A Malfoy's Tale

The sunrise of another lazy day crept through the curtains of the old wizard's hospital room window and danced playfully across his eyelids, rousing him once more from a pleasantly relaxing slumber. He blinked slightly, stretching his arms and his hundred-and-twenty-year-old back as far as they would go. Turning to his nightstand, he wrapped his wizened fingers around his wand, the same hawthorn and unicorn hair creation he had had since the age of eleven, and flicked his wrist elegantly towards the expansive bay window.

"Aperio!" He whispered quietly, and the pastel curtains slid open.

Satisfied with the now ample amounts of sunlight in his luxurious quarters, he placed his wand back on his nightstand and with some effort, grabbed a large and ornately framed moving photograph of his son. His only child.

"Scorpius." The old man smiled. And his son smiled back at him from his picture frame. Laughing, smirking as he ran a hand through his platinum hair and shielded his silvery grey eyes from the sun. Scorpius had gotten a job in finance and traveled all over the world. From Hawaii to the Bermuda Triangle. From the Lost Colony to Atlantis. This particular photograph featured him standing in front of his newly renovated apartment in New York where, he had reminded his father, the financial markets were "less restrictive."

He visited Draco often. Flooed him all the time. He had stopped by only the previous week to show him an American artifact practically glowing with dark magic that he was sure his father would find interesting. And while the elder Malfoy was always delighted to see him, he knew his son's life was now in New York and not here with his dying father. Happy as he was for him, though, he couldn't help but miss him tremendously. Because, really, Scorpius was all he had left in the world. He wasn't terribly close with any of his living relatives, and his own wife had passed away only a couple years prior.

"Astoria…"

Thinking of her always pained him. She was a doting mother and an adoring wife, entirely unable and seemingly unwilling to hide the fact that she worshiped the very ground that Draco Malfoy walked on. They had had a highly successful partnership, elevating the Malfoy name to a less shameful place, thanks in part to her genuine goodness. And while Draco cared for her and honestly missed her company, he couldn't help but feel incredibly guilty.

Not that he wasn't a faithful husband. No, he had taken his vows seriously. Never cheated, never strayed. Did any and everything in his power to support her and their son, to make them happy. And he had meant it when he said, "'til death do us part."

Oh, but his life had never been that simple.

Because somewhere hidden, deep down in the tangled mess of his Malfoy heart, were feelings that for the entirety of his life he had tried unsuccessfully to bury. Feelings that nagged him, tormented him, tortured him with visions of a path that he desperately wanted to follow but would ultimately lead him nowhere. Now that his wife was gone, his dutiful, devoted wife, his mind had a rather annoying tendency to wander.

He thought of her constantly. He always had. Found himself, in his old age, wondering what might have happened had there been no bloody Potter. Had she never been swept off her feet by The Boy Who Lived. Might she have noticed him then? Or if his parents had been less vocal about their distaste of Mudbloods, might she have found him less repulsive? In his youth, he liked to think that, had they lived in a different time, in a different place without blood loyalty and without Voldemort, things would have ended very differently.

But he was older now. And he knew better than to waste his life in dreams.

"I'm sorry, Astoria. I'm so, so sorry."

He wasn't sure when he first developed feelings for the redhead. Had it been when she, in only her first year, had stood up to him like no one else ever had before in front of everyone at Flourish and Blotts? In defense of Harry Potter, no less.

Draco rolled his eyes at the memory.

Or when she had returned after her first year, so calm and yet so damaged from Voldemort's possession of her. She had a kind of fragile loveliness that made him very much aware of her, even though he hadn't known what to make of those emotions just yet.

But she was lovely to him, even though he wouldn't admit it to himself. Or to anyone. And he always noticed her, could pick out her voice effortlessly in the great hall. Saw her stick out like a sore thumb in any crowd.

It took several years for him to come to terms with this most unwanted development. He was Draco Malfoy, after all. His family was wealthy and influential. No doubt he too one day would hold an equally high position in society. He should definitely not fancy Ginny Weasley.

But try as he might not to, he definitely did. By his fourth year, there was no denying it. Before she was popular, before she was conventionally "pretty enough" to capture the hearts of Neville Longbottom or Michael Corner or even the great Harry Potter, she was beautiful to Draco Malfoy.

"But what does it matter now?" Draco chuckled sadly to himself. He had always thought Potter was too much of an arrogant toe rag to give Ginny the attention she deserved. At the end of the day, though, she had loved him. Nothing could have ever changed that.

If only things could have been different.

Draco hid his attraction to the girl for years. Spoke of her to no one. Tried his damndest to ignore her. And he might have actually pulled it off, had the stress of Voldemort's impending return not made his carefully crafted exterior start to crack.

The first person who had ever known of his true feelings for her was Bellatrix Lestrange. Crazy Aunt Bella, of all people, who had insisted on training him in Occlumency the summer before his fifth year, had unwittingly stumbled upon his deepest secret in a corner of his mind best left hidden.

"What's this, Draco!" She had asked him, eyes glinting in cruel mischief after a particularly grueling session. "Who's this little redhead you seem so fond of, and why haven't you spoken of her before?"

And though he knew exactly what she was talking about, he played dumb.

"Legilimens!"

Already battered from his aunt's casting of the spell mere minutes earlier, his attempt at Occlumency was near useless. He tried not to think of her, tried his best to block out unwanted thoughts of her fair skin, of her freckled face. Of the sound of her voice. Of the pitch of her laughter. And, above all things, her name.

Ginny Weasley…

Bellatrix gasped at what she saw before her, at what she gleaned from her nephew's mind as easily as a man could read a children's book. It made her curious. Made her pause. Made her throw her head back in laughter.

"The Weasley girl! I'd have thought you'd have better taste, Draco. Your father will have an absolute fit when he hears about this!"

But if he was honest with himself, he knew Lucius had suspected his interest in the girl for years.

It was never something they spoke of; fathers tend to know these things without verbal confirmations. It was, however, something Lucius noticed with distaste and prayed was a phase his son would eventually grow out of. That his son's fascination with the girl would fade if he was given enough time, and enough reminders that blood loyalty was more important than anything. And while he never forbade Draco outright from pursuing the youngest Weasley, he couldn't help reminding him sternly, after the war had gotten more serious, where his loyalties should lie.

"Pretty girls come and go, Draco, especially ones from unworthy families that disgrace the name of wizard." Lucius had said, unable to keep silent any longer.

Draco laughed inwardly that his father refused to even say her name, as if voicing his fears would make them real.

He continued.

"Your loyalty to your family, to the Dark Lord, is what matters now more than anything. I would hate to see you get distracted in these critical times over someone as common as that redhead."

"I wouldn't touch a filthy little blood traitor like her, whatever she looked like," Draco replied coldly.

And his father had seemed pleased.

But that didn't stop Draco from worrying about her, which he did constantly, or from wondering how it was humanly possible to aid the Dark Lord while simultaneously keeping Ginny Weasley safe.

One particularly dark evening, the same night that Dumbledore was killed, Draco led a band of Death Eaters through Hogwarts, praying that they wouldn't murder him. Praying they wouldn't do anything to hurt one of his friends. Or his professors.

Or Ginny Weasley.

So when their paths crossed with none other than the littlest Weasley herself, Draco panicked. He reached into his pocket and threw a generous handful of Peruvian darkness powder over the girl and her friends, shielding them from the ruthless Death Eaters' gaze.

It had been stupid. It had been careless. But it had worked. And in retrospect, it had probably saved her life.

In his seventh year, under the relentless watch of the Carrows and whichever Death Eaters flittering in and out of Hogwarts at will, he had to be ever more vigilant about the girl's safety. One night after a long shift of patrolling the halls, he encountered the youngest Weasley, who had snuck into the owlery after hours to send a letter she had written to her parents.

"Are you mad?" He practically hissed, eliciting a small shriek from Ginny who turned around and eyed him with deep loathing. He knew then that she didn't just dislike him. She was frightened of him. And it hurt.

"Weasley," he added a little more softly but with no less urgency, "the Carrows will be here at any moment. Don't let them find you."

Ginny's eyes widened in surprise. "Wh-why are you helping me?"

He wanted to tell her then. How he knew they could both die any day now and he would do anything to keep her safe. But twin footsteps were drawing closer and he didn't have the time.

"GO!"

She didn't hesitate this time, stuffing her letter into her robes and vanishing mere moments before the Carrows arrived.

He didn't think the girl ever realized what a close call it had been, for if she had been caught she would have undoubtedly been tortured, or worse. He shuddered at the thought.

From that point on, though, there was some kind of unspoken understanding between them. Ginny wouldn't get herself into anymore trouble, but somehow, somehow she knew that, even if she did, Draco wouldn't hurt her. In fact, to his bewilderment, she had even started accepting his help in the advanced potions course they shared together.

They were supposed to have been brewing Amortentia, a hellish task in its own right made more daunting by the fact that Headmaster Severus Snape was in the back of the dungeon observing them. Draco had, naturally, already finished the assignment. His cauldron emitted a spirally, mother-of-pearl sheen that smelled strongly of pine, broomsticks and the same florally-scented perfume worn by the girl seated next to him. The girl in question, however, was not so fortunate. Her hair was tied back in a messy pony tail and her cauldron was gurgling over with ugly, grey goop.

"Oh Gods, oh Gods," she whispered to no one in particular as a drop of the gooey muck spilled from her cauldron and sizzled onto her work area.

"You forgot the moonstone," Draco whispered, smirking. Ginny's head snapped up, mouth open in confusion.

"Moonstone…" she muttered, spotting the missing ingredient behind her cauldron. She grabbed it in her hand, twirling it uncertainly between her fingers. She looked at her hands, then back at Draco Malfoy. Still not entirely sure whether she could trust him or not, but sensing no better alternative, she quickly ground up the moonstone and tossed it into her cauldron. The sludge cleared up almost instantly, replaced with a clear sheen that could rival Malfoy's himself.

Her features broke into a huge, relieved grin. "Thank you, Malfoy!" she whispered. And then she did something that caught him off guard.

She smiled at him.

It had been the first of very few smiles she had ever shared with him. And in over a hundred years, he had never forgotten it.

But his seventh year brought with it the darkest of days. Voldemort's presence was everywhere, and the fact that he had taken up residency at Malfoy Manor certainly didn't make things easier.

During the Christmas holidays, Draco had come home to find the Death Eaters in the middle of a highly important meeting with the Dark Lord who, of course, requested his presence.

"Ah, Draco, the very person I've been meaning to speak with. Sit, boy, sit, for I have a question I think you'd be most able to answer," the Dark Lord hissed from his seat at the head of the table.

Curious, Draco sat. His mind totally unreadable, as always.

"How can I be of assistance, my Lord?"

Lord Voldemort grinned.

"Draco, as you are keenly aware, I'm sure, we are in the middle of a rather sticky little war. Harry Potter's days are numbered, but I am becoming somewhat…impatient. The boy who lived may not want to live much longer if I can find a way to destroy his morale."

"Destroy his morale, my Lord?"

"Yes. Sap him of his motivation. Remove his incentive to keep fighting. Take away the thing that is most important to him."

Draco wasn't sure where this was going, but he knew it couldn't be good.

"That, Draco, is where you come in. You are in Potter's year and know him better than any of us. Tell me, are the rumors true? Is it true that the great Harry Potter has a girlfriend?" Draco's heart sank to his stomach as Voldemort laughed that high, unnaturally shrill laugh that sent shivers down his spine.

He could feel his father watching him intently, could sense his panic. "Don't say a word. Don't ruin everything to protect that Weasley girl," he could almost hear his father thinking.

"I…I'm not sure what you mean, my Lord," Draco replied weakly.

Lord Voldemort slammed his fists into the table. "Don't play daft with me, boy!" he roared, narrow eyes boring into Draco's. "Is Harry Potter in love with the youngest Weasley?"

The Dark Lord probed into Draco's mind, trying to slither through his thoughts a slippery serpent, like the most skilled Legilimens there ever was. But Draco was ready for him. His mind was shut off, distant. As murky and unreadable as ever.

"The Weasley girl fancies Potter, of this I had no doubt," and the Dark Lord could sense the truth in this statement. "But I am certain that Potter prefers the Mudblood Granger."

Voldemort's eyes widened in surprise.

"Ah, Hermione Granger. Of course, I had always thought. I told you the boy would prove useful one of these days, Lucius. Well done, Draco. Well done."

Terrifying as that particular moment had been, it paled in comparison to what took place at the Battle of Hogwarts.

Inside the Great Hall, having just been reunited with his frantic mother, battle had erupted once more between the supporters of Voldemort and Dumbledore. Draco had seen enough killing, been subjected to enough torture, that he had absolutely no desire to partake in anymore of it.

But something out of the corner of his eye made his blood positively boil. For he had noticed, at the other side of the Great Hall, his darling, demented aunt casting a killing curse that had missed its target by mere inches. That target was Ginny Weasley.

Without thinking, he bolted up. "NO, DRACO!" his father shouted behind him, but he didn't care, racing towards the scene of the skirmish in a murderous rage. It didn't matter that Bellatrix Lestrange was his own flesh and blood. No one was going to hurt Ginny Weasey. No one.

Before he could even reach for his wand and rush to Ginny's defense, someone else beat him to it in the form of Molly Weasley. She dueled Bellatrix fiercely, hitting the mentally unstable witch squarely in the chest and ending her life in an instant. Any remorse Draco might have felt at his aunt's passing was washed out with relief that, for the moment, Ginny was not going to be harmed.

And when Harry Potter ultimately defeated Lord Voldemort, Draco felt several wildly different emotions all at once. Elation that he'd never have to deal with old snake face again in his family home. Happiness that maybe, just maybe, the wizarding world might experience lasting peace. And bitterness. Bitterness that, despite all he had done to protect her, Ginny would only ever see Harry Potter as her savior.

It didn't matter. None of that mattered now. He had reminded himself. Ginny was safe. She was finally safe.

To the surprise of absolutely no one, Harry and Ginny had married shortly after the war. When Draco read the news, it pained him, physically pained him. Made him feel like someone had punched him in the gut but not without first ripping his heart to shreds. Because despite the years that had passed, despite the improbability of it all, his damned Malfoy pride wanted to believe that someday, she would come looking for him. That someday, they would find each other again. That someday, maybe, she might feel something for him, too.

The knowledge that his one true desire, his one true hope would never come to fruition was devastating. She was the only thing he had ever desired, the only thing he really shouldn't have wanted. And the one thing that was irreversibly and forever out of his reach. Malfoys were used to getting what they wanted, and this loss had hit Draco. Hard.

It was perhaps partly due to this fact that he threw himself into his relationship with Astoria so quickly after their introduction. No matter how much he wanted to cling to Ginny Weasley's memory, he had to live his own life. He simply couldn't function. He had had to move on. Though every mention of her in the papers, every sight of her in Diagon Alley ripped at his heart and made him feel like the seventeen year old who had always been and would always be in love with her.

Eleven odd years after the Battle of Hogwarts, he caught a glimpse of the now Mrs. Potter on Platform 9 ¾, anxiously getting her son ready for his first year at Hogwarts. She stood out to him immediately, his eyes finding her once more as they always had when they were in school together. She was still as beautiful as ever, bright smile and flawless skin surrounded by sheets of long, curly red hair.

She and her husband were surrounded also, he realized with some annoyance, by her bother and sister-in-law, who must have also had children going to Hogwarts. Almost at once, the Weasley clan seemed to notice Draco and look at him bemusedly. Of all of them, only Ginny smiled.

Draco merely nodded in acknowledgement, wanting nothing less than to be forced to engage in awkward conversation with the now extended Golden Trio. He turned instead to his own son, who, he noticed, was eyeing Ron Weasley's daughter with great interest.

"Dad," Scorpius asked, hardly able to take his eyes off the girl. "Do you know anything about…never mind." he muttered, embarrassed.

Draco leaned down so that he was nearly eye level with his son and whispered quietly enough so Astoria wouldn't hear him. "Who, that Weasley girl standing over there?"

Scorpius froze. "How did you know?" He whispered, horrified.

Sometimes a father just knows.

"Her name is Rose. Her mother is a Muggle-born witch, and a brilliant one at that. No doubt she'll be top of her class, and a Gryffindor, no less."

If times had been different, the story might have ended differently.

"Talk to her, son. Don't be nervous. Just go say hello to her on the train. But -" he added, unable to stop himself. "Don't get too friendly with her. Granddad Malfoy would never forgive you if you married a half-blood."

His son laughed and Draco ruffled his hair as he wondered, perplexed, how in Merlin's name those red-headed Gryffindors managed to keep sneaking their way into Slyterin hearts.

Some stories, he assumed, were simply destined to repeat themselves.

After the children had safely boarded the Hogwarts Express and the train had sped off towards its magical destination, Draco found himself faced with none other than Ginny Weasley on the platform. He turned and saw Astoria, chatting happily with Millicent Nott, and Harry Potter arguing with Ron several yards away about the latest Quidditch match. He and Ginny were, for all intents and purposes, alone.

Ginny looked up at him shyly, trying to gather her courage before she spoke.

"Mr. Malfoy…Draco," she added, and his name had never sounded better. "I hope you're doing well?"

"Never better," he replied. And he meant it.

"Good, I'm so glad to hear that," she beamed at him, lowering her voice before she continued. "I've wanted to ask you for ages but I've never had the opportunity. And I'm not sure when I will again…" her eyes flickered to her husband and back to Draco. "I've always wondered… I never understood. Why did you help me all those years ago?"

"Simple," Draco replied without thinking. "I wanted to keep you safe."

"Yes, of course. I'm sorry for being daft. It's just that, well, I thought you hated me, that's all."

"Hated you?" he asked incredulously. "Believe me, Ginny, I never hated you."

And the intensity of his gaze made her blush.

"I just wanted to keep you safe."

He could tell the girl was still confused, perhaps more so now than she ever was. But she wouldn't press him, knowing he would give her no more answer than that.

"At any rate, thank you," she whispered. "Thank you, Draco." Her deep brown eyes locked with his once more before she turned around and headed back to her husband and brother.

Watching her retreating form, he knew that their paths, which had only really met in passing, would grow ever more distant. He saw her here and there throughout the years. Seeing their respective children off to Hogwarts at King's Cross. Running errands in Diagon Alley. And it was impossible to miss her in the papers. The wife of Harry Potter, famous in her own right for her role in the war and for her successful Quidditch Career with the Holyhead Harpies. As the years passed, the mentions of Ginny Potter in the Daily Prophet grew less frequent, but that didn't stop Draco from following them. He knew when she retired. He knew when she became a grandmother.

And he knew when she became sick.

At one hundred and one, not terribly old for their kind, she had succumbed to an incurable fever. She died in her sleep, at home with her husband and children who loved her. This he had all gathered from the paperthat he held in his hands as he arrived, weeping, at Blaise Zabini's manor.

"But this is touching, Draco," Blaise cooed sarcastically, trying to lift his old friend's foul mood with humor. "Surely you don't still have feelings for the Weasley girl. Not after all this time?"

Draco sniffed, eyes red from crying, and traced the picture of Ginny in the Prophet.

"Always."

Draco knew now that he too was not much longer for this world. He would be with everyone he had loved and lost soon enough.

But there was just one more thing he wanted to see before he left.

If only he could find that healer…

Healer James Potter weaved his way through the seemingly unending swarm of patients and their families at Saint Mungo's. He wasn't sure what it was about today that made the hospital so particularly crazy. Perhaps it was the change of season? Or maybe the magicillin-resistant strain of goblin flu that had broken out over the winter, he didn't know. In any case, he had never seen the hospital so busy. Having just finished a particularly complicated magical surgery, he was on his way to his office to finalize some paperwork when his wand buzzed and the words "ROOM 802, MALFOY" projected themselves from the end of it. This was a page that absolutely could not wait.

"Excuse me, sorry!" James apologized as he turned on his heel and ran smack into an older man and his wife.

The man gasped and his eyebrows shot up into his forehead.

"It can't be…Harry Potter!"

"Nope," James chuckled. "Just his son."

The man's reaction upon seeing James was hardly surprising. In fact, he was mistaken for his father Harry at least several times a day, despite the fact that he was nearly a hundred years younger. Because his resemblance to his father was uncanny. Quite remarkable. Striking, really, except for one thing.

He had his mother's eyes.

As he opened the door to Room 802, he noticed that its inhabitant looked truly unwell. His skin, always fair, had an unusually pallid, papery tint to it, and his eyes fluttered rapidly as if they were struggling to remain open.

"I saw you paged, Mr. Malfoy," James said, looking down to review the old man's chart. "Is there anything I can get you to make you feel better?"

Draco pushed himself up in his bed and, with great difficulty, grabbed the healer's arm.

"Look…at…me."

Brown eyes met grey. James' brow furrowed in concern. And Draco Malfoy moved no more.