Ginevra’s headache was back with a vengeance. She curled up tighter on her side, shivering in the cold air, trying to convince herself that this whole ordeal was just a terrible nightmare. Soon she would wake up in their king-sized bed with Draco smirking sexily by her side, ready to make her feel guilty for not accompanying him to some function or another and making her promise all kinds of sexual favours to assuage his bruised ego and everything would be back to normal.

She popped one eye open, taking in the dull grey walls around her and the lack of a sexy, smirking fiancé on the cot next to her. Damn.

She practically jumped a foot into the air when a voice broke the silence. “Comfortable there, Weasley?” Ginevra didn’t need to look out through the steel bars trapping her inside the dreary cell to know who had spoken, but she did anyway.

Scratch that last thought; her sexy fiancé was definitely there, and she couldn’t help the smile that slid across her face at the sight of him.

The delighted grin only lasted a moment, until she really saw him. He looked... different. Older, as though he’d seen more than he’d cared to, or grown up too fast, though his casual stance as he leant against one of the bars might have said otherwise. And his hair was longer, impossibly longer than it had been when she last saw him... yesterday? It felt more like a decade ago.

Suddenly Ginevra was feeling very, very tired.

She looked him in the eyes, those cold grey eyes that had seen more than his mere twenty-five years could attest to, and saw none of the love and affection he’d claimed to have felt for her in that time. That was the moment she knew without a shadow of a doubt that whatever reality this was that she’d stumbled into, it wasn’t hers.

“Where am I?” she asked him cautiously.

He gave her a measuring look. “The Ministry.”

The Ministry of what? She bit her tongue, since she knew his tone left no room for questioning.

Draco tilted his head thoughtfully. “The Ministry of Magic,” he clarified, as though he’d read her mind.

She frowned, trying to place the name. It sounded so familiar... because she’d learnt about it in History of Magic, in her seventh year at Hogwarts. That was what the government had been called, before the Revolution had begun. But how could it exist here?

Ginevra let her head fall back onto the bed and closed her eyes as it began to ache even more. “This isn’t right,” she murmured to herself.

There were a few moments of silence before Draco spoke again. “Potter seems to think you require a Healer.”

That got her attention fast enough. “I am not mental,” she told him emphatically, swinging her legs over the edge of the cot and rising shakily to her feet. “This is wrong, all of it. Can’t you see?”

He kept his eyes trained on her, his features carefully blank. “It doesn’t matter what I see. I have a job to do, and I plan to do it.”

Ginevra shot him a pleading look, but before she could say more there was a scuffling noise to the left side of her chamber and Draco turned towards it.

“Where is she?” a woman’s voice cried, and an older couple walked into her line of vision - the woman short and dumpy, the man tall and rangy - and Ginny’s breath caught in her throat when she saw their unmistakable red hair. She gingerly lifted her hand to touch her own hair, as though to check that it was, in fact, the exact same shade and texture, but immediately regretted the action when she saw Draco’s nostrils flare in anger from the corner of her eye. For a moment she wasn’t entirely sure what had caused the crack in his cool composure, until realisation struck and her hand snapped firmly to her side. The ring.

Ginevra stared at him, wide-eyed, but he said nothing. With one last cold look, he nodded politely to the couple then marched out of sight, a door slamming in his wake.

They didn’t seem to notice anything amiss with his behaviour. “Ginny, sweetie, are you okay?”

Ginevra dragged her eyes away from the place where her fiancé had vanished to stare at the two strangers looking at her with concern. They looked a little like her, she supposed. She was only a little taller than the woman, but the man was almost as tall as Ronald and her twin brothers - she’d never met the others, though she’d heard that was a trait the men all shared, red hair aside. Ginevra thought she might have looked a little more like the woman than the man, but when she looked into his eyes she saw the mirror image of her honey gold irises staring intently back at her.

Molly Weasley reached a hand out to touch her face, and she flinched, backing away from them, unable to hide the shame and disgust in her eyes. These were the people who were responsible for ruining her name, who had torn her family apart before she’d even known what family was, what family meant, what her foster parents had had to teach her over the years.

Molly Weasley looked taken aback and turned to her husband. He seemed to take some cue from her and came closer, the action causing her to tense despite the solid bars separating them. His eyes flickered to hers, his expression deliberating as he shuffled uncomfortably from foot to foot. “It’s okay, Gin-bug. Harry told us everything.”

“Potter,” she spat out with a scowl, and as though she’d summoned him herself, he appeared from the periphery, his gait cautious. Wisely, he kept his mouth shut.

Ginevra shot the group an arrogant look while she considered her options. Three veritable strangers who thought she was an absolute basket-case had suddenly entered her life, her fiancé - who didn’t seem to know her at all - had abandoned her, and in this warped reality she appeared to be a Muggle-lover with questionable hygiene practices, who happily went through life being referred to as some kind of insect-liquor concoction. She was wandless, totally without allies and stuck in the custody of “The Ministry.”

First things first, she thought, I’ll get away from the blood traitors, then worry afterward about how everything got so royally stuffed up.

No matter how Ginevra looked at the situation, there was only one way she was getting out of here, and she wasn’t sure she liked it one bit. She slouched, sitting heavily on the cot, and looked at Molly and Arthur Weasley in defeat as tears pooled in her eyes.

Then she went against every well-bred bone in her body, and begged. “Help me?”

Draco arrived at the grand foyer of Malfoy Manor with an audible crack, having Apparated there directly from the Auror’s offices.

A house elf clad in an oversized bed shirt appeared to greet him a moment later, but Draco brushed it off before it could waste a second of his time. “Mother!” he yelled, striding up the grand staircase toward his parents’ apartments.

He was met at the door by his father, who had just emerged from the door that led to his mother’s private parlour. “For Merlin’s sake, Draco, speak with a little dignity.”

“I need to speak with Mother.” Draco crossed his arms, unflinching under his father’s stern gaze.

“You will do no such thing,” Lucius told him sternly. “She has been bedridden all day, and you will not disturb her.”

Draco shook his head. “It’s important -” he began, but was cut off mid-sentence by a shaky voice from within the room.

“Let me see my son, Lucius.”

Draco offered his father a half-smirk before skirting around the man and entering the parlour.

His mother lay across her velvety, blue chaise in front of a wall of panelled windows, looking far too thin and pale.

“Mother?” Draco asked, hesitantly.

She offered her only son an affectionate smile. “I would speak with you alone, darling.”

Draco gave his father a half-smug look as he stood watching them in the doorway. Lucius narrowed his eyes at Draco before giving his wife a concerned look. “Try not to exert yourself,” he ordered, not unkindly, then shut the door with a soft click.

Draco moved to Narcissa’s side, and knelt on the ground beside her. “What’s wrong?” he asked her, taking her hand in his own.

She gave him a knowing look. “I think you have an idea, Draco.”

He ran his thumb across her knuckles, not missing the absence of the ancient engagement ring that ordinarily sat next to her wedding band. He was careful in wording the question, aware that any accusations against a member of the Weasley family would not be received well by the Wizarding world. “Has your ring been... misplaced?”

Sighing, she pulled her hand from his tender grasp, as though disappointed in the conclusion he had come to. “It hasn’t, darling. The ring is in the possession of its rightful owner.”

That statement almost stopped his pulse. The Malfoy family ring had been in the family for centuries, passed from mother to the first-born son to present to his chosen bride. The revelation was rather shocking, considering that to the best of Draco’s knowledge he was yet to even entertain the idea of a long-term relationship with any particular witch, much less marry one of them. Clearly his mother was confused.

“Mother, we took a witch into custody this afternoon. She was wearing your ring.”

She paled visibly, which was quite a feat considering her current pallor. “Ginevra is in the Ministry’s custody?”

“Mother, who cares about the Weasley girl?” He paused, frowning as her words sunk in. “How did you know it was her?”

She smiled at the question, as though he was amusing. “Why, darling, who else would have my ring?”

“Oh, I don’t know, you?” he asked sarcastically, returning her smile with a scowl.

Narcissa’s smile immediately faded. “Draco, that is no way to speak to your mother.”

He shook his head. “She was wearing your ring.”

“Oh, sod the ring.”

Draco looked taken aback. “Mother?” he asked uncertainly.

She grasped his arm. “Draco, you must bring her to me -”

“Mother!” he exclaimed, more forcefully, but she continued.

“No, Draco, this is important.” Her grip tightened, and her expression grew desperate. “You must bring her to me. Tell her that I can help her.”

He glanced at her hand, which was weakly clutching his arm, and considered what she was asking of him; to risk himself, and the already tarnished Malfoy reputation, to assist and harbour a fugitive from the Ministry. After all of the work, all of the sacrifices they had made to try and restore their family’s standing in society, she wanted him to throw away their meagre progress for the sake of a Muggle-loving Weasley.

He searched his mother’s clear blue eyes, and made his decision. Narcissa Malfoy was, by nature, a shrewd witch, and she would not request this of her son lightly, and if there was one thing that time had tried and tested, it was this: there was nothing that Draco Malfoy wouldn’t do for his mother.

Ginevra sat in a plain white examination room wearing nothing but a hospital gown, feeling relieved if only because she’d finally managed to get out of all that dirty polyester. They had tried to give her a dose of some kind of calming draught, which she had slyly tipped into Potter’s tea while he had been in deep discussion about her mental instability with her assigned caretaker, Healer Tanaka - he definitely needed it more than she did.

She’d been dismayed to discover that Potter somehow had the authority to summon a Healer to the Ministry, rather than try to transport her to St Mungo’s (if it even existed in this world) and provide her an opportunity to escape. She had waited for a long time - not that there was a clock for her to tell, but after a lifetime of having what she wanted, when she wanted it, the waiting was beginning to grate on her nerves.

Healer Tanaka entered a moment later, a pair of spectacles perched on her nose, parchment and quill in hand. “How are you feeling, Ginevra?” she asked her in a soft voice.

Ginevra shrugged, eager to get this over and done with. “Fine. Can we make this quick?”

The healer bobbed her head, then wordlessly sat down on the chair opposite Ginevra’s exam table and... did absolutely nothing.

Ginevra crossed her arms, raising a single brow at the woman. “Well?” she asked, but the woman remained silent. After a moment, she began writing something on the parchment, only looking down every so often as though afraid she might miss Ginevra do something utterly fascinating.

Well, Ginevra Weasley wasn’t going to be frothing at the mouth or predicting the end of the world any time soon, so she figured that she might as well wait the Healer out and contemplate her escape plan in the meantime.

What felt like hours, but was probably not nearly more than half that, passed, and Ginevra’s scheming had brought her to one conclusion: she was stuck, and there was absolutely nothing she could do about it, short of overpowering her Healer and making a break for it... then being taken down by the numerous Ministry staff outside that they had passed on the way over.

Healer Tanaka sat silently, continuing to scribble away the entire time Ginevra had been failing to come up with a brilliant escape plan, and suddenly the horrible little scratching noises of her quill against the parchment became extremely annoying. “I think we’re finished here,” she told the Healer, then slid gracefully to her feet.

The woman shook her head, but continued to make notes on her piece of parchment, scratching away so furiously that Ginevra wondered irritably how she hadn’t filled the entire piece of parchment yet.

Ginevra scowled at the woman. “What are you writing?” she demanded to no avail as her Healer continued to ignore her. She marched over, trying to peer at the piece of parchment.

Healer Tanaka made a ‘tsking’ noise and shook her head once more, finally speaking when Ginevra attempted to pry the parchment from her hands. “Miss Weasley, could you please attempt to act in a more civilised manner?”

“‘Civilised manner’?” Ginevra echoed her words flatly. “My little finger is a thousand times more refined than you will ever be in your pathetic little life, so I strongly suggest you finish up with whatever conclusions you’re leaping to about my sanity instead of giving me advice on how to behave, or I promise you, you will regret it.”

Healer Tanaka peered over her spectacles at Ginevra. “I see the situation was more drastic than we had initially thought... A definite tendency toward violence.” She made one last note on her parchment, before pulling out her wand. “A little electrotherapy should do just the trick.”

Ginevra was immobile before she could utter a protest.

Author notes: Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed the last chapter, and thanks to Hannah Askance for her beta work.