- Come What May -

Notes: First and foremost, I would like to thank the following people for their support through the writing of Tapestry, the reviews of which truly felt like hugs when I read them: moonfire, Ariel, Gwen, katsuai, A-Chan, sweetgirl, Sorceress Jade, Sydney, mysticalcancer, smooth volt, Piri Malfoy, Spite, Jedi Ginny, Saralyn, whippy, Illumina, Myr, le-blanc-jasmin; and, of course, Hopper, without whom I would probably not be writing still. I thank you all for encouragement and for simply taking the time to review.

Secondly, I would like to make several points known. Please keep in mind that, for some odd reason, I was under the impression that Fred & George Weasley (played by the adorable James & Oliver Phelps, respectively) were only one year ahead of Ron, when in fact they are ahead by two; I apologize ahead of time. Also, I believe I kept with the events in the books, and hopefully the events and time line match up between chapters; but if anyone finds a loophole in my logic I would appreciate being told right away.

Thirdly, I would like to make it known that there is, indeed, slash in this piece of fiction. Though it was dually noted in the summary, perhaps some squeamish 'phobes have wandered in uninvited, in which case I would like to tell you to flee (quick like bunnies) before you send flames which will be laughed at and promptly destroyed. The characters in this story do not exist in reality, but they do exist in Rowling's world. She and Warner Bros. own them; I, very sadly, do not. No suing or I will laugh even harder, for I am but a penniless writer who, above all things, believes in love.

The title of this story was inspired by the film Moulin Rouge, which everyone should see.

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Chapter One: Prologue

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Ronald Weasley gazed up at the shining gold numbers above the door before glancing once again at the weathered envelope in his calloused hand. With a heavy, tired sigh, he lifted his second hand to the massive gold knocker and gave it a loud rap. The noise echoed through the house until the door opened silently to the curiously melancholy eyes of a house-elf. This particular house-elf was wearing a frayed bit of blanket as a sort of kilt and a matching bit of blanket as a scarf draped about its drooping shoulders. Ron winced as it bowed its head politely and allowed him entrance to the young Malfoy estate before he had told it his name or business.

Because the house-elf was allowing him into the house without so much as a word, Ron was sure that the house-elf recognized him in some way, and this fact bothered him as he was lead through marble- and velvet-strewn corridors lined with priceless paintings and expensive vases. When the house-elf brought him into a very large and very empty lounge with sweeping glass doors which opened to a veranda and gardens, he remained on his feet, toying with the rapidly decaying brim of his hat.

His grey eyes grazed the pretty things in the room: the rugs covering expanses of swirling grey and black marble, the golden frames holding enormous mirrors and paintings, the delicately glazed vases holding arrangements of beautiful and rare plants, the costly trinkets and baubles encased in gauzy glass, and the gold and black and red velvet hangings in doorways and windows. He felt inadequate against such luxuries, his own brown shoes falling apart at the seams and simple, clean robes dulled against the elegance of this room.

Reluctantly, Ron took a seat on the edge of a blood-red divan strewn with unnecessary pillows and an odd blanket tossed over its low arm. His hat found itself on the cushion next to him as he peered through the wide windows, into lush green gardens and a perfect azure sky. It had been a long while since he had allowed himself to spend even a short moment to admire the beauty of the world around him, let alone since he had been put in such a position to behold the unnatural beauty of a house like this.

Behind him the doors were opened by the unfortunate house-elf, and his tired eyes flickered to the newcomer at the door. The house-elf ushered a stately woman, dressed in a long and flowing cloak adorned with delicate silver threads at the cuffs and hems, into the room and left again before Ron or the woman could have asked it a question or commented on its unusually obedient demeanor. As the woman took a seat in a plush chair across the room, Ron took a moment to observe the graceful yet insecure way in which she moved and her nervous habit of running her fingers along the edge of a pocket which, Ron supposed, held her wand. Without realizing himself, Ron's own fingers jumped to the end of his wand, barely present above the decaying hem of a pocket in his robes.

The stately woman across the room did not appear to be at all in awe of the wealth in the room, nor did she appear to have any interest whatsoever in Ron; however, while she thought his eyes roamed over the spotless floors, he noted the long, anxious glances she cast in his direction every few moments.

It was a very long and silent time before the doors were again opened by the humble house-elf, who this time sported the beginnings of a large and painful bruise above its enormous left eye. Apparently it had done something naughty and had punished itself. Ron turned away from the house-elf, feeling the long and sympathetic gaze the woman sent in its direction as it shut the doors behind a hesitant man with dark hair. This man did not move from the doorway until he had studied the woman and Ron from a safe distance. When he did finally move, he sat in the divan next to that which Ron had seated himself, but remained a fair pace from the woman. She appeared perturbed that he would rather sit nearer to Ron than a woman of her stature.

When the house-elf returned, it bowed until its ears nearly touched its knees as a blond man swept into the room wearing elegant robes lined with a bit of grey and white fur. He summoned a stiff wooden chair from against a wall and sank into it as though it were more comfortable than those plush cushions in which the rest had themselves chosen. The woman shifted in her chair uncomfortably, fidgeting with her pocket more often than before. Ron forced his hand away from his own wand as the blond man cleared his throat in a clean, purring sound.

"Welcome," he said smoothly, pale eyes moving from figure to figure until the lot of them were shifting in their seats. He seemed pleased with this, and continued, "I'm sure you're all wondering why you're here together. Well, why you're here at all." Slipping from his chair in a fluid movement, the blond man floated past them to the sweeping glass doors and made as if to lean against the frame. In fact he was completely self-balanced, but still held the air of being completely as ease with himself and with them as they squirmed nervously in their respective robes.

"For some of you it must be painful to see one another again," he said. His voice dripped with a steel edge, his words filing liquidly from his tongue as though they had been rehearsed a thousand times before in similar situations. "I know that it's a bit unraveling to see the three of you again, though I must admit that seeing some of you is more difficult for me than others." His eyes were suddenly upon Ron, who sat rigid in his seat and now felt the back of his neck going as red as the hair on his head. "But enough from me." The house-elf opened the doors and glanced nervously at the blond man before retreating sullenly into the corridor.

The blond man smile gave the impression that his teeth were made of diamonds as they sparkled in the rapidly diminishing sunlight from outdoors. "It's time, now, for a bit of supper."

*

The table in the dining room was much too long for four people, but somehow its placid appearance played off of the rough masonry of the massive fireplace at one end of the room quite nicely. By focusing his attention on the glory of each room, Ron found himself quickly forgetting the awkward nature of seeing these people again.

The blond man had swept into the room and seated himself at the head of the table, sitting back to watch as they filed into the much darker room with an air of sympathetic amusement. The house-elf brought in drinks for them, which it poured dutifully and winced when the woman thanked it. The blond man's amusement faded then, and the house-elf disappeared through a smaller side door to once again punish itself for being noticed by company. The woman had blanched and was more than ever toying with her wand pocket. The blond man did not seem to notice.

"You are certainly quiet this evening," he chuckled into his soup and silver. "There was a time, Ms Longbottom, that it took a great deal of effort to ensure that you stop talking; now it seems quite a task to ensure the utterance of one word." The woman had flinched at the name he had dropped so casually, but continued to stir her soup between tiny spoonfuls. The blond man chatted casually, ignoring the anger mounting in the hesitant man's eyes or the humility in the woman's face.

"Or is your correct surname Longbottom anymore?" he asked wistfully, almost indifferent to the answer. The spoon the woman had been holding hit the edge of her bowl with a clink, and everyone in the room but the blond man jumped from the noise.

"I've taken my maiden name back," she said softly. With teary eyes she glared down the table at the blond man, who was listening intently as she corrected him. "It's been, actually, several years since I've used that name."

"I see." He seemed rather pleased with himself for having disturbed her so. His attention shifted to the hesitant man, whose anger had reverted to pure condolence for the former Ms Longbottom. "And you, Potter -- How have things been going for you lately? I don't believe I remember what you've been up to all this time?"

Just as soon as the woman had taken up her spoon again and resumed eating, Potter addressed the blond man with a razor edge in his voice.

"Hogwarts business," he said shortly, "I know you don't think it much, but it's rewarding if one has the patience to see the position through." The blond man looked delighted to hear this.

"You've returned to Hogwarts?" Potter nodded curtly, his emerald eyes attempting to pierce the blond man with miniature daggers. "Marvelous! Does this mean Dumbledore has finally filled the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor?" Again Potter nodded, his gaze softening only slightly. "It's very appropriate, with all you've been through. My congratulations, Mr Potter. A worthy position of you." He smiled, and the wary glare returned to Potter's eyes; it was not apparent to any of the three if the praise had been meant as a mocking or sincere gesture.

The blond man turned again to the woman, who had composed herself. "Miss Granger, then, is it?" She nodded, her fingertips toying with the delicate crystal of her glass. "What have you been doing with yourself?"

"Since Neville, you mean?" she said hotly. He ignored her fiery tone and leaned in as though to hear her better. "Nothing as fabulous as you've done, I'm sure. But the Prophet has been happy with both the writing and detective work I've done, so I'm content with my position."

The blond man seemed to have been expecting more from her, surprised that she should have stopped so abruptly. "And . . . the family?" Her gaze never left his as she answered, and she clasped her hands on the tabletop.

"Wesley will be attending his first year at Hogwarts this fall, and Ryce has top marks in his class."

"A child after your very own," he approved in a hum. Seeing he would not be getting as much from her, the blond man turned at last to Ron, who had been watching Potter for the duration of these exchanges, and studied his modest robes and drawn features. "And you, Ron," he mused, "I've been watching your career most carefully. How is it now that Quidditch is no longer a real option?"

Ron, delighted to finally be the focus of the conversation, tore his eyes from Potter and met the blond man's inquisitive gaze. "I've taken a job at the Ministry. I've not needed the money -- not really, anyway, since the Cannons have been taking good care of me. But -- my parents -- you know . . . " The blond man nodded, encouraging Ron to continue. "Well, Mum's fallen a bit ill, and Dad -- well, Dad's been Dad and won't let any of us help pay for the doctor's bills. Insists on working overtime for as little money as the Ministry's willing to pay him." He smiled knowingly, first at Potter, then at the woman, whose eyes had misted over again. "I've been putting most of the money I've been making directly into their account at Gringotts with a bit of luck and more than a bit of help from Bill."

The house-elf changed the plates as Ron spoke, sweeping the half-filled and cold soup bowls onto a trolley and scurrying out of the room in silence. It returned a moment later, and another bruise was forming on its upper arm. It refilled the drinks around the table and left without a word or glance to any of them.

Weasley's gaze fell to his supper, the back of his neck beginning to blaze, but he said, "It's been quite a scandal at our house. Mum is furious because one of us is helping them with the bills, but none of us will admit to it. Really it's been all of us, even Ginny, bless her heart."

The blond man tilted his head in question, and Ron supplied, "Her husband died just a short while ago, and she's been putting in more time at the Ministry as well. The twins have been looking after her, with their shop in Hogsmeade doing as well as it has." The woman had cringed at the mention of the twins, and her reaction did not go unnoticed. It was the blond man only, however, who lacked the tact to ignore it.

"Why, Miss Granger, it seems as though you have some unresolved business with the Weasley twins?" Potter glared at the blond with a passionate loathing, and Miss Granger glanced at Ron before speaking.

"If I do it is nothing to do with you." He grinned, impartial to the tears gathering in her eyes and the grating in her voice.

"Oh dear, I seem to have struck a nerve." He raised an eyebrow into his platinum hair. "Do tell us, Miss Granger. I'm sure even Ron would like to know of this." Granger remained silent, but it had been too long a moment of silence for Potter.

"Can't you see that we are not here for you to torture us anymore?" he shouted, on his feet in a second and knocking his chair backwards. "Seven years of this sort of hell is bad enough, but inviting us all back for more after a decade is ridiculous." His eyes flashed as he glanced at the other two. "I know I speak for myself at least when I say that I won't stand for it."

The blond's amusement faded completely, a stone gaze hardening in his pale eyes and fair features. He paused a moment, allowing Potter's outburst to echo through the hall before saying in a dangerously low voice, "I did not bring you back together for my own entertainment; however, if the situation appears that way, I apologize sincerely. I merely called you here tonight because it has been brought to my attention that we all left off on a bad note, and it has been affecting us even after so many years." Potter lowered himself into his chair once more after it had been righted, and was now glowering into his plate in silence. The blond's gaze flickered across to the woman.

"Now, Granger, you owe it to your red-headed friend to tell him of this business with the identical Weasleys, and I suggest you do so before I become angry." He looked at Potter again with a challenge in his eyes. "It is not wise to cross a Malfoy, Potter, even when you are right." The pale eyes narrowed dangerously. "The Malfoy will always come out ahead."

*

The study of the young Malfoy estate was decorated with dark, cherry-paneled walls, blood-red carpets, and a fireplace even grander than that in the dining room. Impressive bookcases stretched from floor to ceiling, filled with dusty volumes and ancient parchments. Malfoy had ushered Potter, Miss Granger, and Ron into this shadowed room and given them a moment to make themselves comfortable in the furniture which had appeared so uninviting upon arrival but proved itself otherwise.

"Well," Malfoy announced, taking a seat beside the hearth. "It is obvious that we have kept secrets from one another. The betrayals and misunderstandings have truly torn your little trio apart, leaving me no other choice but to bring you here this evening to sort things out. If it takes you hours to recreate the bond you left behind at Hogwarts so many years ago, then my home will be host for as long as it takes. You all have private suites for the duration of your stay here, and I hope they will accommodate your needs.

"Now, however, it is time to begin this," he said simply, his gaze drifting with a lazy intensity from one figure to the next. "Each will tell his story; each will listen to the others. In the end, we will see what we have not been able to see in the past, and we will not accuse nor blame nor argue. This is to be a time of healing and reconciliation, not of hurt and revenge. I will not tolerate emotional immaturity."

The room went silent save for the comforting crackling of the fire in its stone hearth, and no gaze met another as the quartet watched the floor with great interest. After a very long moment, Malfoy's pale eyes found the teary visage of Miss Granger, and he spoke.

"Ladies first, Hermione." She glanced up sharply, blanching severely. "Begin at the beginning of things running afoul, and end with present day. Omit anything you deem necessary, but remember that one word missing might change the big picture for the rest of us." He was encouraging as he added, softly, "Go on, then. We're listening."

In the dancing firelight, Hermione Granger took in a long and shaking breath, and began her tale.

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