She had cried while rereading every one of them, her memories skewing in her brain in light of Malfoy’s revelation. She hadn’t wanted to believe him. In fact, for an hour or so, she’d entertained the notion that he’d tricked her. Maybe he’d found out about the letters and simply wanted her to think he was her pen pal as a way to hurt her. But such a scheme seemed too elaborate, even for him.

Her cheeks are dry now, though her nose is rubbed raw and her eyes are swollen from crying. She searches through the sea of words for the letter Malfoy had mentioned at the party, the one about his mother. When she finds it, she settles back against the side of her bed, ignoring the creaks in her bones and the strain of her muscles from hours of limited movement. Her eyes narrow, and she realizes for the first time since she set herself to this task that her room has grown too dark to adequately see, let alone read nearly 150 handwritten letters.

A swish of her wand lights the lamp on her bedside table. The letter is dated July 20th.

Remember when you told me your family makes you feel lonely? I’ve found myself going through the same experience. I moved back into my family home with my mother a few weeks ago, but I’ve hardly seen her since my return.

I’ve been lonely for a long time. Except for you, I haven’t felt free to speak about the war with anyone, and I assumed my mother and I would have that in common. I assumed she would want to talk about it, but she doesn’t want to talk at all. Any form of conversation ends with her dissatisfaction and impatience with me. Sometimes, she won’t even look at me when we’re in the same room. She takes her dinner in her bedroom as if she can’t stand to share a meal with her only son.

You have to understand, I grew up knowing how loved and special I was. My father was a cold man, but he doted on me, though never as much as my mother did. All the same, as difficult as it was to grow up in this household, my family loved each other. So my mother’s sudden cold shoulder is worrisome.

She took enormous risks during the war to ensure my safety, and now that she won’t speak to me, I wonder if she regrets them. At first, I wrote off her behavior as mourning my father, but now? I don’t know. Sometimes I think she actually hates me.

Ginny remembers reading this letter and trembling with every word, both aching and elated at the thought of D sharing her pain. Never had she ever felt so understood by anyone, though she hated that someone else had to suffer in order for her to feel that kind of acceptance.

At least… no one besides Tom had ever understood her before.

She shuts down that thought as soon as she thinks it, refusing to compare the two men, refusing to drudge up those memories. Draco Malfoy may be a git, but he’s not Tom Riddle. However, now that she’s thought it, she can’t help but notice the similarities here.

Ginny writing to an anonymous friend, sharing her darkest secrets, her fears, her pain with this person and receiving comfort in return, only to find out that her confidante is an enemy. It’s too soon to know whether Malfoy, like Tom, intends to destroy her, but the revelation on the dancefloor feels like a destruction in itself. He’d said those words to her, revealed himself like he had, with the intention of hurting her. What he gains from this situation still remains to be seen.

The letter falls to the floor as Ginny buries her face in her hands again, tears flowing without her consent, her body shaking with sobs. She never wanted to feel like this again. She never wanted to equate D, the man she trusted and loved, to fucking Voldemort. How had this happened? Why had Draco Malfoy been allowed to sign up for the letter exchange program? Who had thought it would be a good idea to pair a Malfoy up with a grieving citizen?

It takes her a few minutes to compose herself and control her nausea, and even when she does, she can’t stop the sniffles or hiccups. She picks D’s very first letter out of the sea and reads it for the third time.

I don’t know why I’m writing to you at all. This is a waste of my time.

She wishes she could reread her reply. Her memory is fuzzy, but she remembers feeling annoyed and disappointed. A cough-like laugh escapes her throat at the similarity to her situation now.

Instead of responding right away, Ginny had sat on his letter for another day. She had almost shown it to Luna to ask for her opinion, but self-consciousness had prevented her from speaking up.

Finally, she’d come to the conclusion that whoever this annoying person was, they still needed a friend to talk to, and they must have known that, too, or they never would have answered Ginny’s initial letter. If sending letters had truly been a waste of this person’s time, why didn’t they just ignore hers and forget all about the program?

With that thought in mind, she had responded in kind. Though the exact words escape her now, she must have said something like, I know what you mean. I’m so busy with schoolwork, this is honestly the last thing I need to add to my plate. So why did you sign up for this program?

She’d half expected him to ignore her, but at breakfast the next morning, she’d received a response. Ginny picks up this letter now and reads it.

Schoolwork, you say? Do you attend Hogwarts?

He’d avoided her question completely. It wasn’t until March that he finally told her he’d been forced to participate in the pen pal program by an authority figure (Professor McGonagall, perhaps? Or maybe Professor Slughorn?). His letter had dripped with disdain at the admission.

They had passed letters back and forth in this manner through Christmas hols and well into the spring term, he deflecting her questions back at her and she rambling about her observations of post-war life at Hogwarts. She hadn’t known anything about him until April, when their letters had changed, becoming more personal and intimate.

Ginny had had a breakdown over Fred and he’d sent her his first hint of compassion: Words fail me. I wish I could comfort you in person.

Ginny rereads this letter for the hundredth time, trying to decipher why the change. Suddenly, it clicks into place and she stiffens; the parchment—soft and well-worn from countless rereads—nearly rips in her grip.

She had told D all about Fred and her happiest memories with him growing up. Even though she had never named names, anyone familiar with the Weasley family would have recognized them in her letters. How many female Hogwarts students enrolled in April 1999 had multiple brothers, including twins, one of which had died at the Battle of Hogwarts? Draco Malfoy, of all people, would have known her instantly.

Why, then, the compassion? Is this when he’d devised his elaborate plan to string her along and learn all her secrets just to throw them in her face?

She picks up the July 20th letter again and rereads D’s worries about his mother.

No. No, this was no plan. Her instinct back in December 1998 still rings of truth. Draco Malfoy may have been forced to sign up for the Ministry’s letter exchange program, and he may have reluctantly sent her curt letters until April, but part of him had needed someone to listen to him. Over time, he had finally seen the value of the program and he’d used it for its intended purpose.

He hadn’t just taken from Ginny—her memories, her fears, her trauma. He had given part of himself back to her, filling his letters with vulnerable, intimate information. Reciprocating. This isn’t a one-sided relationship. She’s not sure what kind of relationship it is exactly, and she doesn’t know precisely what Malfoy feels for her, but they were—they are—friends at the very least.

Like magic, as if he can read her mind, there is a knock at Ginny’s bedroom window, an owl fluttering in the dark waiting for her to let it in. With a wave of her wand, the ocean of letters empties and separates into stacks organized by month. Another wave instantly weaves twine around each stack, turning them into bundles. Then she stands and opens the window to admit the eagle owl that has been delivering D’s letters since Ginny finished at Hogwarts. It makes sense now. Prior to leaving school, he must have used Hogwarts’ owls to deliver his letters.

The letter reads simply: I’m sorry. For everything. —Draco

According to her watch, it’s nearly 10 pm. The party had ended at midnight the night before, and Malfoy had bolted early, right after his revelation. More than twenty-four hours later, and this is all he has to say? An apology is a good start, but she can’t help but expect more.

She turns his letter over and pulls a quill out of her desk drawer, scribbling on the back of the parchment, You should be.

She tells herself that she will not respond again, no matter what he says. But she needn’t worry. No reply is forthcoming.

Draco grits his teeth and tightens his grip on the putter, his gloved hands twisting around the plastic handle almost as if he is envisioning Blaise’s neck between his fingers instead.

“You should have gone for a big gesture, you know? Most girls don’t find insults romantic.”

Forgetting the shot for a moment, Draco straightens. “I didn’t insult her!” Blaise’s eyebrow arches in skepticism. “I was merely devastatingly unkind.”

“Very romantic.”

Draco returns his attention to the golf ball sitting on the green felt that lines the course and readjusts his feet and his grip. He swings the putter, lightly this time. His first attempt had sent the ball sailing through the air nearly fifty feet, missing his target by at least forty.

He doesn’t swing hard enough. The ball rolls up the slight incline but never reaches the top. It comes rolling back down to Draco who tosses his bright red putter onto the ground and stomps off to the side of the course, giving Blaise another go.

“What do you know about romance, anyway?” he asks as Blaise sets up his ball and readies his blue putter between his hands.

“More than you, apparently. I’ve scored a date with the woman I’m interested in.”

He hits the ball, sending it up the felted incline and through the mouth of a man wearing a red cap and a bushy, white beard. An obnoxious, static-filled “Ho ho ho!” sounds from the man, celebrating Blaise’s shot.

The fact that Blaise is good at this horrible Muggle game irritates Draco, and it only irritates him further when they walk to the end of the course to find that Blaise’s ball has neatly rolled into its intended target, a hole demarcated by a flag.

Blaise pounds the air. “Hole-in-one!”

“I quit,” Draco says.

“Oh, but we just got here,” a voice says from behind them.

Standing on the other side of the bearded man structure, Luna Lovegood looks mildly disappointed and Ginny looks horrified. Perfect.

“Did you know I was going to be here?” she and Draco say at the same time. “No! What are you doing here? Stop that!”

Blaise grins outright and intervenes, physically placing himself between Draco and Ginny as if fearful of a fight. “We are all gathered here today because I want to spend more time with Luna. Throwing you two together was just an added bonus. Now, let’s divide into teams. Draco needs all the help he can get.”

Before either Draco or Ginny can claim a teammate, the desired teammates in question walk off to the next hole together, leaving each other as their only option for a partner.

“If I’d known you were going to be here,” Draco says as they follow their evil friends, “I wouldn’t have agreed to come.”

“Oh, really?”

He hears the frostiness in her voice and sighs. “It’s not like that. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“Well, it’s a bit too late for that, don’t you think!” She stomps off to catch up with Blaise and Lovegood, who are already in a position to putt. In fact, Draco feels mildly uncomfortable watching them as Blaise wraps his arms around Lovegood, showing her exactly where she needs to place her hands on the putter to hit the ball correctly.

Draco’s heart pangs watching them, and he wonders why it can’t be that easy for Ginny and him. He knows why, of course. Not only do they have an explicitly antagonistic history, but she feels tricked and betrayed by him. He completely understands, which makes wishing for a different outcome worse. In order to achieve his wish, an easy, whirlwind romance made up of a deep, meaningful connection, compassion, and love, he would have to undo their entire lives. And that wouldn’t make any sense because who would Draco be if he wasn’t a Malfoy? If his father had never been a Death Eater? If he hadn’t?

No, those things that she despises about Draco make him who he is—both the bad and good parts of him.

“If you think you’re going to put your arms around me like that, you better think again,” Ginny mutters.

“It would have to be the other way around, I’m afraid. I’m awful at this idiotic game.”

As it turns out, Ginny is nearly as adept as Blaise, and after she manages to get her ball into the hole at the end of the course in two strokes, she shrugs. “My father became obsessed with this game one summer and turned our whole house into a minigolf course. Mum wasn’t pleased, but the boys and I had a lot of fun.”

“Careful who you spill your secrets to, Weasley,” Draco warns, though he can’t help but smile at her easy admission.

She scowls as they move on to the next hole, making Draco smile even wider, though he smothers it before she turns around and sees it.

Blaise and Lovegood are wrapped up in their own little world, either because they are too absorbed in each other or to give Draco and Ginny some privacy. Draco suspects the latter. When it is his turn to putt again, he turns to Ginny and says, “Why don’t we make this game a little more interesting?”

“I’d rather finish it as quickly as possible, if you don’t mind.”

He ignores that and continues. “Every time we miss the hole, we have to say something that’s true. One truth for each stroke. Here, I’ll go first.”

Draco really does try, but this course features a curvy layout that Draco would call impossible if he hadn’t just watched Blaise get another hole-in-one on it. He aims his putter so that the ball will hopefully ricochet off the walls to get around the curves into the open area where the hole is located, and then he swings—

The ball ricochets, all right. Off one curve and right back at Draco, smacking him in the shin. He scowls at his feet, where the ball has landed innocuously, and notices Ginny trying to conceal a smile in her scarf.

“You did that on purpose,” she says, not quite succeeding in ridding her face of her grin.

“Swear to Circe, I didn’t. But here we are. One stroke, one truth, right?”

“I’m not playing this game with you.”

He ignores her. “I figured out who you were back in April. Your brother’s birthday, remember?”

“Of course I remember, and I already figured out that much myself.”

Draco swings his putter again. They watch the ball hit the back wall of the curve and roll down to the next one, but it slows and stops before it gets around the bend. He’s about to open his mouth and deliver another truth, when she surprises him by speaking up instead.

“If you’ve known this whole time, why didn’t you say anything?”

There’s an expression on her face that Draco can’t read, probably because she’s feeling too many things at once. Her brow creases in a frown that he wants to smooth out with his fingers, and there are wrinkles at the corners of her eyes that he wishes he could kiss away. She stands with her arms crossed, closed off to him, trying to contain something within herself, and he’s dying to pull her arms away and wrap them around his own torso, to wrap himself around her, to take whatever confusion and pain she’s feeling and parse it out between them. Figure it out. Fight it, dissolve it. It’s what they’ve done in their letters, dissecting their worries and sharing them with each other until they are no longer burdens that are too big to carry because they’ve broken them down into digestible pieces. Draco aches for a piece of parchment and a quill, but he knows that their letters will never be like they were. The illusion has disappeared, revealing the unsightly reality.

“I almost did,” he says. “I was so angry. I thought you were mocking me, and my first reaction was to read your letter out loud in the middle of the Great Hall for everyone to hear, to hurt you before you could mock or hurt me. I don’t know why I didn’t—and that’s the truth.

“I almost told you in every single letter I sent since leaving Hogwarts, but I valued our friendship too much. I knew it would end if you found out the truth, and I couldn’t bear to lose you.”

Her eyes flutter closed and a shiver wracks her frame. Draco wonders if the temperature has dropped further without him noticing, but he’s too warm in his Muggle coat (courtesy of Blaise), scarf, and gloves to tell. When she opens her eyes again, they’re blazing. Again, he can’t read her expression, can’t tell if she’s furious or if she even believes him.

It hadn’t occurred to him until now that she might not believe him, and Draco’s heart hammers in his chest, desperate for her to understand. Nothing could ever happen between them, but he needs her to know that he never set out to hurt her, that she was—is—important to him. More important to him than she knows.

“What changed?” she asks.

“One stroke, one truth, remember?”

She nods and he returns to his ball, evaluating the course and its angles to figure out how best to swing. He doesn’t know why he’s trying so hard. Now that the truth has been revealed, he wants to tell her more. He will swing as many times as necessary to get her to listen to him.

His swing is a good one, and the ball clears the curved part of the course, rolling into the open area and inching toward the hole. It stops just a few inches short of its destination, and Draco releases his breath in relief. He gets one more shot.

Ginny is there at the hole, right next to him. “What changed?” she asks again. “Your letters changed after Fred’s birthday.”

“Before I figured out who you were, you were just some Hogwarts student who had nothing to say about the war except how it had affected other people. After I figured you out, I realized you were protecting yourself just like I was, and I knew you had seen some of the same things I had. You’d sacrificed and fought and hurt the same why I had. That’s why I opened up to you.”

Draco turns back to his golf ball and taps it into the hole. He fishes it out and hands it to Ginny, who carries it back to the beginning of the course.

Her swing is even better, and the ball ricochets around the curves, into the open area, and just misses the hole, overshooting by a foot.

As she sets up her stance, readying her putter to hit the ball again, Draco thinks she isn’t going to play along with his truth game. And then she surprises him.

“One stroke, one truth, right? I fell in love with my pen pal, D.”

She strikes the ball and both of them watch it glide into the hole, shaking the flag.

Draco’s mouth dries, and his heart is no longer hammering inside his chest. It’s pounding against his ribs, begging to be set free, desperate to jump into Ginny’s mittened hands. His imagination had always fallen short of her falling for him, but now she’s said those words and he wants so much to give himself to her, to belong to her. He knows from her letters that she would take good care of his heart.

But their relationship has left the page and now exists in reality, here on a minigolf course. He doesn’t know if this Ginny can bring herself to transfer her love from the man she corresponded with to the man in front of her now. He doesn’t think she can.

She seems to be waiting for him to say something back to her, but Draco doesn’t know what to say. So she retrieves her ball and goes in search of Blaise and Lovegood, skipping the next hole entirely.

Their game is over.