Christmas with the Weasleys went by in a blur. Ginny spent most of her days playing Exploding Snap, Wizard’s Chess, making fun of Fleur, and trying to eavesdrop on adult conversation regarding Voldemort and the Death Eaters.
Two days before Christmas Ginny was busying herself with Arnold, her Pygmy Puff, in the Weasley family room. Harry and Ron were playing Wizard’s Chess. Her mother ran about the house tidying things up. They weren’t at 12 Grimmauld Place anymore, so the family and their friends would be spending Christmas at the Burrow.
“….Snape…asking to help,” Harry whispered to Ron.
Ginny only caught part of his words as she looked up and stared at the two boys. Ron’s back was to her, but she could see his shoulders slumped over in defeat. At Harry’s words, or the game?
“What do you think it could be?” Ron asked, not bothering to drop his voice as Harry had.
Harry suddenly caught Ginny’s eyes on him and quickly looked back at Ron. He bit his lower lip and dropped his voice to a barely audible whisper. “…Unbreakable Vow…”
Ron’s head snapped up. “An Unbreakable Vow? Harry, that’s serious. It’s the strongest Vow a Wizard can make. You die if you don’t follow through with it. Fred and George tried to get me to make an Unbreakable when I was young, but Dad caught them. They were in loads of trouble.”
Harry looked very interested at Ron’s words and seemed to forget to lower his voice. “So Snape is bound to protect Malfoy or he’ll die?”
Ginny’s heart dropped.
“Protect him from what, though?” Ron asked.
“Dunno. We know Snape’s supposed to be helping him do something,” Harry said, his eyes bright. “And if Snape’s helping Malfoy, then it can’t be good.”
“But you said Malfoy didn’t want his help,” Ron said, scratching his head.
“Since when would Malfoy want anyone’s help? That git has his head up his arse.” Harry looked thoughtful for a moment. “But he did tell Snape he shouldn’t have put Crabbe and Goyle in detention. They were helping him.”
“So Malfoy doesn’t trust Snape,” Ron said. “Maybe Malfoy has a hunch Snape’s supposed to be on our side.”
Harry looked skeptical. “I dunno, Ron. Dumbledore could be wrong about Snape.”
There was a brief silence before Harry slammed a fist down onto the chessboard in frustration. Some of the pieces attempted to duck for cover. “What is Malfoy up to?” he cried out.
Arnold jumped out of Ginny’s arms and she realized she’d been shaking. What is Draco up to?
She and Draco had left this significant part of their lives out of their relationship without giving the consequences much thought. He was a Death Eater after all, and he probably did their bidding whether he liked it or not.
Ginny felt she’d gotten to know Draco over the past few weeks. She knew that he liked to read books and play Quidditch. She had to admit he was a very good Seeker despite his methods to get onto the Slytherin team. He lived on uniformity and standardization, so he always ate the same meals everyday – two eggs, a croissant, and a glass of orange juice for breakfast, an apple and ham sandwich for lunch, and sliced meat with potatoes and peas for dinner.
He always pursed his lips and inhaled deeply whenever he was aggravated. She noticed he did this around Crabbe and Goyle quite a bit. His eyes became a cloudy gray whenever he was either angry or…aroused, Ginny thought with a blush. He had a sweet tooth and seemed to have an everlasting stash of candies from Honeydukes.
She also knew that he was very bright. Incidentally, unlike most things about himself, he didn’t brag about this. It was quite curious. She still didn’t know why he was taking Muggle Studies. It appeared to be a sore subject for him, so she never bothered press for an answer.
She hugged her knees to herself and frowned to herself. Despite the things she knew about him, she didn’t really know him. She could never accomplish that. He hid such a large portion of his life from her. His other life, as she had come to refer to it, was off-limits for discussion. He would never talk to her about his father’s imprisonment, his Dark Mark, or…Voldemort. Initially she’d been okay with their agreement. She didn’t want to know these things. Try as she might, she couldn’t seem to get the image of Draco writhing in agony from the burn of the Dark Mark that one night out of her mind. It scared her.
But the more she thought about it, the more she decided she needed to know these things. Not so she could one-up him and report any findings to the Order, but because…she cared about him. And if something like that had scared her…what must it do to him? How often did his Mark burn? What must it be like to have your father, no matter how despicable, in prison? What did Voldemort make him do? Did he have anyone to talk to?
He was not the same Draco he’d been the year before. He was thinner, more reserved, and less aggressive. He was known for his proper mannerisms and sophisticated look, but she found that he had become more careless in his appearance. He seemed to always have bags under his eyes from a lack of sleep, his hair had lost its brilliant sheen, and overall he had aged for the worse.
Her chest began to ache with an unfamiliar sensation.
“Hey, Gin, you all right?” Ron asked her suddenly. The two boys were staring at her over their game.
Ginny noticed she was clutching her blouse tightly in an effort to ease the pain building inside her.
“Yes, I’m fine. It must be heart burn,” she lied. She knew it wasn’t that, but maybe her heart was aching for a different reason.
On Christmas day Ginny found herself sitting outside in the Weasley patio just before dinner. It was snowing and she enjoyed the sensation of the flakes against her skin as she watched the sun beginning to set.
She heard the backdoor open and swing shut. Harry joined her on the wicker sofa. His black hair, partly concealed with a Weasley-made ski hat, was a sharp contrast to the snow. His face was already flushed red from the cold.
“Thanks for the CD player, Harry,” she said, smiling at him. She’d recently gotten into Muggle music and appreciated Harry’s thoughtfulness. Her father was currently ogling the machine.
“You’re welcome,” he said, returning her smile. He bent over to scoop a handful of snow with his matching mittens. He patted it together and played with the newly formed snowball absently.
“Ginny,” he said quietly.
She couldn’t tell if he’d meant for her name to come out softly, or if the rushing sound of the snow falling had muffled his voice.
She looked at him. He had the same expression on his face when he’d asked her to the school ball.
“I was wondering if…” he began, but the sound of shouting from inside the house interrupted him. The two of them jerked their heads towards the door.
“Percy!” Her mother’s voice cried out. “Percy! You’re here! You made it!”
Ginny quickly rose to her feet. “Percy?”
Harry let the snowball drop to the ground as a dejected look flitted across his face for a moment. They both made their way inside hurriedly.
The commotion was coming from the dining room, where the whole Weasley family sat, including Lupin and Tonks. Percy stood off to the side awkwardly. His expression was stoic, despite seeing his teary eyed mother running towards him. She engulfed him in a hug and his eyes narrowed.
Ginny blinked in disbelief. The bloody git can’t even return his mother’s hug on Christmas!
Someone coughed softly. It was then that she noticed a man standing next to Percy. No one had acknowledged him with all the excitement. Everyone suddenly turned to stare at the stranger.
Merlin, it’s the new Minister.
Percy shook his mother off in embarrassment. “This is the Minister, Rufus Scrimgeour.”
Ginny’s father, who’d been silent the whole time, took a step forward with his hand extended in greeting. “Pleasure to meet you, Minister, Arthur Weasley,” he said.
Ginny didn’t believe her father was being the least bit genuine. Scrimgeour stared at her father for a moment before taking the hand. He offered a thin smile.
“I was telling Percival here that I needed to meet the family who was responsible for such impeccable upbringing,” Scrimgeour said, his smile widening. His shaggy blond hair reminded Ginny of a lion.
Fred and George snorted, but their mother shot them a look.
Her father was about to say something in response, but Scrimgeour seemed to have lost interest in the family with the “impeccable upbringing”. He was staring around the room, as if searching for something. She felt his eyes rest near her, and she realized he was looking at Harry.
“Ah!” the Minister exclaimed. “So, Harry Potter, we finally get a chance to meet.” He made his way towards him.
Ginny could feel Harry stiffen next to her.
The Minister ushered Harry outside to speak in private. The Weasley family sat in silence, gaping at Percy. The soft sounds of utensils clanking nervously filled the room. Ginny felt awkward standing off to the side, but couldn’t bring herself sit down at the table. She gripped the back of Bill’s chair. The movement startled Fleur, who was seated next to him. She glanced at Ginny briefly with a small smile on her face.
“Well don’t just sit there, Percy, have a seat,” Molly exclaimed, pulling a chair out for him. “This is your home.”
The empty chair happened to be next to Ron, who opened his mouth in horror. While the whole family harbored a grudge against Percy, Ginny knew Ron was very sore about the letter he’d sent him about Harry the year before.
Percy remained standing. “No thank you, the Minister shouldn’t be long, and then we’ll be going.”
Ginny’s heart broke to see her mother’s face fall. Her father’s ears reddened, the way they did when he was angry.
“Now see here, Percy, you can’t ju-”- he began, but his wife cut him off.
“T-that’s all right, Percy. We…understand,” she sniffed, a finger sweeping across the underside of an eye.
“Why don’t you just leave now?” Fred asked, rising from his chair. His expression was hard.
Molly released a shuddering sob. “F-Fred…”
And suddenly a chunk of mashed potatoes was flying across the room and hit Percy in the face. Ginny didn’t dare peel here eyes away from her estranged brother to seek out the culprit. Percy’s face was now as red as his hair. Without a word, he took out a handkerchief to clean his face and stepped out of the room.
A moment later the front door could be heard slamming shut.
Ginny’s mother broke down into tears, and Tonks rushed to wrap her arms around the older woman’s shoulders. Her father’s teeth were clenched and he looked around at the horrified expressions at everyone seated at the dinning table.
“George-” he said dangerously, enunciating the name carefully.
“Howf do you noo if wuf me?” George asked, chewing down a bite of mashed potatoes.
Ginny bit her tongue to prevent herself from laughing out loud. The humorous moment disappeared shortly after as Scrimgeour burst back into the house.
“Where’s Percival?” he demanded.
His face was red, but Ginny didn’t think it was from the cold weather outside.
“He left,” Bill said quietly.
Scrimgeour bolted out of the room.
“And a happy Christmas to you!” Fred called out after him.
They heard the faint sounds of two people Apparating away from the Burrow.
Harry walked back into the house. All eyes were on him. He pulled off his ski hat and balled it up in his hands.
“I don’t think I’ll be getting a gift from him for Christmas,” he said, attempting to smile.
Molly released herself from Tonks to throw her arms around Harry. She began to sob uncontrollably. He patted her back awkwardly and stared at Ginny, his eyes wide with alarm.
Help me, he mouthed out.
“Let’s eat,” her father said loudly. And so they did.
Draco had expected the winter holidays to be a miserable affair. He greeted his mother with usual cordiality at Platform 9 ¾ once he’d descended the train.
His mother was as tall and thin as ever, but she had a certain haunted look shadowing her face. Her high cheekbones had hollowed in even more. Her hands appeared to be icy cold and almost brittle. She almost looked as though she’d lost the will to live. Draco felt ashamed that he’d considered not coming home for Christmas.
Her sullen eyes seemed to light just the tiniest bit when she received him. She offered him a weak smile and hugged him tight. A curtain of long blonde hair engulfed him as he wrapped his arms around his mother. He was taller than her now, and she liked to point this out time and again, how her baby boy had grown so quickly.
He felt his mother take in a shuddering breath and he worried that she might cry in front of everyone at the station. He pulled away from her.
“Come, Mother, let’s go home,” he said, taking her hand.
As they made their way towards the Floo Network, he couldn’t help to steal a very brief glance at a red haired girl who had her arms around her father in greeting.
Two days before Christmas the Malfoys were invited to the Zabini home for their annual ball. They had been attending this event for as long as Draco could remember. He usually looked forward to the event, as it gave him an opportunity to rub elbows with some of the most powerful and wealthiest families in the Wizarding world.
However, he’d always done this with his father.
Draco’s father would make sure that the two of them wore the newest dress robes, the shiniest shoes, and took care so that not a single strand of hair was out of place. They would enter the ball with the smallest hint of a smile and eyes that commanded respect for all. His father had told him it was very important to find a balance between coming off as friendly and boorish. The friendly gentleman received little respect, while the boorish gentleman was reviled. Of course, exceptions were to be made, especially when one met a particularly foul individual.
His father would then introduce Draco to significant members of society. Sometimes they would offer him a cigar imported from South America. He would eagerly accept, but his father was quick to whisk them out of his hands.
”You’re too young,” his father would say with an amused smile.
Draco would dance with different witches, none of whom seemed to capture his attention for too long. In the past he’d found that sharing dances with Pansy made it easier to pass the time.
Both his parents had asked him to consider other young women.
”The Parkinsons can’t be trusted,” his mother said once. “They’re not old money, like us.”
Then they would retire for the evening and Draco would laugh as his parents named off the number of guests that had appeared in last year’s dress robes, or the poor bloke who’d just recently been inducted into the realm of high society and couldn’t differentiate between a salad and dinner fork.
This year was different. Draco still wore a brand new set of dress robes. He’d taken care to polish his shoes himself, not wanting to trust the house elf with the task. His hair shone like an angel’s halo. He entered the Zabini home with his arm linked in his mother’s. The absence of his father created an unintentional, deafening silence between the two of them.
He took a moment to stare at her as they descended the staircase to the ballroom. She had her blonde hair set in a loose chignon. Her deep blue dress robes were classy as always. They trailed behind her, giving her the appearance of a mermaid. A thin strand of diamonds adorned her pale neck. He’d noticed her eyes had brightened since he’d returned home.
The host and hostess received them genially. Blaise stood next to his mother, his hair as curly as ever. He flashed Draco an exaggerated smile and shook his hand in mock formality.
As Draco spoke to the various guests, they all avoided bringing up his father. He was fine with that. He certainly didn’t want to discuss that with anyone.
He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but the atmosphere of the ball was quite different from the years before. Certain regulars were missing in attendance, that was for sure, but a dark invisible mist seemed to be hovering above everyone. They greeted each other cordially, but at the same time, the smiles were far too wide, the expressions too placid. And yet something seemed to be stirring behind their eyes….an unsettling tension.
Draco was about to catch up with Blaise, but was stopped when a large hand thumped his shoulder. It almost made his knees bend.
He turned around to face Barnabas Rowle, an acquaintance of his father. He was a thin man with a glowing, bald dome and a little bit of gray stubble around his chin. His black beady eyes bore into Draco’s.
“Mr. Malfoy,” he said, his voice raspy, as though he suffered from a bad cough. He offered him his hand.
Draco gave the man a slight nod as he accepted the outstretched hand. “Mr. Rowle.”
He didn’t know too much about the man, except that his brother, Thorfinn Rowle, was closely connected to the Dark Lord.
“Good to see you here especially with the circumstances and all,” Rowle said slowly. A muscle in his jaw twitched slightly.
Draco narrowed his eyes and raised his chin. “Surely I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Rowle?”
Rowle’s eyes danced menacingly as he leered at Draco. He could smell Firewhisky on his breath.
“It must be hard on such a young man to have his father…incarcerated,” Rowle said with mock concern in his voice. “I was just speaking with your mother-”
If there anything worse than having your father in prison, it was dealing with old, disgusting perverts who pined after your sulking mother.
Draco jerked the left sleeve of his dress robe upward and leaned in towards Rowle. “I’d appreciate it if you left my mother alone,” he hissed.
Rowle’s eyes widened upon seeing the Mark on Draco’s arm. He staggered backwards, right into a waiter carrying a tray of hors d'oeuvres. The tray clanged to the floor, tossing its contents onto Rowle’s robes.
“Pity,” Draco said with a sneer as he pulled his sleeve back down. “Those stains will be difficult to remove from second- class robes.”
He brushed pass Rowle as the waiter frantically tried to clean up the mess, murmuring apologies to the bald man.
Draco quickly composed himself and stood among a circle of men dressed in immaculate dress robes that rivaled his own.
“…and so I told Scrimgeour, this one has none of the virtues I admire, and all the vices I dislike,” said Arnold Peasegood, a Ministry employee.*
The men around him laughed.
Albert Runcorn, a tall wizard with a black beard, acknowledged Draco. “Mr. Malfoy, good to see you,” he said politely. Runcorn was a good friend of his father’s.
“It’s a pleasure to see you all as well,” Draco said, bowing a little.
Runcorn took a tin box from the pockets of his robes and opened it for Draco. Inside were a dozen Ramon Allones, among the finest of cigars. “Have one, please,” Runcorn said, smiling.
Draco stared at the open tin, and then at the men around him, each puffing a cigar. He thought of his father and a dull stabbing sensation built up in his chest. He returned the smile. “Thank you, Mr. Runcorn, but as tempted as I am, I’m going to have to refuse.”
Runcorn’s smile widened. He clapped Draco on the shoulder. “That’s quite all right.”
A short, tubby Wizard with one too many chins beamed at Draco. “If only all young men had that kind of self-restraint today. Lucius has done a fine job.”
The Wizard wore a set of dark green robes that looked as though they’d experience significant wear and tear over the years. He had a purple handkerchief in a front pocket that clashed terribly with his robes. Draco almost wrinkled his nose in disgust, but stopped himself. What had the man done to him? He’d shown him decency and kindness. Did it really matter that his shoes were in dire need of a good polish?
“Thank you, sir,” Draco said, nodding in thanks.
“Draco!” a voice called out.
He turned around to see Blaise heading towards him. He excused himself from the group of gentlemen and grabbed for a flute of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray.
“Miss Astoria Greengrass has been inquiring about you for a dance,” Blaise said, smirking. He stopped the same waiter to grab a flute as well.
“I’m not really up for dancing,” Draco said quickly and took a generous sip of his drink.
“There’s always Pansy Parkinson.”
Draco snorted.
“So no to the blonde and the brunette,” Blaise said as he held up two fingers with his free hand. “There’s a lovely redhead I met just a moment ago.”
Draco held Blaise’s gaze. “What makes you think this is about hair?”
Blaise shrugged. “Just saying, mate, she’s got a set of legs. And she’s related to the Weird Sister’s guitarist.”
“I don’t care if she’s the Queen of England herself,” Draco said, rolling his eyes. “I told you I didn’t want to dance with anyone, so bugger off.”
Blaise raised an eyebrow at Draco. “Well, then. Note to self, he’s quite touchy when it comes to redheads.”
Draco was gripping his champagne glass so tight he thought it would shatter. He straightened himself out so that he stood an inch over Blaise. “Why don’t you just say what you’ve been trying to get at?”
The amused expression on Blaise’s face disappeared and was replaced with a seriousness Draco seldom saw in his friend. “You’re not as discrete as you believe yourself to be. I think you know what I’m talking about.”
It took all of Draco’s will to keep his face from revealing anything, but his heart began to race. “Frankly, I have no idea.”
Blaise shook his head. “I’ve got two words for you,” he said, bringing his voice to a barely audible whisper, “Ginny Weasley.”
Draco could feel the blood rushing through his body. The room seemed to slow down and everything became hazy. All he could see were the steely eyes of his housemate as they stared at him, daring him to respond.
Draco let his champagne flute clatter to the floor as he roughly grabbed Blaise’s robes by the front. It irked him even more that Blaise seemed unfazed by his reaction.
“How dare you,” Draco hissed, attempting to keep his voice down. A few Wizards and Witches nearby stared at the pair with questioning eyes before moving along.
“Draco,” Blaise said calmly. “I’m your friend. We’ve been mates for as long as I can remember. When will you learn to trust me?”
“You’re no friend of mine,” Draco spat, relinquishing his hold on Blaise. He turned to walk away.
“I’ve seen the way you look at her,” he said, smoothing his robes. “I’m not stupid.”
Draco turned to stare at him. “No, I guess you’re not.”
He began to walk away once again, but Blaise kept going. “I haven’t told anyone.”
Draco closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. “Thanks, but I’d appreciate it if you stopped trying to bait me for information.”
Blaise gave him a goofy smile as he ran a hand through his thick curls. “All right.”
“And we never had this conversation.”
“What conversation?”
On Christmas day Draco and his mother sat down for dinner with his Aunt Bella.
The semi-delighted demeanor of his mother had long since disappeared, and she sat over her plate, brooding in silence.
“Look at you, Cissy,” Aunt Bella said, narrowing her eyes at her younger sister. “It’s Christmas, and you can’t even enjoy yourself for the boy.”
His mother met her sister’s gaze, her eyes brimming with tears. “I j-just can’t do this…”
“Of course you can,” Aunt Bella said, rolling her eyes in annoyance. “My husband is in Azakaban, too you know.”
She took a swig from her glass of Firewhisky. “And I’m doing just fine.”
Draco’s head hurt. He was tired of being at home. He wanted to get back to school, away from his crying mother and the lingering shadows of his father’s absence. And having his over-zealous aunt around didn’t help matters.
A house elf entered the room. “Excuse me, Missus Malfoy, there is a Mr. Snape at the door.”
Draco noticed Aunt Bella shoot his mother a dirty look. “What is that dodgy wretch doing here?”
His mother shook her head. She stared at Draco, her eyes full of sorrow. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“Send him in, please,” she asked the house elf.
Severus Snape entered the room a moment later. He wore a thick black cloak over his robes, giving him the appearance of a large bat. He seemed to have brought the winter cold in with him as Draco felt a chill crawl down his spine.
He bowed slightly. “Narcissa, Draco…Bellatrix,” he greeted them, and Draco caught the tiniest of sneers as he said his aunt’s name. “I am terribly sorry for interrupting your Christmas.”
“Then you would do well to leave us be, Snape,” Aunt Bella said thickly.
Snape ignored what she’d said. “I need to speak with Draco in private. It’s urgent.” He gave his mother a knowing look.
His mother looked as though she were struggling to contain a sob. “Yes, of course.”
Draco excused himself from the table and retreated into the adjacent parlor with his professor. Although his dinner had been a depressing affair, Draco wasn’t pleased with the alternative situation he was now in. He stood near the burning fireplace and scowled at Snape.
“Won’t you have a seat?” Snape asked, eyeing him carefully.
“I’ll do as a please, seeing as this is my home,” Draco said darkly.
Snape moved closer to him and the crackling fire illuminated his face. His shadow loomed behind him against the parlor wall. “Draco, the Dark Lord has asked of your progress.” His voice was grave and his expression so stony, it was almost frightening.
Draco held his ground. “I told you I’m handling it!”
Snape shook his head impatiently. “I don’t mean that. What of your professor?”
Draco froze. The icy chill he’d felt in the dining room with Snape returned, despite the warm fire behind him. “I…I…”
Snape’s beady eyes pierced his own, searching…
Draco barred his teeth at him with a snarl. “That won’t work with me!”
Snape’s expression seemed to soften ever so slightly. “I see Aunt Bella has been working on your Legilimency.” His lips thinned and his already black eyes darkened. “This is serious, Draco. It is something I cannot help you with.”
The fire hissed like a snake as Draco fidgeted restlessly. His hands trembled at his sides. “I will have a precise date and location soon.”
His Head of House stepped forward and placed both of his hands on Draco’s shoulders. His fingers were thin and ice-cold and his white faced stared at Draco not with menace, but with…pity?
“That’s not good enough,” he said, almost sadly.
“I’ll find out soon,” Draco pleaded, trying to step away from Snape’s hold on him, but his claw-like fingers held on tight. His heart began to race and he suddenly felt feverish as a wave of panic swept over him. “Please…you can’t.”
“I have no choice.”
With one swift movement Snape took out his wand and placed an arm around Draco’s waist. He saw blackness as the two of them disappeared from the Manor. The only thing he could think of was his mother’s sad and haunted gaze, searching for what she’d lost.
Two days before Christmas Ginny was busying herself with Arnold, her Pygmy Puff, in the Weasley family room. Harry and Ron were playing Wizard’s Chess. Her mother ran about the house tidying things up. They weren’t at 12 Grimmauld Place anymore, so the family and their friends would be spending Christmas at the Burrow.
“….Snape…asking to help,” Harry whispered to Ron.
Ginny only caught part of his words as she looked up and stared at the two boys. Ron’s back was to her, but she could see his shoulders slumped over in defeat. At Harry’s words, or the game?
“What do you think it could be?” Ron asked, not bothering to drop his voice as Harry had.
Harry suddenly caught Ginny’s eyes on him and quickly looked back at Ron. He bit his lower lip and dropped his voice to a barely audible whisper. “…Unbreakable Vow…”
Ron’s head snapped up. “An Unbreakable Vow? Harry, that’s serious. It’s the strongest Vow a Wizard can make. You die if you don’t follow through with it. Fred and George tried to get me to make an Unbreakable when I was young, but Dad caught them. They were in loads of trouble.”
Harry looked very interested at Ron’s words and seemed to forget to lower his voice. “So Snape is bound to protect Malfoy or he’ll die?”
Ginny’s heart dropped.
“Protect him from what, though?” Ron asked.
“Dunno. We know Snape’s supposed to be helping him do something,” Harry said, his eyes bright. “And if Snape’s helping Malfoy, then it can’t be good.”
“But you said Malfoy didn’t want his help,” Ron said, scratching his head.
“Since when would Malfoy want anyone’s help? That git has his head up his arse.” Harry looked thoughtful for a moment. “But he did tell Snape he shouldn’t have put Crabbe and Goyle in detention. They were helping him.”
“So Malfoy doesn’t trust Snape,” Ron said. “Maybe Malfoy has a hunch Snape’s supposed to be on our side.”
Harry looked skeptical. “I dunno, Ron. Dumbledore could be wrong about Snape.”
There was a brief silence before Harry slammed a fist down onto the chessboard in frustration. Some of the pieces attempted to duck for cover. “What is Malfoy up to?” he cried out.
Arnold jumped out of Ginny’s arms and she realized she’d been shaking. What is Draco up to?
She and Draco had left this significant part of their lives out of their relationship without giving the consequences much thought. He was a Death Eater after all, and he probably did their bidding whether he liked it or not.
Ginny felt she’d gotten to know Draco over the past few weeks. She knew that he liked to read books and play Quidditch. She had to admit he was a very good Seeker despite his methods to get onto the Slytherin team. He lived on uniformity and standardization, so he always ate the same meals everyday – two eggs, a croissant, and a glass of orange juice for breakfast, an apple and ham sandwich for lunch, and sliced meat with potatoes and peas for dinner.
He always pursed his lips and inhaled deeply whenever he was aggravated. She noticed he did this around Crabbe and Goyle quite a bit. His eyes became a cloudy gray whenever he was either angry or…aroused, Ginny thought with a blush. He had a sweet tooth and seemed to have an everlasting stash of candies from Honeydukes.
She also knew that he was very bright. Incidentally, unlike most things about himself, he didn’t brag about this. It was quite curious. She still didn’t know why he was taking Muggle Studies. It appeared to be a sore subject for him, so she never bothered press for an answer.
She hugged her knees to herself and frowned to herself. Despite the things she knew about him, she didn’t really know him. She could never accomplish that. He hid such a large portion of his life from her. His other life, as she had come to refer to it, was off-limits for discussion. He would never talk to her about his father’s imprisonment, his Dark Mark, or…Voldemort. Initially she’d been okay with their agreement. She didn’t want to know these things. Try as she might, she couldn’t seem to get the image of Draco writhing in agony from the burn of the Dark Mark that one night out of her mind. It scared her.
But the more she thought about it, the more she decided she needed to know these things. Not so she could one-up him and report any findings to the Order, but because…she cared about him. And if something like that had scared her…what must it do to him? How often did his Mark burn? What must it be like to have your father, no matter how despicable, in prison? What did Voldemort make him do? Did he have anyone to talk to?
He was not the same Draco he’d been the year before. He was thinner, more reserved, and less aggressive. He was known for his proper mannerisms and sophisticated look, but she found that he had become more careless in his appearance. He seemed to always have bags under his eyes from a lack of sleep, his hair had lost its brilliant sheen, and overall he had aged for the worse.
Her chest began to ache with an unfamiliar sensation.
“Hey, Gin, you all right?” Ron asked her suddenly. The two boys were staring at her over their game.
Ginny noticed she was clutching her blouse tightly in an effort to ease the pain building inside her.
“Yes, I’m fine. It must be heart burn,” she lied. She knew it wasn’t that, but maybe her heart was aching for a different reason.
On Christmas day Ginny found herself sitting outside in the Weasley patio just before dinner. It was snowing and she enjoyed the sensation of the flakes against her skin as she watched the sun beginning to set.
She heard the backdoor open and swing shut. Harry joined her on the wicker sofa. His black hair, partly concealed with a Weasley-made ski hat, was a sharp contrast to the snow. His face was already flushed red from the cold.
“Thanks for the CD player, Harry,” she said, smiling at him. She’d recently gotten into Muggle music and appreciated Harry’s thoughtfulness. Her father was currently ogling the machine.
“You’re welcome,” he said, returning her smile. He bent over to scoop a handful of snow with his matching mittens. He patted it together and played with the newly formed snowball absently.
“Ginny,” he said quietly.
She couldn’t tell if he’d meant for her name to come out softly, or if the rushing sound of the snow falling had muffled his voice.
She looked at him. He had the same expression on his face when he’d asked her to the school ball.
“I was wondering if…” he began, but the sound of shouting from inside the house interrupted him. The two of them jerked their heads towards the door.
“Percy!” Her mother’s voice cried out. “Percy! You’re here! You made it!”
Ginny quickly rose to her feet. “Percy?”
Harry let the snowball drop to the ground as a dejected look flitted across his face for a moment. They both made their way inside hurriedly.
The commotion was coming from the dining room, where the whole Weasley family sat, including Lupin and Tonks. Percy stood off to the side awkwardly. His expression was stoic, despite seeing his teary eyed mother running towards him. She engulfed him in a hug and his eyes narrowed.
Ginny blinked in disbelief. The bloody git can’t even return his mother’s hug on Christmas!
Someone coughed softly. It was then that she noticed a man standing next to Percy. No one had acknowledged him with all the excitement. Everyone suddenly turned to stare at the stranger.
Merlin, it’s the new Minister.
Percy shook his mother off in embarrassment. “This is the Minister, Rufus Scrimgeour.”
Ginny’s father, who’d been silent the whole time, took a step forward with his hand extended in greeting. “Pleasure to meet you, Minister, Arthur Weasley,” he said.
Ginny didn’t believe her father was being the least bit genuine. Scrimgeour stared at her father for a moment before taking the hand. He offered a thin smile.
“I was telling Percival here that I needed to meet the family who was responsible for such impeccable upbringing,” Scrimgeour said, his smile widening. His shaggy blond hair reminded Ginny of a lion.
Fred and George snorted, but their mother shot them a look.
Her father was about to say something in response, but Scrimgeour seemed to have lost interest in the family with the “impeccable upbringing”. He was staring around the room, as if searching for something. She felt his eyes rest near her, and she realized he was looking at Harry.
“Ah!” the Minister exclaimed. “So, Harry Potter, we finally get a chance to meet.” He made his way towards him.
Ginny could feel Harry stiffen next to her.
The Minister ushered Harry outside to speak in private. The Weasley family sat in silence, gaping at Percy. The soft sounds of utensils clanking nervously filled the room. Ginny felt awkward standing off to the side, but couldn’t bring herself sit down at the table. She gripped the back of Bill’s chair. The movement startled Fleur, who was seated next to him. She glanced at Ginny briefly with a small smile on her face.
“Well don’t just sit there, Percy, have a seat,” Molly exclaimed, pulling a chair out for him. “This is your home.”
The empty chair happened to be next to Ron, who opened his mouth in horror. While the whole family harbored a grudge against Percy, Ginny knew Ron was very sore about the letter he’d sent him about Harry the year before.
Percy remained standing. “No thank you, the Minister shouldn’t be long, and then we’ll be going.”
Ginny’s heart broke to see her mother’s face fall. Her father’s ears reddened, the way they did when he was angry.
“Now see here, Percy, you can’t ju-”- he began, but his wife cut him off.
“T-that’s all right, Percy. We…understand,” she sniffed, a finger sweeping across the underside of an eye.
“Why don’t you just leave now?” Fred asked, rising from his chair. His expression was hard.
Molly released a shuddering sob. “F-Fred…”
And suddenly a chunk of mashed potatoes was flying across the room and hit Percy in the face. Ginny didn’t dare peel here eyes away from her estranged brother to seek out the culprit. Percy’s face was now as red as his hair. Without a word, he took out a handkerchief to clean his face and stepped out of the room.
A moment later the front door could be heard slamming shut.
Ginny’s mother broke down into tears, and Tonks rushed to wrap her arms around the older woman’s shoulders. Her father’s teeth were clenched and he looked around at the horrified expressions at everyone seated at the dinning table.
“George-” he said dangerously, enunciating the name carefully.
“Howf do you noo if wuf me?” George asked, chewing down a bite of mashed potatoes.
Ginny bit her tongue to prevent herself from laughing out loud. The humorous moment disappeared shortly after as Scrimgeour burst back into the house.
“Where’s Percival?” he demanded.
His face was red, but Ginny didn’t think it was from the cold weather outside.
“He left,” Bill said quietly.
Scrimgeour bolted out of the room.
“And a happy Christmas to you!” Fred called out after him.
They heard the faint sounds of two people Apparating away from the Burrow.
Harry walked back into the house. All eyes were on him. He pulled off his ski hat and balled it up in his hands.
“I don’t think I’ll be getting a gift from him for Christmas,” he said, attempting to smile.
Molly released herself from Tonks to throw her arms around Harry. She began to sob uncontrollably. He patted her back awkwardly and stared at Ginny, his eyes wide with alarm.
Help me, he mouthed out.
“Let’s eat,” her father said loudly. And so they did.
Draco had expected the winter holidays to be a miserable affair. He greeted his mother with usual cordiality at Platform 9 ¾ once he’d descended the train.
His mother was as tall and thin as ever, but she had a certain haunted look shadowing her face. Her high cheekbones had hollowed in even more. Her hands appeared to be icy cold and almost brittle. She almost looked as though she’d lost the will to live. Draco felt ashamed that he’d considered not coming home for Christmas.
Her sullen eyes seemed to light just the tiniest bit when she received him. She offered him a weak smile and hugged him tight. A curtain of long blonde hair engulfed him as he wrapped his arms around his mother. He was taller than her now, and she liked to point this out time and again, how her baby boy had grown so quickly.
He felt his mother take in a shuddering breath and he worried that she might cry in front of everyone at the station. He pulled away from her.
“Come, Mother, let’s go home,” he said, taking her hand.
As they made their way towards the Floo Network, he couldn’t help to steal a very brief glance at a red haired girl who had her arms around her father in greeting.
Two days before Christmas the Malfoys were invited to the Zabini home for their annual ball. They had been attending this event for as long as Draco could remember. He usually looked forward to the event, as it gave him an opportunity to rub elbows with some of the most powerful and wealthiest families in the Wizarding world.
However, he’d always done this with his father.
Draco’s father would make sure that the two of them wore the newest dress robes, the shiniest shoes, and took care so that not a single strand of hair was out of place. They would enter the ball with the smallest hint of a smile and eyes that commanded respect for all. His father had told him it was very important to find a balance between coming off as friendly and boorish. The friendly gentleman received little respect, while the boorish gentleman was reviled. Of course, exceptions were to be made, especially when one met a particularly foul individual.
His father would then introduce Draco to significant members of society. Sometimes they would offer him a cigar imported from South America. He would eagerly accept, but his father was quick to whisk them out of his hands.
”You’re too young,” his father would say with an amused smile.
Draco would dance with different witches, none of whom seemed to capture his attention for too long. In the past he’d found that sharing dances with Pansy made it easier to pass the time.
Both his parents had asked him to consider other young women.
”The Parkinsons can’t be trusted,” his mother said once. “They’re not old money, like us.”
Then they would retire for the evening and Draco would laugh as his parents named off the number of guests that had appeared in last year’s dress robes, or the poor bloke who’d just recently been inducted into the realm of high society and couldn’t differentiate between a salad and dinner fork.
This year was different. Draco still wore a brand new set of dress robes. He’d taken care to polish his shoes himself, not wanting to trust the house elf with the task. His hair shone like an angel’s halo. He entered the Zabini home with his arm linked in his mother’s. The absence of his father created an unintentional, deafening silence between the two of them.
He took a moment to stare at her as they descended the staircase to the ballroom. She had her blonde hair set in a loose chignon. Her deep blue dress robes were classy as always. They trailed behind her, giving her the appearance of a mermaid. A thin strand of diamonds adorned her pale neck. He’d noticed her eyes had brightened since he’d returned home.
The host and hostess received them genially. Blaise stood next to his mother, his hair as curly as ever. He flashed Draco an exaggerated smile and shook his hand in mock formality.
As Draco spoke to the various guests, they all avoided bringing up his father. He was fine with that. He certainly didn’t want to discuss that with anyone.
He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but the atmosphere of the ball was quite different from the years before. Certain regulars were missing in attendance, that was for sure, but a dark invisible mist seemed to be hovering above everyone. They greeted each other cordially, but at the same time, the smiles were far too wide, the expressions too placid. And yet something seemed to be stirring behind their eyes….an unsettling tension.
Draco was about to catch up with Blaise, but was stopped when a large hand thumped his shoulder. It almost made his knees bend.
He turned around to face Barnabas Rowle, an acquaintance of his father. He was a thin man with a glowing, bald dome and a little bit of gray stubble around his chin. His black beady eyes bore into Draco’s.
“Mr. Malfoy,” he said, his voice raspy, as though he suffered from a bad cough. He offered him his hand.
Draco gave the man a slight nod as he accepted the outstretched hand. “Mr. Rowle.”
He didn’t know too much about the man, except that his brother, Thorfinn Rowle, was closely connected to the Dark Lord.
“Good to see you here especially with the circumstances and all,” Rowle said slowly. A muscle in his jaw twitched slightly.
Draco narrowed his eyes and raised his chin. “Surely I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Rowle?”
Rowle’s eyes danced menacingly as he leered at Draco. He could smell Firewhisky on his breath.
“It must be hard on such a young man to have his father…incarcerated,” Rowle said with mock concern in his voice. “I was just speaking with your mother-”
If there anything worse than having your father in prison, it was dealing with old, disgusting perverts who pined after your sulking mother.
Draco jerked the left sleeve of his dress robe upward and leaned in towards Rowle. “I’d appreciate it if you left my mother alone,” he hissed.
Rowle’s eyes widened upon seeing the Mark on Draco’s arm. He staggered backwards, right into a waiter carrying a tray of hors d'oeuvres. The tray clanged to the floor, tossing its contents onto Rowle’s robes.
“Pity,” Draco said with a sneer as he pulled his sleeve back down. “Those stains will be difficult to remove from second- class robes.”
He brushed pass Rowle as the waiter frantically tried to clean up the mess, murmuring apologies to the bald man.
Draco quickly composed himself and stood among a circle of men dressed in immaculate dress robes that rivaled his own.
“…and so I told Scrimgeour, this one has none of the virtues I admire, and all the vices I dislike,” said Arnold Peasegood, a Ministry employee.*
The men around him laughed.
Albert Runcorn, a tall wizard with a black beard, acknowledged Draco. “Mr. Malfoy, good to see you,” he said politely. Runcorn was a good friend of his father’s.
“It’s a pleasure to see you all as well,” Draco said, bowing a little.
Runcorn took a tin box from the pockets of his robes and opened it for Draco. Inside were a dozen Ramon Allones, among the finest of cigars. “Have one, please,” Runcorn said, smiling.
Draco stared at the open tin, and then at the men around him, each puffing a cigar. He thought of his father and a dull stabbing sensation built up in his chest. He returned the smile. “Thank you, Mr. Runcorn, but as tempted as I am, I’m going to have to refuse.”
Runcorn’s smile widened. He clapped Draco on the shoulder. “That’s quite all right.”
A short, tubby Wizard with one too many chins beamed at Draco. “If only all young men had that kind of self-restraint today. Lucius has done a fine job.”
The Wizard wore a set of dark green robes that looked as though they’d experience significant wear and tear over the years. He had a purple handkerchief in a front pocket that clashed terribly with his robes. Draco almost wrinkled his nose in disgust, but stopped himself. What had the man done to him? He’d shown him decency and kindness. Did it really matter that his shoes were in dire need of a good polish?
“Thank you, sir,” Draco said, nodding in thanks.
“Draco!” a voice called out.
He turned around to see Blaise heading towards him. He excused himself from the group of gentlemen and grabbed for a flute of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray.
“Miss Astoria Greengrass has been inquiring about you for a dance,” Blaise said, smirking. He stopped the same waiter to grab a flute as well.
“I’m not really up for dancing,” Draco said quickly and took a generous sip of his drink.
“There’s always Pansy Parkinson.”
Draco snorted.
“So no to the blonde and the brunette,” Blaise said as he held up two fingers with his free hand. “There’s a lovely redhead I met just a moment ago.”
Draco held Blaise’s gaze. “What makes you think this is about hair?”
Blaise shrugged. “Just saying, mate, she’s got a set of legs. And she’s related to the Weird Sister’s guitarist.”
“I don’t care if she’s the Queen of England herself,” Draco said, rolling his eyes. “I told you I didn’t want to dance with anyone, so bugger off.”
Blaise raised an eyebrow at Draco. “Well, then. Note to self, he’s quite touchy when it comes to redheads.”
Draco was gripping his champagne glass so tight he thought it would shatter. He straightened himself out so that he stood an inch over Blaise. “Why don’t you just say what you’ve been trying to get at?”
The amused expression on Blaise’s face disappeared and was replaced with a seriousness Draco seldom saw in his friend. “You’re not as discrete as you believe yourself to be. I think you know what I’m talking about.”
It took all of Draco’s will to keep his face from revealing anything, but his heart began to race. “Frankly, I have no idea.”
Blaise shook his head. “I’ve got two words for you,” he said, bringing his voice to a barely audible whisper, “Ginny Weasley.”
Draco could feel the blood rushing through his body. The room seemed to slow down and everything became hazy. All he could see were the steely eyes of his housemate as they stared at him, daring him to respond.
Draco let his champagne flute clatter to the floor as he roughly grabbed Blaise’s robes by the front. It irked him even more that Blaise seemed unfazed by his reaction.
“How dare you,” Draco hissed, attempting to keep his voice down. A few Wizards and Witches nearby stared at the pair with questioning eyes before moving along.
“Draco,” Blaise said calmly. “I’m your friend. We’ve been mates for as long as I can remember. When will you learn to trust me?”
“You’re no friend of mine,” Draco spat, relinquishing his hold on Blaise. He turned to walk away.
“I’ve seen the way you look at her,” he said, smoothing his robes. “I’m not stupid.”
Draco turned to stare at him. “No, I guess you’re not.”
He began to walk away once again, but Blaise kept going. “I haven’t told anyone.”
Draco closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. “Thanks, but I’d appreciate it if you stopped trying to bait me for information.”
Blaise gave him a goofy smile as he ran a hand through his thick curls. “All right.”
“And we never had this conversation.”
“What conversation?”
On Christmas day Draco and his mother sat down for dinner with his Aunt Bella.
The semi-delighted demeanor of his mother had long since disappeared, and she sat over her plate, brooding in silence.
“Look at you, Cissy,” Aunt Bella said, narrowing her eyes at her younger sister. “It’s Christmas, and you can’t even enjoy yourself for the boy.”
His mother met her sister’s gaze, her eyes brimming with tears. “I j-just can’t do this…”
“Of course you can,” Aunt Bella said, rolling her eyes in annoyance. “My husband is in Azakaban, too you know.”
She took a swig from her glass of Firewhisky. “And I’m doing just fine.”
Draco’s head hurt. He was tired of being at home. He wanted to get back to school, away from his crying mother and the lingering shadows of his father’s absence. And having his over-zealous aunt around didn’t help matters.
A house elf entered the room. “Excuse me, Missus Malfoy, there is a Mr. Snape at the door.”
Draco noticed Aunt Bella shoot his mother a dirty look. “What is that dodgy wretch doing here?”
His mother shook her head. She stared at Draco, her eyes full of sorrow. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“Send him in, please,” she asked the house elf.
Severus Snape entered the room a moment later. He wore a thick black cloak over his robes, giving him the appearance of a large bat. He seemed to have brought the winter cold in with him as Draco felt a chill crawl down his spine.
He bowed slightly. “Narcissa, Draco…Bellatrix,” he greeted them, and Draco caught the tiniest of sneers as he said his aunt’s name. “I am terribly sorry for interrupting your Christmas.”
“Then you would do well to leave us be, Snape,” Aunt Bella said thickly.
Snape ignored what she’d said. “I need to speak with Draco in private. It’s urgent.” He gave his mother a knowing look.
His mother looked as though she were struggling to contain a sob. “Yes, of course.”
Draco excused himself from the table and retreated into the adjacent parlor with his professor. Although his dinner had been a depressing affair, Draco wasn’t pleased with the alternative situation he was now in. He stood near the burning fireplace and scowled at Snape.
“Won’t you have a seat?” Snape asked, eyeing him carefully.
“I’ll do as a please, seeing as this is my home,” Draco said darkly.
Snape moved closer to him and the crackling fire illuminated his face. His shadow loomed behind him against the parlor wall. “Draco, the Dark Lord has asked of your progress.” His voice was grave and his expression so stony, it was almost frightening.
Draco held his ground. “I told you I’m handling it!”
Snape shook his head impatiently. “I don’t mean that. What of your professor?”
Draco froze. The icy chill he’d felt in the dining room with Snape returned, despite the warm fire behind him. “I…I…”
Snape’s beady eyes pierced his own, searching…
Draco barred his teeth at him with a snarl. “That won’t work with me!”
Snape’s expression seemed to soften ever so slightly. “I see Aunt Bella has been working on your Legilimency.” His lips thinned and his already black eyes darkened. “This is serious, Draco. It is something I cannot help you with.”
The fire hissed like a snake as Draco fidgeted restlessly. His hands trembled at his sides. “I will have a precise date and location soon.”
His Head of House stepped forward and placed both of his hands on Draco’s shoulders. His fingers were thin and ice-cold and his white faced stared at Draco not with menace, but with…pity?
“That’s not good enough,” he said, almost sadly.
“I’ll find out soon,” Draco pleaded, trying to step away from Snape’s hold on him, but his claw-like fingers held on tight. His heart began to race and he suddenly felt feverish as a wave of panic swept over him. “Please…you can’t.”
“I have no choice.”
With one swift movement Snape took out his wand and placed an arm around Draco’s waist. He saw blackness as the two of them disappeared from the Manor. The only thing he could think of was his mother’s sad and haunted gaze, searching for what she’d lost.
Author notes: * Inspired by a Winston Churchill quote
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