4
If the world is such a happy place, then why am I in so much pain? Ginny wondered to herself. Her arms hurt, her chest hurt. And she felt cold, so very cold, as she lay staring blankly up at the leaves on the trees.
Vaguely, she recognized the sounds of someone running towards her, but couldn't have moved even if she'd wanted to.
"Ginny!"
How do I know that's my name? she pondered. That's the name the girl in the bad memories had.
Suddenly, her Bird was kneeling next to her, staring concernedly at her. Leaves and bits of things poked out from his ruffled feathers. "Ginny, say something!"
She smiled weakly. "The horse-men didn't want to be happy."
He touched his wing to her side and it came away a funny shade of red. "You're hurt very badly. It took me a while to find you here."
She nodded, then stopped. It hurt too much. "I managed to happy quite a few, though, before they broke my magic stick."
Swearing softly, the bird picked her up in its wings.
"Where are you taking me? I demand to be put down this instant!" When slurred, it didn't sound quite as forceful as she'd intended it.
"I'm taking you somewhere where you can get better. How are you going to take care of yourself without your magic stick?"
"Oh. Good point." She patted his feathered cheek. "My own little Birdy-Dralian."
And the world slipped into black.
. . .
Blaise Zabini was wrapped in the arms of the most beautiful witch he'd ever seen when the Floo rang.
"Mhm, ignore it will you, darling?" she murmured throatily.
He chuckled. "Gladly."
"Blaise, you sorry git!" the fire yelled in a Draco-ish voice. "I'm collecting a life debt!"
Blaise paled. Draco had horded that debt since before they'd even gone to Hogwarts.
He flooed over to Malfoy Manor without even a goodbye to the witch on his couch.
"What is it?" he asked, stepping out of the fireplace. But he cut off the next words in strangled gasp when he saw who was lying on Draco's couch.
Ginny Weasley. Ginny bloody Weasley, the love of Draco's life and current dead woman. Had been dead for ten years. And was about to die again, if the blood dripping from Draco's hands was any indication.
Draco turned to his best friend. "You went through Pre-Medi-Wizard training, Blaise. You're the best I've got."
He'd dropped out after inheriting the family estates and never really cared that much in the first place, but there was no use telling Draco things that he already knew. Besides, there was no arguing with a life-debt. So he strode over to the unconscious Weasley, rolling up his sleeves. "Get me lots of towels and any healing potions you have."
. . .
It wasn't often that your boss called you at two in the morning to do research, Hermione mused. As it was an isolated incident, she complied just to humor him. Ron vowed to throw some nasty curses Draco's way, but Hermione just patted her husband's sleepy head as she left.
"I mean, it's not like you don't pay me enough for stunts like this, but… why?" she asked the Slytherin after half an hour of both of them pouring over books on Dementors, of all things.
He shrugged, his eyes never leaving the pages of his own Dementor book. "I had to get out of the house, I had to do something, and besides—I had a breakthrough. Here," He handed her a piece of parchment he'd been scribbling on. "this. I want to make a potion out of this."
Once Hermione put together what those particular ingredients meant, she gasped and looked at her boss with fury in her eyes. "That's Dark Magic!" she growled. "Very Dark Magic!"
"I know." With face scruffy and robe hastily thrown on, she didn't think she'd ever seen Draco this unguarded physically—and emotionally. The flicker of hope that she'd seen so carefully banked for the past four years now roared into a fire. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, mussing it further. "Which is why I won't ask you as your boss, but as your nearly-brother-in-law and, hopefully by now, your friend."
That last word caught her attention.
"If it doesn't work, then no harm done. But if it does, I vow to you on my name as a Malfoy that you would willingly risk ten times this for the results."
She looked back at the parchment, running calculations.
. . .
Narcissa silently observed the pale girl sleeping in one of their guest bedrooms. Ginevra Molly Weasley. If the war had lasted a few months longer, likely that redhead would now be a Malfoy.
In the few early hours of the morning while Blaise rested and Draco researched, Narcissa could finally get a good look at the girl that had so thoroughly captured her son's heart. Overly freckled and extremely tanned (Merlin she must spend a lot of time outdoors!) yet still slim and—in an odd, unrefined way—somewhat pretty.
Blearily, the girl opened her eyes and Narcissa swooped over in an instant. "How are you feeling? Is there anything I can have the House Elves get for you?"
The girl giggled childishly. "What a funny talking zebra. I thought only Bird could talk."
Narcissa could only stare open-mouthed in disbelief. "What in Merlin's name are you talking—"
"I did NOT say you could talk to her!" Draco yelled, racing into the room.
"Bird!" the girl cried happily at her son.
"Leave her, Mother," he intoned more gently. "She's sick."
"Obviously!" his mother snapped, stalking out. Her life had just gotten a whole lot less reasonable.
. . .
Blaise stumbled out of his guest bedroom, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Draco sat stiffly on the living room couch, an empty cup of tea clutched in his hands. He occasionally tried to take a sip from it, only to discover that it was, in fact, still empty. Blaise grabbed the cup from him, refilled it, and grabbed one for himself. "How is she?"
Draco grunted, taking an actual sip of tea. "Mostly healed, I think. Still a bit off in the head, but you are only a flunkee Healer."
Blaise shrugged. "Truth is truth, mate. I did all the memory restoring spells I could, but I never was anything near a prodigy there anyway. I'm assuming you want me to keep this whole thing under wraps?"
The blond finally looked up. "Yes. And thank you for… this."
Blaise smiled roguishly. "Anything for a life-debt."
. . .
"It's ready."
It took a few seconds for Draco's heart to start beating again. "You sure?"
"Of course I'm sure." Hermione's head in the fire rolled her eyes. "When will you be coming for it?"
"Won't be. Floo over with it."
"To Malfoy Manor?"
"Yes. The wards are down."
A few seconds later the Muggle-born stepped into his living room, carrying a reeking flask. The gray liquid swirled and smoked, letting off wispy tendrils. She had to grip it with tongs as the flask froze anything touching it for too long.
He led her down to the guest bedroom, then stopped outside the door. "Hand me the flask."
"What? Why?"
Draco grinned slightly, taking it from her. "Cause you'll drop it. And I don't want to wait a whole 'nother week for you to brew another one. Come on."
Pushing open the doors, he watched his assistant's face. Success or failure, this moment would be one for the Pensieve.
"GINNY?!"
Laughing, the redhead looked up. "You brought me more of your animal friends! This is even better than the forest, Bird!"
Draco sighed as Hermione's face inevitably fell. "Yes, Hermione, the potion's for her."
"She…? You…?" The brainiac was bewildered. "I don't understand," she finally settled on.
"You don't have to. I just thought you'd want to be here for this."
Hermione stopped what she'd been about to say. "Absolutely."
He walked up to Ginny, the hand holding the flask shaking.
"Bird, why won't the otter talk to me?" Ginny pouted.
"Ginny, I need you to drink this. It will taste worse than anything else you've ever had, but you need to. You're still sick inside and this is the only way to heal you."
She patted his hand and it still sent a tingle up his arm. "Alright, Bird." She took the steaming flask up to her mouth, made a face, and started to lower it. Suddenly, she downed the entire thing in a single gulp.
Draco's heart felt like it would burst. "Come on, Ginny, work," he whispered inaudibly. "Please Merlin, work."
"Blech! I don't feel very good," she slurred and passed out. Hermione instantly started fussing, but Draco just sat down to wait. He'd gotten good at it in the past ten years.