Gingerfication

Draco awoke to an opus of abrasive sounds. Thumping, clomping, and strident voices assaulted his ears.

His head ached. His back throbbed. His skin itched.

What had he done to himself?

Left alone to his own devices, Draco Malfoy had drunk himself into many a horrid locale these past months, but none had assailed his senses to such an alarming degree.

He struggled to open his eyes and take in his surroundings, which he assumed, would include the harsh sun. But he was both relieved and puzzled by the soft golden light which danced across high wooden beams.

He was indoors. Well, that was an improvement.

Usually when he awoke in such a state, he found himself sprawled out on the grounds of the Manor, the sun high in the sky, beating down on him and causing his vision to spot. So, he was inside. But where?

Sitting up, he was overcome with nausea. Bile and firewhiskey burned as it rose high in his throat, and he struggled to swallow it back down. With a grimace, he regarded his surroundings, attempting to piece together the events that brought him here.

He inventoried the small room.

It was oddly shaped, as if built of cards and seemed just as sturdy. Tattered wallpaper peeked out from behind the edges of posters. Chudley Cannons.

Draco almost vomited again.

There was a small desk, tattered chair, and a trunk at the end of the bed upon which he had awoken, and was currently covered in the most disagreeable bedspread ever produced; abrasive and a quite violent shade of orange.

The entire room felt hot and suffocating, and Draco chucked the offending cover off and moved to stand. As he did, his eyes caught sight of a small frame set on the desk. Grinning broadly was an all too familiar trio.

Bollocks!

The events of the previous day came flooding back.

He was drunk. He was beyond drunk; Sitting in his father's chair in front of the fireplace.

Someone was talking. No. Someone was yelling. Who was in his house?

"MERLIN'S SAGGY BALLS, DRACO! ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO ME?"

Draco drug his eyes away from the glass in his hand with much effort, and took in the dark looming form of the Wizard in front of him.

Or were there two of them?

"You can't keep on like this! You're drinking yourself into the grave!"

He knew that voice.

"Blaise!" He exclaimed, a broad grin spread across his face. "When did you get here?" He struggled to focus on the figure of his best and only remaining friend.

"Come. Sit. Drink with me." He lifted the glass to his lips only to find it woefully empty. "BOBBINS! Firewhiskey!"

"Bobbins isn't here, mate." Blaise's voice was softer now. Mournful almost.

"Where the bloody hell did that creature go? BOBBINS!"

His glass was torn away, and his head shot up to find Blaise hovering over him.

"The Ministry seized your elves weeks ago."

Draco moved to stand in indignation, but his feet seemed disinclined to cooperate, sending him toppling back to the safety of his seat.

"You weren't kidding." A clipped voice cut through the air and Draco watched as Blaise's gaze was drawn away.

"He's been like this for months." Who was Blaise talking to?

"He really doesn't remember the inquiry?" What inquiry?

"He doesn't remember Christmas."

"HE is sitting right here!" How dare they speak of him as if he was not present.

"YOU are not Draco Malfoy. You are not…. THIS!"

Draco reached for his glass, but his dark-haired friend was too quick. Blaise stepped out of view and around the chair, addressing the mystery Witch in the room.

"We have to get him out of here."

"WE? Why WE?"

"He's got no one else. You know that."

"Why can't you take him?"

"And leave him in who's care while I'm away? My mother? She's likely to wed the sodding bloke and drain his vault by mid-day."

Draco cringed. He didn't want to get married. Who was getting married?

"Well you're right. He can't stay here."

"I'm fine. Just thirsty. BOBBINS!"

"Won't you take him? Just until I can make other arrangements. With the elves gone, he's not even eating."

"He won't be in much better care at Grimmauld Place."

Grimmauld Place? Who was trying to take him to that dump? Who was Blaise speaking to?

"But I think I know a place. If they will have him, of course. Though I don't think Ron will be pleased."

"Ron who?" Draco asked.

"Better there than here."

"Ron WHOOO?" Draco tried again

"Are you sure?" There was a pregnant pause.

"Hellooooo?" He craned his neck, struggling to locate Blaise and the mystery Witch behind him.

"I'll do what I can, Zabini. No promises."

"Thank you."

"I'm not doing this for you, you know? I'm certainly not doing it for HIM either."

"I know."

He heard the whoosh of the floo just as a glass was returned to his hand, a finger of firewhiskey sloshing inside. Draco grinned up at his friend, tossing the amber liquid back as darkness overtook him.

He was drowning.

This was it. Time for the world to at last be rid of the Malfoys.

He didn't fight it; made no endeavor to struggle for air. This was fitting. He survived his Father, the Dark Lord, that blasted snake, and a war. He outlived them all and would instead, leave this world by drowning in whatever puddle or dirty body of water he staggered into.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he heard voices, muffled by the never-ending stream of water assaulting him. His mind wandered, images of his youth flashing before him. He was ready.

Then it stopped.

He gasped, eyes shooting open wide as his lungs fought for air against his mind's desire. Before him stood a plump woman with flaming red hair, one hand on her wide hip, the other holding her wand, still pointed at his face.

"Up!"

What was happening?

She lowered her wand and rushed toward him, muttering as she fussed about, drying his clothes and ushering him out of his seat.

His seat?

He looked about, around the chaotic whirl of second-hand robes and red hair still moving about. He was in his study. In his chair.

His face flushed with anger. Anger at being so near death only to be denied it. Anger at this Weasley Witch in front of him. Anger at the world which did so well to forget him.

"I said up! You're not so lucky as to cross into the veil yet. Not today. Not on my watch. UP!"

When he did not comply for the second time, he felt two sets of hands on either side gripping his arms and tossing him roughly onto his feet.

He swayed only slightly, his anger taking root and willing his legs to do his bidding this time. He heard laughter from across the room and immediately sought out the Wizard who dared laugh at Draco Malfoy.

His eyes on a pair standing in the doorway and Draco's stomach dropped. He paled as ice replaced the blood in his veins, his entire body frozen.

No. It couldn't be. She was dead.

She was the same, yet different; Her hair, usually knotted and wild had been tamed. Her robes clean and pressed as she stood there, lurking in the shadows beside his only friend.

He stepped back, the backs of his knees hitting the chair as he fumbled for his wand on the table. Feeling more secure with wand in hand, he regained his composure, stepping forward and passed a puzzled Molly Weasley. He raised his wand, embarrassed at the tremble of his hand as he spoke.

"Get away from her, Blaise."

His friend's laughter caught in his throat as he stared back, confusion and alarm marring his handsome features. He stepped forward, out of the archway and fully into the room, hands raised, as if approaching an aggressive creature.

"Lower your wand, mate."

"NO!" his voice broke. "Get away from him you bitch! You will not hurt him! Not him! He's all that's left!"

The room was silent, but around him he could sense movement, Witches and Wizards circling, closing in on him. He spun around, wand still raised, tears pricking his eyes as he regarded each redhead in outrage.

"What is wrong with you? Have you all gone mad? She shouldn't be here! She can't be here! She's dead!"

Draco spun to face Molly; the only Weasley without their wand trained on him. The compassion in her face broke him.

"You killed her!" he shouted.

"You killed her." It was barely more than a whisper.

Before he knew what was happening, the Weasley matriarch had enveloped him in a fierce embrace. He sunk into her short form, fingers abandoning his wand so as to grip her more firmly to him.

How long had it been since he felt the touch of another being? Weeks? Months? Years?

She whispered kind things into his ear, stroking his head, soothing him as one of her own. Draco had never known such kindness; such comfort.

She pulled away, her hands moving to hold his arms, as if reassuring she would not leave him. She turned, escorting him alongside her toward the shadows.

Draco looked up, too broken and frightened to fend off the ghost of his aunt. There had been countless times he had been sure she would kill him. Dear Aunt Bella. But when he looked up, expecting to see the maniacal and crazed expression that still haunted his dreams, he found no such terror.

She stepped forward, out of the shadows and into the dim light emanating from the fireplace. Her movements were smooth, practiced, poised. These were not the etiquettes of a mad woman, but of a socialite. A Witch of good standing.

Her face was soft and humane; Her brown eyes warm and damp with tears. She looked so much like Bella, but at the same time, quite different. Her plated hair was a lighter shade of brown and her skin was not so pale, but somewhat bronzed by the sun.

"Draco, dear." Molly spoke at his side, startling and causing him to regain a sense of who and where he was. "This is Andromeda Tonks." Recognition flashed. "Your Aunt, Andromeda."

Andromeda? Tonks? He eyed the tall Witch, who currently looked as if she were going to hug him as well.

Hug. Hug him?

She was a blood traitor. As was the Witch at his side. In fact, his house was lousy with blood traitors this evening. He sneered and ripped his arm away from Molly's embrace. He didn't wait to see the wounded looks on the Witch's' face.

He turned on his heel, retrieving his wand from the floor and strode to his only true ally in the room.

"Blaise." He hissed into his ear. "What are these traitors doing in my home?" His tone was harsh and severe. He made no attempt to lower his voice or shield his words from its other occupants.

"I brought them here, mate. You're not well."

Draco stepped back and directed a scornful look at his friend. "You're one of them, aren't you?"

"What are you – "

"You are! You've gone soft. I knew you were no Slytherin, but a Gryffindor? HA!" he barked humorlessly, watching as his friend's face fell.

"Get OUT." He hissed, raising his wand and motioning toward the floo. Blaise didn't move.

"OUT! All of you! You are not welcome here."

"Draco, dear," Molly stepped forward, but froze when his wand met her gaze. Her kind expression and demeanor shifted to a darker and more treacherous one, but Draco Malfoy feared no Weasley.

"I'm warning you."

The gingers closed ranks; Arthur, the Weaslette, the one with the scars, and the twin. They all came to Molly's side, wands drawn with matching looks of fury.

"You're coming with us, boy."

Draco eyed Arthur Weasley. "And why on earth would I do that?"

"We're trying to help you, Malfoy." Ah, the Weaslette. She speaks. "Godric knows why though." She shot an expression past him to the dark-haired wizard at his back.

"I don't need help from the likes of YOU."

"For Merlin's sake. I told you this would not work." Another voice sounded from across the room in a familiar, bossy tone.

Shoes clicked across the stone floor as the bushy haired Witch came into view, arms crossed but wand still firmly in hand.

"Five Weasleys, two traitors, and a Mudblood. It will take weeks to rid your stench from the room."

"We aren't the ones who smell, mate." Draco glared over his shoulder. How dare he? Malfoys do not…smell.

"Go on, boy," Arthur tried again. "Fetch your things and come along. We've no more a desire to remain here than you."

"In what way must I say it? How can I get this to sink into your ginger skull? I. Am. Not. Go -"

"Petrificus Totalus!" White light shot across the room, hitting Draco square in the chest. His arms and legs snapped together as his entire body went stiff. He began to wobble and mentally prepared himself for the fall. It did nothing to soften his landing.

Unable to move or speak, he glowered up at the high ceiling, mentally vowing revenge against whoever cast the spell.

A shadow travelled across his form, a large mass blocking out the glow of the fire. He focused on the silhouette, finally able to make out tanned skin and honey brown eyes amidst a mass of curls. A smirk befitting a Malfoy spread across her face as she looked down at him.

"Why didn't we just do that at the start?" That sounded like the twin.

"Because we wanted it to be HIS decision." Mrs. Weasley.

"That was never going to happen," Hermione replied.

Hermione. Granger. Granger. If he could have made a sound he would have growled.

As she walked away, he felt his body lift and float through the air. They were taking him. Taking him away from his home. From his things. From his firewhiskey.

In that moment, Draco Malfoy swore unyielding retribution against Hermione Granger.

The door swung open and a red-faced Ron Weasley stormed into the room, wand firmly at his side.

"Weasley." Draco spoke through clenched teeth.

"Malfoy." His demeanor could best be described as barely constrained outrage. "Everyone is waiting for you downstairs."

"I should have known this was your hovel." Draco stood, focusing his best Malfoy sneer in the direction of the Gryffindor.

"I've promised not to harm you. Don't make me break that promise."

"You couldn't cast a decent hex if your life depended on it, Weasel."

"Care to test that theory? Give me a reason, Malfoy."

"Ron!" Molly Weasley's voice echoed up the from the floors below and both Wizards stiffened.

"We're coming!" Ron shouted back, grinning as he watched Draco wince at the volume.

He turned his back to the blonde, mumbling something that sounded like 'bloody ridiculous' as he exited the room. Draco waited for the sound of his footsteps to fade away before moving to follow.

He was remiss to follow the beckoning of any Weasley, but he supposed the sooner he obliged, the sooner he could leave this pitiful excuse for a house and rid himself of the Weasley stench.

He would have to burn these clothes.

Draco navigated the steep twisting stairway, following the very sounds which had awoken him. Several floor down, if you could call them such, he was greeted by a rather alarming sight.

The Weasley brood filled the room, apparently the kitchen. Some sat at a large wooden table in its center shoveling food into their ginger faces, others were standing, talking animatedly; Probably about him. The furniture was old and worn, the chairs mismatched. In the small sink, dishes floated in the air, cleaning and drying themselves as Mrs. Weasley fussed about.

No one had yet noticed his presence.

He continued to look about the room. On one side was a large fireplace, a thick layer of soot lining its venire. Books were stacked high on its mantle and a curious clock hung above. On the far side was an open door, and from the sound of it there were more Weasleys outside as well.

How many of there were there now? Where did they find the time to…breed…to such a degree?

Amidst the chaotic noises, a melodious laughter penetrated the room. Draco was not the only one drawn to the sound. He was, however, the only one both surprised and mildly sickened by its source.

Hermione Granger, followed closely by his former friend Blaise entered the Burrow. In the narrow hallway, she turned to him, her eyes alight with laughter, his darkened by what Draco recognized as desire.

Of course. It all made sense now.

Why Blaise suddenly decided he had the right to intervein in his life. Why he was suddenly so concerned with his well-being. Why the Wizard had brought Weasleys into his family's home.

He was trying to get into Granger's knickers. Perhaps he was still a Slytherin after all.

The confined space brought their bodies intimately close. She struggled to catch her breath as a blush rose high on her cheeks. He was touching her arm, ever so slightly, but enough for her to feel the warmth of his skin against her own.

It was a brilliant plan. How better to spread the Golden Girl's legs than to champion a cause. The bint's knickers probably soaked at the notion.

Draco could picture it; Blaise choking on his words as he described the dire state of the fallen Malfoy line. The way he would hang his head, shielding his eyes from hers until that perfect moment; the one where Granger would lean forward to comfort him, to provide him some form of solace in the fact that she, of all people, understood the plight of woeful, pitiable and reviled creatures.

By then he would have produced a single tear, timed perfectly to fall as his dark eyes met hers, ensuring she would reach out to him, hold him close, press herself against his chest, much as she was at this moment.

The blood in his veins began to boil. He was no charity case. He needed nothing from anyone. Ever. And he would play not part in Blaise's seduction of the filthy Witch.

A feral growl echoed through the room, like a predator readying for the attack.

"YOU." It was a primal and vicious sound that ripped from his throat, causing the would-be seducer to at last take his eyes off of his prey. Eyes wide, Draco did not miss the flash of fear he saw before his fellow Slytherin was able to compose his signature façade of calm.

"Morning sunshine."Blaise's voice drifted across the now silent room. From the corners of his eyes, Draco watched as every Witch and Wizard braced, eyes trained on him, their hands dangerously close to their wands.

They were waiting.

Waiting for him to do something foolish. He would not give them the satisfaction. Not here. Not now. Not after the disgusting display of sentiment he exhibited the prior evening.

"Morning," he replied. He voice was short and clipped. "Might we have a word?"

"Of course, mate." Blaise's smile never wavered as he motioned for Draco to follow him through the door, still ajar.

Nearly a dozen sets of eyes followed his every move as he endeavored to traverse around Weasleys, chairs, broomsticks, and a quite large and unpleasant orange cat.

He moved with rigid precision, tilting and twisting his body this way and that; sucking in his stomach and raising his arms when needed, all to ensure no part of him nor his clothing touched the filth which filled the room.

He paused once he neared the exit, Blaise and Granger still wedged in the hallway. Neither seemed inclined to move. Draco scowled first at the Wizard who returned it with spark of amusement in his brown eyes.

Finally, he turned, sliding away from the brunette and giving way for Draco to follow. But the passageway was confined. Too small for him to walk fully through with Granger unmoved.

She glared up at him, soft brown eyes harshened by the intensity of her focus. He almost respected her resolve; her refusal to step aside as the lesser being.

Almost.

His first instinct was to shoulder past, putting her into the wall. It would require contact, but his clothes were ruined anyway. And had they been anywhere but here, he would have done just that, however the odds of surviving such an aggressive action unscathed in a room full of Gryffindors were not in his favor.

Instead he kept his eyes locked on hers as he angled his body toward her; taking slow deliberate steps sideways into the corridor. He watched her face redden as he drew nearer, her eyes growing wide and bare as his body replaced the space Blaise had previously occupied.

He smirked.

Draco used his height as brushed by her. Nearly a head taller, his form cast a shadow across her face and forcing her to winch her neck in order to maintain eye contact.

He kept his smirk stiffly in place as his abdomen met her curves. He was reminded of similar scenarios, pressed against nameless Witches in corridors and alcoves of Hogwarts. But those instances produced an entirely different type of pleasure for him.

That was lust. This was intimidation.

When his thigh brushed roughly against her hip, she gasped, finally stepping to the side and fully entered the kitchen and backed away. But her wild eyes never left his.

In a daring move, he winked before turning to face Blaise who was waiting on him with an ill expression on his face.

As the duo stepped outside, the room behind them roared back to life.

They stepped around a rather large shabby table, its surface still littered with dishes. Pity the Weasleys couldn't afford an elf. They desperately needed one.

Blaise continued along a path at the rear of the house, one Draco noted he seemed perfectly sure in walking. He must be spending quite a lot of time with the gingers.

No longer confined to the close quarters and narrow passages of the Burrow, Draco walked alongside his friend, matching his long strides step for step until they met a hedge.

Draco looked around with a sneer. He supposed this was the Weasley's garden. It was in a horrid state, not that it wasn't to be expected. The hedge was unkempt and seemed to be fighting against gnarled trees for placement. It was overgrown, more weeds and dirt than anything else, and the nearby pond was covered in a thick layer of algae and slime.

He turned to face his friend, further irritated by his countenance.

"Just what was that about back there? Mate." The words were forced. Draco knew this tone. It was one reserved for Blaise's highest level of frustration; the one just below unreserved rage.

Blaise Zabini had always been a rather detached wizard. Sorted into Slytherin like his mother, there was always a looming sense of doom about him during their time at Hogwarts.

Draco had been able to tolerate his presence well enough. He was wealthy enough to hold a spot in Pureblood circles; no one cared where the money came from. The question of his paternal lineage and suspicious circumstances of his subsequent stepfathers' deaths were never discussed.

The Zabini's had galleons to spare and a hatred of Muggles, Mudbloods, and Blood Traitors. That was all that mattered.

They were not friendly. Slytherins did not have friends, they had allies. In this regard, Blaise differed greatly from his housemates. He held a sort of disdainful indifference for everyone and nearly everything. The only thing Draco ever witnessed him displaying vanity in was his appearance.

It all changed after the war though. Blaise changed after the war.

Having fled Hogwarts with the majority of the Slytherins during the Battle of Hogwarts, Blaise and his mother disappeared. Rumors were that his mother married a Bulgarian. But truth of it was, it was an American.

Blaise spent the better part of two years nestled in the heart of New York City while his mother mourned several husbands.

When he returned this past summer, he returned a different man.

It was merely social civility that brought the two back together.

"You're trying to shag the Mudblood." It was a statement, not a question.

"Don't call her that!" His eyes narrowed as he stepped in close.

"I was right." Draco spoke triumphantly before taking a darker more repulsed tone. "I knew your time in America made you soft, but I didn't know until this moment that it made you a traitor."

"Don't make me regret bringing you here, Draco."

"Go ahead. Regret it. I sure as hell do." He threw his hands in the air, abandoning the Malfoy reserve that had become second nature.

"She was right. This was a mistake." Blaise hung his head and stepped away. He seemed drained.

"For once I would have to agree with her. Now," he turned around, pulling his wand from his pocket and looked around. "I'm apt to correct this error as soon as possible. How far do the wards extend?"

"It won't do you any good, mate."

"What do you mean?"

"Watched her alter the wards myself. You go anywhere near them all you'll come away with is another headache." There was a look of awe and admiration about him as he spoke of Granger. It was doing nothing for Draco's mood.

With a dramatic flair, Blaise reached into his pocket, withdrawing a small vile and tossed it to the blonde. "Speaking of headaches."

Thank Merlin! Without hesitation, Draco popped the stopper and swallowed the its contents. His headache instantly receded and Draco said a silent thank you for small blessings. He had quite an aptitude for potions himself, but no one made a better hangover potion than Blaise Zabini.

He tossed the empty bottle, uncaring of where it landed, as he regarded his friend. His friend who he so deeply wanted to hate, but could not. Perhaps Blaise was not the only one going soft. With a deflated sigh he spoke.

"Why are we here?"

"I've watched you gradually killing yourself for long enough. You won't take care of yourself. I can'ttake care of you. I found a family that can and WILL, against all sound and reasonable advice."

Draco rolled his eyes. "To what end, Blaise. Am I to succumb to the quaint soot-covered charms of gingers as you so obviously have?" He watched as Blaise clenched his jaw. "How exactly did you come to be their pet?"

"I'm going to ignore that. For now. Keeping you sober is going to be a full-time job."

Draco mumbled under his breath. "Keeping me from cursing a Weasley is going to be a full-time job."

"Keeping you SOBER is going to be a full-time job," he repeated. "And you would be hard pressed to find a family with bigger hearts than the Weasley's. After all you and your family have done to them, they have still opened their home to you. You WILL respect that courtesy."

Draco scowled.

"As to how I became acquainted with the family, if you had your wits about you at all this past year, you would KNOW."

Draco racked his brain, rifling through memories of blurry faces and muddled conversations.

"My JOB! At the Ministry?"

Draco cocked his head. "When did you start work at the Ministry?"

"This." Blaise pointed a slender finger at the blonde's face. "THIS is what I'm talking about. You've no idea what has been happening all around you. You've forgotten everything and everyone."

Draco's eye twitched in anger. Perhaps he was not the Wizard he out to be. So, what if he drank? What else was he to do? How else was he to stop the nightmares?

But without memory of much, he had little to dispute Blaise's claim. However, what he did have, was a certain Witch Blaise had all but laid at his feet.

"And Granger?" He watched as the Wizard stiffened.

"Nothing to tell, mate."

"How long have you two been…. acquainted?"

"A few months." Short answers. No vanity or arrogance. Apparently, Blaise wasn't making progress as he would like.

Draco let out a long high whistle. "Losing your touch, mate. Never known it to take this long for you to bed a Witch."

"Hermione is notlike most Witches."

"Hermione,is it?"

"Yes. Hermione. Or Granger. NOT Mudblood. It would do you well to know that SHE is the only reason you are here right now instead of alone choking in a puddle of your own sick."

"Do I have the option to -"

"NO!" Blaise interrupted. "You do not."

Draco surveyed his friend. With the wards keeping him from freedom, he was left with few options. Malfoys were survivors. Or at least they had been. They calculated and measured all options, taking into consideration the course of action which would lend the most advantage to themselves.

He would have to play nice. For now. But the real question was, what could he get out of it?

"What's in it for me?"

"Excuse me?"

"You're excused."

"Draco!" Blaise was losing his patience. Good.

"What's in this for me? You want me to play nice with the Gryffindors. What do I get if I do?"

"I can't believe you -"

"You've clearly forgotten who you are speaking to."

A Pause. "What do you want?"

"Not sure. There's not much you have that I desire."

"I don't know why I'm friends with you."

"I'll have to give this some thought."

"You're the most insufferable person I have ever met."

"Also, the wealthiest and devilishly handsome, but that is beside the point."

"I should have left you to die."

"Yes, you should have. But sadly, that opportunity has come and gone. Unless you would like to lower the wards and let me go?"

"No."

"Then alas here we are."

Blaise set a small bush nearby aflame. He was so predictable.

With an effortless flick of his wand, Draco extinguished the small fire. "The Weasleys are rubbing off on you. Perhaps they have a cream or something to correct that."

In the distance, the pair heard a voice calling to them. The presence of another person outside caused them to compose themselves.

"What will it take for you to stay?" Draco knew he had won. Blaise desperately wanted him to stay; for him or for Granger, it did not matter. All that mattered was that he now had the upper hand.

"I don't know yet." Draco tapped his chin with the tip of his wand, making a show of his artificial deliberation. "Let's say you will owe me. At a time and place of my choosing."

He watched as Blaise's face fell, but knew he would agree nevertheless.

"I am loathe to agree to such terms," he spoke seriously, "particularly with you."

"But you will." Draco spun and walked resolutely toward the Burrow.

"I will." Blaise's voice was solemn but firm, his concession bringing a grin to Draco's face as he heard the wizard fall in line behind him.