters for his evil plan to dominate the world, but Granger would probably have liberated the House Elves anyway.
But it was no use thinking of could-have-beens and should-have-beens. The only thing that mattered was what was.
As he swept the floor of the ginger cat hairs and other junk, he felt like he was sweeping out all the ruins his emotions – his bloody, stupid, useless emotions – left. Until he came across another of Ginny’s Muggle records under the dresser, and the scratching at his door could only mean that her cat had returned.
He really was tired of this. She had come into his life with two neatly packed suitcases, but left leaving behind a bunch of baggage, including the bags underneath his own eyes from lack of sleep. Lack of sleep over a Weasley. It was ridiculous.
What was even more ridiculous was that he found himself in the elevator going two floors down, clutching a ginger tabby, a record, and a few memorable photographs of Ginny and the Golden Trio that he found inside a drawer. The elevator door dinged open, and he walked briskly down the hall, coming to a stop in front of Finnigan’s door. He rapped sharply and was greeted by the sight of Daphne Greengrass, who looked a bit disoriented. The result of drinking Polyjuice too quickly.
He shoved the record and photos into her arms. He pried the resisting cat off of his shirt, which ripped spectacularly down the front, and shoved that in her arms as well. “And where’s my –” The door slammed in his face.
It wasn’t until he was in bed later that night that he pulled out one of Ginny’s photos. It was of when they were younger, when Draco had first gone to the Order to ask if Dumbledore’s offer was still acceptable. It was, though Potter changed it a bit. His mother would be kept safe if he agreed to be a spy. In the picture, Draco was sitting next to Ginny during one of the Order meetings. The picture-Ginny looked furious with the seating arrangements and was glaring at the floor. The picture-Draco looked a bit bored, but every once in a while, glanced at Ginny out of the corner of his eyes.
He wondered why Ginny kept the picture for so long. He wondered if Ginny even noticed it was gone. He wondered if she was thinking of him.
Months later, Draco was too preoccupied to think about whether or not Ginny was thinking of him. The Order was quickly gaining power under Finnigan’s leadership, and the Death Eaters were getting paranoid. Three Death Eaters had already turned traitor, and out of fear of being discovered, Draco had not been able to attend any Order meetings. Out of fear of seeing Ginny, he had not been able to talk to Finnigan either.
Currently, he was leading a group of Death Eaters to capture said Irishman, and Finnigan didn’t even know about it. Of course, what Draco was really worried about was that where Seamus was, Ginny was. So, what he was actually planning to do was to lead the Death Eaters into one of his traps and pretend that the Order had gotten the better of them.
So, in the dead of night, while Finnigan was sleeping in the safety of his flat, presumably with Ginny, which was a thought that made Draco shudder, he was leading his group into a cave where Finnigan was suspected to be. Draco had charmed the cave so that it would seem that Finnigan and Ginny were in it. Then once all the Death Eaters were inside, the cave would seal itself and cave in – and Draco could not think of a single way to get himself out. But perhaps it was better that way; better for Ginny, at least.
It was highly possible that he would never see Ginny again. It was highly possible that she’d never think of him again. But it was alright. He was fine, because he was over her. By saving her life, he had moved on with his own – though the way things were going, the rest of his life would be very short indeed.
---
In the heart of London, far away from any caves, Ginny awoke with a start. She had the most disturbing dream about a certain blond-haired man getting crushed to death with rocks the size of Quaffles. It was strange, how after months of not seeing him, Draco Malfoy, without any warning, ran across her mind. She looked at Seamus’ tanned arm draped around her waist, and couldn’t help but wonder why she suddenly wished it was a paler one that was holding her.
After giving up the possibility of ever going back to sleep, Ginny wondered if the empty feeling in her chest meant that the irritable blond Slytherin had died, and the thought of him stayed with her until the sun came up on the horizon.
---
Seamus Finnigan was declared dead. It was all over the Daily Prophet by the next morning. According to the paper, he had been hiding out in a cave with Ginny Weasley when Death Eaters stormed into it and blasted them both into unidentifiable bits.
The two Order members had put up a fight, and had caused the whole cave to crumble down on itself. There were only two survivors, Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle, who, with their boulder-like construction, had survived the blow of a ton of rocks. The pair managed to supply that they saw a sandy-haired man and a red-haired woman inside the cave, their blond-haired leader had yelled the Killing Curse, then everyone was yelling, sparks flew, and the next thing they knew, they were in the hospital feeling like pancakes.
It wasn’t the greatest eyewitness account, so naturally, the Prophet elaborated. It was a tragedy, the paper said, then went on to tell the sad tale of how the wizarding world’s great new hero had sacrificed his life and the lives of twenty others to murder the hated leader of the Order.
But there was only so much one could say about being smashed in a cave-in. The rest of pages two and three detailed everything from the Malfoy family history to Draco’s first Death Eater assignment as a scared student trying to kill his headmaster to a dramatic and very, very, very incorrect retelling of his relationship with Pansy Parkinson. They tactfully mentioned very little about the great Draco Malfoy getting dumped by the scandalous and trashy Daphne Greengrass, who had run off to live with Theodore Nott, the bloody bastard.
Ginny was currently sitting alone in the coffee shop, trying desperately to hide her Daphne-face. Seamus was probably somewhere else, murdering more Death Eaters, but it was best that he not be seen, not while looking like Nott. She crumpled up the Daily Prophet and tossed it into the rubbish bin. Her eyes were slightly watery, and the tip of her nose was a bit red. A kindly-looking old woman with soft gray eyes gently patted her shoulder and gave her a blueberry scone to go with her coffee.
Two weeks later, Ginny was sitting alone in the coffee shop again. Seamus was probably somewhere else, murdering more Death Eaters. Or not. She dropped the Daily Prophet and spat out her coffee. Other people reading the paper had similar reactions. There had been an explosion at Malfoy Manor, killing everyone there. Fifty-nine in all, including Theodore Nott, the man responsible for the explosion.
The Dark Lord’s body had also been destroyed, and his soul was lost somewhere in the world. The paper estimated about fourteen years before his rebirth. Fourteen years of peace, and fourteen years to plan his utter destruction, now that they knew what to do. The wizarding world was, needless to say, in an uproar.
There was no eyewitness account at all, so naturally, the Prophet elaborated. It was a tragedy, the paper said, then went on to tell the sad tale of how the wizarding world’s great new hero had sacrificed his life to murder – well, sort of, temporarily – the hated Dark wizard.
But there was only so much one could say about being blown to bits. The rest of pages two and three detailed everything from the Nott family history to something completely made-up about Theodore’s first assignment as a spy to a dramatic and very, very, very incorrect retelling of his relationship with Daphne Greengrass. They tactlessly went into detail of how Theodore had successfully won the amazingly beautiful and kind Daphne’s heart, causing her to leave Draco Malfoy, the bloody bastard who had killed off two prized Order members.
Trying desperately to hide her Daphne-face, Ginny crumpled up the Daily Prophet and tossed it into the rubbish bin. Her eyes watered again, and her nose was beginning to blush. A little boy with big gray eyes smiled shyly and handed her a tissue and a blueberry scone.
The next day, a brown-haired man with gray eyes was sitting alone in the coffee shop – alone except for a small ginger tabby scratching at his shoe. The man was focused on the morning’s Daily Prophet, which featured Ginny Weasley, back from the dead, and armed to the teeth with accurate first-hand information of what really went on in the Order.
She spouted out so much information, so fast, that the reporters had no time to elaborate. For the first time in wizarding history, everything in the Daily Prophet was true. Theodore Nott was actually Seamus Finnigan, and he was unfortunately truly dead. The real Theodore Nott had died years ago, along with Daphne Greengrass, and their hair had been used for better purposes. Ginny admitted to her relationship with Seamus, and it wasn’t very dramatic, but the press didn’t care, not when there was the information that Draco Malfoy had been the spy to orchestrate the Death Eater Cave Massacre and had died a heroic death after all.
The brown-haired man neatly folded up the Daily Prophet and placed it on the table. The wizarding world was in for another surprise. Draco Malfoy wasn’t dead. He was in a coffee shop, Polyjuiced into some random man with brown hair and blue eyes – except that he had changed the eyes gray. He liked gray eyes, and always kept them that way, regardless of who he was Polyjuiced into.
Draco Malfoy would be making a reappearance – armed to the teeth with a survival story dramatic enough so the paper wouldn’t have to elaborate – as soon as he finished his blueberry scone.
The waitress who was delivering Draco his coffee looked at him strangely. It wasn’t everyday that the customers ate their blueberry scones with devilish smirks on their faces.
On her way past the smirking madman’s table, the waitress could see Ginny Weasley’s photo in the paper, which took up half of the front page. The picture-Ginny was enthusiastically, albeit silently, retelling her story. And she was wearing an expensive, luxuriously soft, Slytherin-green sweater.
So she had been thinking of him.
You’ll Think of Me
– Keith Urban
I woke up early this morning ‘round 4 am
With the moon shining bright as headlights on the Interstate
I pulled the covers over my head and tried to catch some sleep
But thoughts of us kept keeping me awake
Ever since you found yourself in someone else’s arms
I’ve been trying my best to get along
But that’s okay
There’s nothing to left to say, but
Take your records, take your freedom
Take your memories, I don’t need ‘em
Take your space and take your reasons
But you’ll think of me
And take your cat and leave my sweater
‘Cause we have nothing left to weather
In fact, I’ll feel a whole lot better
But you’ll think of me
You’ll think of me
I went out driving trying to clear my head
I tried to sweep out all the ruins that my emotions left
I guess I’m feeling just a little tired of this
And all the baggage that seems to still exist
It seems the only blessing I have left to my name
Is not knowing what we could have been
What we should have been
So take your records, take your freedom
Take your memories, I don’t need ‘em
Take your space and take your reasons
But you’ll think of me
And take your cat and leave my sweater
‘Cause we have nothing left to weather
In fact, I’ll feel a whole lot better
But you’ll think of me
Someday I’m gonna run across your mind
But don’t worry, I’ll be fine
I’m gonna be alright
While you’re sleeping with your pride
Wishing I could hold you tight
I’ll be over you
And on with my life
So take your records, take your freedom
Take your memories, I don’t need ‘em
And take your cat and leave my sweater
‘Cause we have nothing left to weather
In fact, I’ll feel a whole lot better
But you’ll think of me
So take your records, take your freedom
Take your memories, I don’t need ‘em
Take your space and all your reasons
But you’ll think of me
And take your cat and leave my sweater
‘Cause we got nothing left to weather
In fact, I’ll feel a whole lot better
But you’ll think of me
You’ll think of me, yeah
And you’re gonna think of me, yeah
Oh someday baby, someday
Think of me
---
And now the story:
---
He woke up early in the morning, at around 4 am. But it couldn’t actually be said that he woke up around then, because he had never slept much to begin with. It had something to do with the bloody moon, which kept shining through the cheap curtains of his cheap London flat, like the glaring tip of the wand of some overzealous Lumos-caster.
But it couldn’t have all been the moon, because sleep continued to evade him even when he blocked it out, pulling the covers over his head and adding a few pillows over that too.
It was the thought of her, who should have been sleeping in his bed, while he was over on the couch grumbling at her, demanding that she leave his house and give him his bed back. He didn’t think she’d actually leave.
It was his own bloody fault. They had gotten along fine before his previously non-existent heart suddenly decided to come into existence – fine meaning that he hated her and she hated him, and they yelled and argued and hexed each other until bat bogeys were attacking him and her hair was an awful shade of green.
It was during a squabble over the last blueberry scone that he did it. She had disarmed him, and looked like she was ready to turn him into a slug. But he had more than enough experience with being a slug, and knew that he didn’t like it one bloody bit. So he, the extraordinarily stupid Slytherin-who-should-not-have-been-a-Slytherin, had pushed her into the wall and kissed her, hoping she would be surprised enough to not turn him into a slug.
She was surprised, alright. So surprised that she dropped her wand. He should have let her go then. But he didn’t. Because he was too spectacularly stupid to do so. And he stayed just like that, with his lips on her blueberry-scone-flavored ones, until she started to struggle, and even then, he hung on. Hung on for dear life because he thought he would die if he let her go.
At this point, the Sorting Hat was thinking that it had made a mistake. Draco Malfoy was showing an incredible amount of valor. Twelve years ago, it should have sorted him into Gryffindor and not Slytherin, because any cunning knew-what-was-good-for-him Slytherin would not have tried to kiss a protesting Ginny Weasley.
Because all Weasleys, minus Percy, did not need wands to fight. A fist in his stomach caused Draco to double over and finally let go. By that time, Ginny’s fabulous right uppercut had hit him squarely in the jaw. With a final slap across the face, Ginny pushed him away, huffed, and marched out of Draco’s miserable London flat…
… And right into Seamus Finnigan’s decidedly less miserable flat two floors below. It was, of course, against Order orders, for Ginny to be leaving the safety of a prominent Death Eater’s home, but Finnigan was practically a Death Eater himself – sort of – so she could go running into his arms if she wanted. Even though Draco didn’t want it. But who cared what he wanted? Obviously not Ginny.
She never came back. Sent the apprehensive young Irishman to collect her things instead. Clutching his wand a bit more tightly than was necessary, Ginny’s new flatmate vaguely muttered something about Ginny not liking mad blond nutters, said something reminiscent of an apology – though he couldn’t fathom what he should be sorry for, since it definitely wasn’t his fault that Ginny left Draco – and left with two suitcases full of Ginny’s things.
At first, he pretended not to care. He tried to get along as if nothing had happened, as if Ginny Weasley had never been sent to live with him in the first place. Everything was okay – until two days later he finally realized, while putting a bowl of milk on the floor, that her stupid cat still lived in his flat. And her ridiculous Muggle records from the ‘70s were haphazardly strewn underneath his bed.
And what irked him the most was the fact that his favorite sweater – the expensive, luxuriously soft, Slytherin-green one that Ginny fell in love with, which was perfectly understandable since it looked simply marvelous with her hair – was nowhere to be found.
He was leaving the building to attend a Death Eater meeting, for the sake of keeping up appearances. He was, after all, one of the Dark Lord’s favorites, and above all, a spy was a spy and he could not be discovered. Especially since Potter was no longer around to come save him – not that he wanted anyone to, of course.
Daphne Greengrass was entering the building, arm-in-arm with Theodore Nott, and clutching a bag of what looked like blueberry scones. Passing her in the doorway was utterly inevitable. It wasn’t like he could turn around and run away. He had enough of running away, and it never seemed to work anyway; each time, running away had only taken him closer to his problems.
So he walked up to her and tried to say something, but judging by her expression and his state of mind, there was nothing left to say. So instead, he scowled and snapped, “Take your stupid Muggle records out of my flat because I refuse to touch them. And take your bloody memories! I don’t need your Pensieve. Take your cat. And where’s my sweater?”
Daphne looked disturbed for a moment, then brushed past him, pretending he wasn’t there. Over her shoulder, she called, “Theo, I think I’ve misplaced my records, Pensieve, and cat. Can you find them for me? And I have no idea what happened to that sweater.” Then she walked away.
Nott warily looked at Draco and clutched his wand a bit more tightly than was necessary.
“A properly done Cruciatus followed by a Bat-Bogey and two Alohomoras will open my door,” Draco said flatly, then left.
When he returned to Pureblood Villa later that evening, with the knowledge that Seamus Finnigan, murderer of fifteen Death Eaters, was the Dark Lord’s new most wanted man, he found his flat thankfully empty of any cats and records, and the only Pensieve in the cupboard was his. All in all, he felt a whole lot better. But his sweater was still missing.
But the man he had to talk to, Seamus Finnigan Polyjuiced as Theodore Nott, happened to be sharing his flat with a certain someone Draco did not really want to see – or actually, someone he really, really wanted to see, but didn’t have the nerve to do so. He was, after all, no bloody Gryffindor.
The Sorting Hat sighed in relief and looked rather smug – or at least, as smug as a shabby hat could possibly look.
Draco went out flying that night, trying to clear his head, but the moon was too bright, the air was too cold, and it started to rain. Instead of coming back with a clear head, he came back with a headache and a stuffy nose.
Since flying was no longer an option, he started to clean. Malfoys were known for their almost obsessive cleanliness, and having a Weasley in his flat had disagreed with that. He was happy that he could finally be rid of her filth so he could have the clean house he deserved. Well, he tried to convince himself that he was happy… and failed miserably.
As he cleaned, he wondered what life would be like had Potter defeated the Dark Lord instead of the other way around. Malfoys should not have to clean anything, but the Dark Lord had taken everyone’s money, mansions, and House Elves, and there really wasn’t anyone else to clean his flat for him. Would it have been the same way if Potter had won? Potter didn’t really seem like the type to take everyone’s money and use Malfoy Manor as headquarters for his evil plan to dominate the world, but Granger would probably have liberated the House Elves anyway.
But it was no use thinking of could-have-beens and should-have-beens. The only thing that mattered was what was.
As he swept the floor of the ginger cat hairs and other junk, he felt like he was sweeping out all the ruins his emotions – his bloody, stupid, useless emotions – left. Until he came across another of Ginny’s Muggle records under the dresser, and the scratching at his door could only mean that her cat had returned.
He really was tired of this. She had come into his life with two neatly packed suitcases, but left leaving behind a bunch of baggage, including the bags underneath his own eyes from lack of sleep. Lack of sleep over a Weasley. It was ridiculous.
What was even more ridiculous was that he found himself in the elevator going two floors down, clutching a ginger tabby, a record, and a few memorable photographs of Ginny and the Golden Trio that he found inside a drawer. The elevator door dinged open, and he walked briskly down the hall, coming to a stop in front of Finnigan’s door. He rapped sharply and was greeted by the sight of Daphne Greengrass, who looked a bit disoriented. The result of drinking Polyjuice too quickly.
He shoved the record and photos into her arms. He pried the resisting cat off of his shirt, which ripped spectacularly down the front, and shoved that in her arms as well. “And where’s my –” The door slammed in his face.
It wasn’t until he was in bed later that night that he pulled out one of Ginny’s photos. It was of when they were younger, when Draco had first gone to the Order to ask if Dumbledore’s offer was still acceptable. It was, though Potter changed it a bit. His mother would be kept safe if he agreed to be a spy. In the picture, Draco was sitting next to Ginny during one of the Order meetings. The picture-Ginny looked furious with the seating arrangements and was glaring at the floor. The picture-Draco looked a bit bored, but every once in a while, glanced at Ginny out of the corner of his eyes.
He wondered why Ginny kept the picture for so long. He wondered if Ginny even noticed it was gone. He wondered if she was thinking of him.
Months later, Draco was too preoccupied to think about whether or not Ginny was thinking of him. The Order was quickly gaining power under Finnigan’s leadership, and the Death Eaters were getting paranoid. Three Death Eaters had already turned traitor, and out of fear of being discovered, Draco had not been able to attend any Order meetings. Out of fear of seeing Ginny, he had not been able to talk to Finnigan either.
Currently, he was leading a group of Death Eaters to capture said Irishman, and Finnigan didn’t even know about it. Of course, what Draco was really worried about was that where Seamus was, Ginny was. So, what he was actually planning to do was to lead the Death Eaters into one of his traps and pretend that the Order had gotten the better of them.
So, in the dead of night, while Finnigan was sleeping in the safety of his flat, presumably with Ginny, which was a thought that made Draco shudder, he was leading his group into a cave where Finnigan was suspected to be. Draco had charmed the cave so that it would seem that Finnigan and Ginny were in it. Then once all the Death Eaters were inside, the cave would seal itself and cave in – and Draco could not think of a single way to get himself out. But perhaps it was better that way; better for Ginny, at least.
It was highly possible that he would never see Ginny again. It was highly possible that she’d never think of him again. But it was alright. He was fine, because he was over her. By saving her life, he had moved on with his own – though the way things were going, the rest of his life would be very short indeed.
---
In the heart of London, far away from any caves, Ginny awoke with a start. She had the most disturbing dream about a certain blond-haired man getting crushed to death with rocks the size of Quaffles. It was strange, how after months of not seeing him, Draco Malfoy, without any warning, ran across her mind. She looked at Seamus’ tanned arm draped around her waist, and couldn’t help but wonder why she suddenly wished it was a paler one that was holding her.
After giving up the possibility of ever going back to sleep, Ginny wondered if the empty feeling in her chest meant that the irritable blond Slytherin had died, and the thought of him stayed with her until the sun came up on the horizon.
---
Seamus Finnigan was declared dead. It was all over the Daily Prophet by the next morning. According to the paper, he had been hiding out in a cave with Ginny Weasley when Death Eaters stormed into it and blasted them both into unidentifiable bits.
The two Order members had put up a fight, and had caused the whole cave to crumble down on itself. There were only two survivors, Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle, who, with their boulder-like construction, had survived the blow of a ton of rocks. The pair managed to supply that they saw a sandy-haired man and a red-haired woman inside the cave, their blond-haired leader had yelled the Killing Curse, then everyone was yelling, sparks flew, and the next thing they knew, they were in the hospital feeling like pancakes.
It wasn’t the greatest eyewitness account, so naturally, the Prophet elaborated. It was a tragedy, the paper said, then went on to tell the sad tale of how the wizarding world’s great new hero had sacrificed his life and the lives of twenty others to murder the hated leader of the Order.
But there was only so much one could say about being smashed in a cave-in. The rest of pages two and three detailed everything from the Malfoy family history to Draco’s first Death Eater assignment as a scared student trying to kill his headmaster to a dramatic and very, very, very incorrect retelling of his relationship with Pansy Parkinson. They tactfully mentioned very little about the great Draco Malfoy getting dumped by the scandalous and trashy Daphne Greengrass, who had run off to live with Theodore Nott, the bloody bastard.
Ginny was currently sitting alone in the coffee shop, trying desperately to hide her Daphne-face. Seamus was probably somewhere else, murdering more Death Eaters, but it was best that he not be seen, not while looking like Nott. She crumpled up the Daily Prophet and tossed it into the rubbish bin. Her eyes were slightly watery, and the tip of her nose was a bit red. A kindly-looking old woman with soft gray eyes gently patted her shoulder and gave her a blueberry scone to go with her coffee.
Two weeks later, Ginny was sitting alone in the coffee shop again. Seamus was probably somewhere else, murdering more Death Eaters. Or not. She dropped the Daily Prophet and spat out her coffee. Other people reading the paper had similar reactions. There had been an explosion at Malfoy Manor, killing everyone there. Fifty-nine in all, including Theodore Nott, the man responsible for the explosion.
The Dark Lord’s body had also been destroyed, and his soul was lost somewhere in the world. The paper estimated about fourteen years before his rebirth. Fourteen years of peace, and fourteen years to plan his utter destruction, now that they knew what to do. The wizarding world was, needless to say, in an uproar.
There was no eyewitness account at all, so naturally, the Prophet elaborated. It was a tragedy, the paper said, then went on to tell the sad tale of how the wizarding world’s great new hero had sacrificed his life to murder – well, sort of, temporarily – the hated Dark wizard.
But there was only so much one could say about being blown to bits. The rest of pages two and three detailed everything from the Nott family history to something completely made-up about Theodore’s first assignment as a spy to a dramatic and very, very, very incorrect retelling of his relationship with Daphne Greengrass. They tactlessly went into detail of how Theodore had successfully won the amazingly beautiful and kind Daphne’s heart, causing her to leave Draco Malfoy, the bloody bastard who had killed off two prized Order members.
Trying desperately to hide her Daphne-face, Ginny crumpled up the Daily Prophet and tossed it into the rubbish bin. Her eyes watered again, and her nose was beginning to blush. A little boy with big gray eyes smiled shyly and handed her a tissue and a blueberry scone.
The next day, a brown-haired man with gray eyes was sitting alone in the coffee shop – alone except for a small ginger tabby scratching at his shoe. The man was focused on the morning’s Daily Prophet, which featured Ginny Weasley, back from the dead, and armed to the teeth with accurate first-hand information of what really went on in the Order.
She spouted out so much information, so fast, that the reporters had no time to elaborate. For the first time in wizarding history, everything in the Daily Prophet was true. Theodore Nott was actually Seamus Finnigan, and he was unfortunately truly dead. The real Theodore Nott had died years ago, along with Daphne Greengrass, and their hair had been used for better purposes. Ginny admitted to her relationship with Seamus, and it wasn’t very dramatic, but the press didn’t care, not when there was the information that Draco Malfoy had been the spy to orchestrate the Death Eater Cave Massacre and had died a heroic death after all.
The brown-haired man neatly folded up the Daily Prophet and placed it on the table. The wizarding world was in for another surprise. Draco Malfoy wasn’t dead. He was in a coffee shop, Polyjuiced into some random man with brown hair and blue eyes – except that he had changed the eyes gray. He liked gray eyes, and always kept them that way, regardless of who he was Polyjuiced into.
Draco Malfoy would be making a reappearance – armed to the teeth with a survival story dramatic enough so the paper wouldn’t have to elaborate – as soon as he finished his blueberry scone.
The waitress who was delivering Draco his coffee looked at him strangely. It wasn’t everyday that the customers ate their blueberry scones with devilish smirks on their faces.
On her way past the smirking madman’s table, the waitress could see Ginny Weasley’s photo in the paper, which took up half of the front page. The picture-Ginny was enthusiastically, albeit silently, retelling her story. And she was wearing an expensive, luxuriously soft, Slytherin-green sweater.
So she had been thinking of him.
Author notes: A/N: So the cat likes Draco. How cute! And I’ll like you if you leave me reviews!
The End.
sheriden is the author of 3 other stories.
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