Chapter One
He spent a lot of time watching her. It seemed to be a new favourite pastime; at least it was better than tormenting first years, better than ordering around Crabbe and Goyle, and certainly better than listening to the simpering of that delusional harpy Parkinson. Not that any of that was an option this year, anyway. Watching her was a new kind of fun, roughly on par with Potter-baiting or putting her boor of a brother in his place. He couldn't do that either, though, not this year. The golden trio had left on some important mission this year that would probably save the bloody world.
Again.
No, he certainly wouldn't be sad that the Mudblood, Potty and the Weasel King wouldn't be around. However, just the thought of them wasn't the only thing that made his voyeurism uncomfortable. Her family. They were a bunch of Neanderthal prats with too much bravery for their own good, tattered robes and no pride in their heritage. Always siding with the less powerful, less desirable, less fortunate. Blood traitors, the lot.
But her…
Even if he only got a glimpse of her flame-coloured hair around a corner, it was enough. Enough to keep him breathing. Alive.
He had prolonged his life by one year. One year. No one knew why he wanted to come back to Hogwarts, very few Slytherins were there. None from the families of Death Eaters; only he was left. He was ostracized by the rest of the school, even the teachers barely tolerated him. He kept to himself, mostly. Eating infrequently, sitting at the back of classes, trying, for the first time in his life, to just blend in. To not be noticed. But that was a laugh; he was Draco Malfoy. Death Eater. Father in Azkaban. Almost killed Albus Dumbledore. Hated by all. Loved by none. Well…
He didn't even know where the one person who loved him was; his mother had gone into hiding as soon as he was back at school. It was early November and he'd had no word. Nothing. Nothing but cold stares, muttered insults, thinly veiled threats and cold indifference from everyone else.
Except for her.
She hadn't done any of those things.
He had shown up at Grimmauld Place with Snape. After his professor had shown the werewolf Lupin and some enormous black wizard a scrap of parchment, miraculously, he hadn't been killed outright. Snape had left him with these wizards because he had to return to the Dark Lord's side immediately or be hunted down and tortured. Snape wouldn't be at Hogwarts teaching Potions, or Defence Against the Dark Arts for that matter anymore, either. The Death Eaters couldn't know it wasn't Snape's idea to kill Dumbledore. The Headmaster had planned this, he had been dying anyway, and as such, Snape, having fulfilled Dumbledore's request, decided also to honour the Headmaster's last promise to Draco, as well. To help him if he asked for it.
Draco sat in the kitchen of their headquarters and listened to the adult wizards talk around him. He was going into hiding. He couldn't - wouldn't - go back to serving that horror of a thing. Malfoys didn't scrape or bow or kiss the robes of half-blood maniacs. They didn't.
He didn't know what he would do. He had to pledge loyalty to someone, and he knew it wasn't going to be Voldemort. He wasn't even sure about the Order of the Phoenix, although it did seem like the lesser of two evils. He wished he could just be loyal to himself and to hell with the rest of the world.
Instead, he gave them what little information he'd been privy to. He gave them the use of his ancestral home, should they need it, and money. He could offer them that.
They spoke to him, asking him questions, and he answered without coercion. He supposed he'd had no alternative. He didn't remember half of what he'd said. After several hours of talking, talking, and more talking (the werewolf would NOT shut up), a short, stout woman with awful red hair (the Weasel's mum, he just knew it) came to take him up to his room. He fell on the bed, exhausted, and drifted off into a deep sleep.
He awoke from a nightmare with a start, several hours later, sweating and shivering, glad beyond measure that the dream he'd just experienced was just that -- a dream. He divested himself of his robes and put on pyjamas that someone had laid on the foot of his bed. As he lay back on the bed again, he looked around. Hell. The headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix was not much better than the nightmare. It seemed as if the walls were closing in around him.
It was the middle of the night; he could walk around to calm down and not be bothered by anyone. He stuck his head out into the hall and listened. No one was up. He decided to have a look around. He found the library with a surprisingly decent selection of books, including several that were duplicates of ones at Malfoy Manor. Whose house is this, he wondered, and why did the 'good guys' have some items that would have been in the Restricted Section at Hogwarts?
When he got to the kitchen, he paused. Someone was awake after all.
He cracked the door and smelled something wonderful. A heavenly, sweet, delicious aroma assaulted his senses. Instinct took over and he stepped into the kitchen, startling its occupant. She was wearing pyjamas that were too small, and her auburn hair was tied back in a ponytail.
She looked at him. "Oh. It's you," she said without malice.
He didn't say anything.
"They said you were here." She stirred a pot on the stove.
He didn't look at her, and he didn't speak, either.
"Well, aren't you a right little ray of sunshine, then, spreading joy throughout the kitchen? I'll just count myself lucky to be in the same room with you, I will," she said with a small smile.
He glared at her. She smirked and raised an eyebrow.
He was shocked, although he didn't show it outwardly. Damn her, that's my facial expression. I might as well have bloody invented that smirk.
"Can't sleep?" she continued.
He looked at a spot on the wall blankly.
"Want some hot chocolate?"
He stared at her. Is she offering me chocolate like she knows me?
"It isn't poisoned," she said. "I'm having some."
She set the mug down in front of him, spooning some marshmallows on the top. "Go on. The milk will help you sleep."
He looked down at the chocolate and said nothing.
She sat down across from him. "I'd take this back upstairs, but I don't want to wake Hermione."
The Mudblood was here. Damn. That meant Potter and the Weasel were here as well. He sighed.
"Is it that exhausting, lifting a mug to your lips?" she inquired.
He didn't know what to say to this girl. He didn't feel like chatting, and he didn't have the energy or inclination to be nasty to her, so he remained silent.
She rolled her eyes, picked up her book, and promptly ignored the fact that he was in the room.
He tasted the chocolate and spared her a look. Say what you wanted about the youngest Weasley, but she could make hot chocolate.
They continued, he drinking and looking at the wall, and she sipping and reading. After a bit, she got up and put her mug in the sink.
"I'm off to bed. 'Night, Malfoy," she said through a yawn. She looked at him and smirked again. "'Night, Weaselette, thanks for the chocolate," she said under her breath, mimicking his drawl.
He held his mug and stared into it.
She wrinkled her nose and smiled at him. "There's no tea leaves to read in that one, you realize?"
She left the kitchen, chuckling to herself.
"Goodnight," he whispered.
He avoided all the people at Grimmauld place, after that encounter. Anyone he saw was just in passing… they all treated him with apathetic neutrality, with the exception that he couldn't leave the premises. With the exception of his nightly forays into the library, he managed to spend the rest of the summer within the four walls of his small room relatively alone.
But now he was back at school. He was thinking. He had a lot of time to do that, of late, and let his thoughts drift back to King's Cross. He was dropped off by Lupin, who warned him against breaking any school rules, and he boarded the Express, his eyes downcast and hands shoved in his pockets, praying silently that he could find an empty compartment to be alone for the long trip to school. By some stroke of luck, he found one, sat down, and waited.
He never lifted his eyes as he heard the door open several times, only to be shut again quickly as he heard, "What is he doing here?" Or worse, a string of obscenities and insults that he couldn't even argue with, seeing as they were true. He really didn't even care if they hexed him.
Then the door opened, and it didn't shut again immediately. He looked at the ground near the door. Hew saw girl's feet, pink painted toenails, a creamy white calf and a yellow hemline that ended just below the knee. He also took in the faded black robes that were left open. His heart dropped. Not twenty minutes on the train and here's where it would begin. He didn't know if he was up to a fight. He braced himself for the worst.
The door closed behind her. And then, she sat down.
She had opened the compartment door and almost turned around and bolted in the other direction. After their little encounter at the beginning of the summer, she hadn't seen him again, and she guessed that he wanted it that way.
She looked at him now, waiting for him to tell her to leave, but he didn't move. He didn't look at her. He didn't insult or belittle her. He looked… sad. And tired. She didn't know what had come over her. First that night at Grimmauld when she'd given him hot chocolate, and now… what was it? Pity? She fingered her wand, contemplating cursing him, or getting a nice hex in, but thought better of it, and sat down, settling into the cushion and looking at him.
"Malfoy."
Had he heard her correctly? She said his name. It wasn't accusing or derogatory. It was soft, gentle and even a bit inquisitive. It was not what he was expecting. He looked up at her, and her gaze was as soft as her voice.
His voice failed him. He glanced back down at the floor again before strengthening his resolve and looking at her. Her deep brown eyes were full of concern. His gaze drifted down to the sprinkling of freckles on her nose. A much better nose, he noted, than her brother's. Her lips were full and dark pink and her mouth was slightly open. His attention drifted back to her hair, unrestrained today, tumbling down over her shoulders and back in fiery red waves. His breath caught in his throat. She was beautiful.
Oh, he was mad. He had gone 'round the twist. That was the only explanation. He didn't care how good her hot chocolate was, a Malfoy did not think a Weasley was beautiful. End of bloody story. He must have had too much time alone this summer. He refocused his attention on the ground. That was safer territory.
"Malfoy?"
She was louder this time, more questioning. Damn. Couldn't she leave him alone? He didn't know what to say, or how to act. He wanted to sleep, or disappear. Hell, he didn't know what he wanted anymore.
The compartment door opened again and two more people stepped in.
"Hi, Ginny."
Ginny. Right. That's her name.
It was that fool Longbottom and that idiot from Ravenclaw with the absurd jewelry. Draco kept his focus down.
"What are you doing in here, with him?" Longbottom asked pointedly, looking at Draco as if he might Avada Kedavra him on the spot. "Ginny, come sit down in our compartment with us. It's fine, really."
"Oh, that's alright, Neville," she replied, "there's more room to spread out in here."
"You're sure you're all right?" Luna asked, eyeing Draco curiously. "There are Stinkpuffing Inglepods all over this train. They make people do things they'd never normally do. Keep a weather eye out," the girl said, dreamily.
"I will, Luna, thanks." Ginny grabbed a book from her bag and waved her friends off. They left reluctantly, and she tucked her feet up under her knees, reclined on one elbow, opened her book and began reading.
Draco's eyes moved up off the floor where he'd been staring at her feet. He regarded her for a moment. She'd taken off her robes and was wearing that idiotic Muggle dress, yellow, with white daisies on it. It showed a lot of bare shoulder and was fitted to the waist. It looked like it was too small for her. Didn't this girl own any clothes that fit? His mind wandered to think about touching the curve of her neck or how her hair might feel to his fingers.
Stop. Stop. Enough. He'd been locked in that dratted room too long this summer. It had obviously done something to his brain.
He mentally shook his head and looked at her again more critically. She had an intense look on her face, studying the page she was on. Her body moved slightly with the train, rocking back and forth with the inertia of the locomotive. Just watching her was making him sleepy.
She lowered her book and looked at him. "Yes?"
He looked down at the floor again. The safe floor.
"Malfoy, you look terrible. Why don't you try and nap? I'll wake you up in time to change."
He looked at her with mingled amusement and disdain. "So you can hex me while I sleep? No, thanks, Weasley. Not interested."
She shrugged and went back to her book, biting absently on her bottom lip. She was reading a Muggle book. A Muggle poetry book, from the looks of it. Milton? Pathetic. Never heard of him. What an enormous waste of time. He forced himself to continue to think along this vein, how ugly she was, her interest in literature was inane, her family lived in beyond poverty, how she wasn't good enough to hold his house elf's tea towel…
His head snapped up. "Why don't you go and sit with Longbottom?" he asked harshly.
Her gaze didn't move from her book for a moment, as if she were finishing reading a sentence. Her eyes dragged up from the book to meet his gaze. "What?" she asked.
She didn't hear him? She wasn't on guard? What kind of idiot sits voluntarily in a former Death Eater's compartment and then loses herself in a book of poetry? "Why don't you go sit with your friends?" he spat.
She looked at him blankly. "He speaks. Unsolicited conversation. Excellent," she replied blandly. "Okay, here's why. There is more room in here, and they really didn't want me to sit with them, they've only just started dating and Luna—
"Stop," he said. "Enough. I don't need to know the mating habits of Longbottom and Looney."
She shot him a small smile, nodded, and went back to her book.
He tried again. "Wasn't there somewhere else?" Less nasty. Damn.
She looked up again. Did she look irritated? Is she kidding me? He was even being polite… well he was being polite for him, anyway.
"No."
"No other empty seats?" he asked incredulously.
"None that weren't next to ex-boyfriends, or people that I don't care to be around."
"And you care to be around me?"
She sat up and put her book beside her on the seat. "Malfoy, I think 'care' might be a bit strong. But I'm pretty sure that you're not going to try to feel me up or want to snog on the way to school. And I didn't figure you'd want to be chatty, either. So why don't you do what your eyelids have been threatening for the better part of half and hour and try and get some sleep." With that, she went back to her book, reclining on her elbow, twirling a piece of auburn hair around a finger.
Why did she keep insisting that he needed sleep? He couldn't look that bad. Anyhow, he certainly wasn't falling asleep in a compartment alone with a Weasley. Stupid, poor ugly… he tried to get angry with the sheer fact of her presence, but the soporific effect of the train was more powerful than his will at the moment and he drifted off into a deep sleep.