Chapter Three
FIVE YEARS AGO
Ginny was beginning to feel dizzy. Outside, the air was cool with the chill of autumn's bite, but in here, in this too-bright Muggle pub, it was warm. Not cozy-warm, but humid, even rancid. Warm with too many bodies, bodies running hot with alcohol. A Muggle television was blaring some football match in the corner, and the bar where Ginny rested her arm was damp and sticky.
Ginny didn't mind any of this very much, though she had been wary of it when she first walked in. But not now. Not now, two hours later, now that she'd downed quite a bit of alcohol herself, and not now that she had larger annoyances. Or rather, one larger annoyance, in the form of a stocky Muggle man who was clearly trying to get her to go home with him. He was about her age, broad-shouldered but not tall, and though he'd been a nice, flirtatious distraction for the past half hour or so, Ginny had no intention of going home with him. Even in her inebriated state, she was too aware of the shadow lurking in his eyes and the possessive hand he laid on her arm to think this was someone she wanted to end up in bed with.
She still had some standards, after all. Some.
Unfortunately, her drinking companion didn't seem too keen on the idea of her leaving without him. Ginny didn't think she'd have any trouble warding him off—she'd gotten quite practiced at this, after all—until she tried to stand, and that was when everything went a little hazy. As her vision went sideways, a smidge of panic ran through Ginny, somewhere deep beneath the foggy spell the alcohol had cast on her. Panic, because she didn't think she'd drunk quite this much, panic, because her knees were buckling and she was going to fall—
She felt hands on her, hands on her arms and her back, and as she struggled to focus, she tried to fend those hands off. All the noise around her had blurred too, mingling together in a confused, jumbled cacophony, but as Ginny managed to right herself, her head cleared a little, and that jumble separated into two distinct voices.
"—doesn't seem to want to go with you either, mate."
"I told you," and this voice was low, cold, and very familiar, "she's with me."
"Oh, yeah? Where've you been the last hour, then?"
Ginny blinked, her swimming vision coming into focus. The first thing she saw was the young man she'd been drinking with, the Muggle, red-faced and angry-looking. Then she realized someone was holding her upright, a hand on her shoulder and another at her back, the hands she'd felt before.
She looked around and, to her horror, saw Draco Malfoy standing behind her.
"Malfoy," she said, her voice faint with disbelief. She turned dumbly back to the Muggle man and said, "It's Malfoy!" As though he knew who Malfoy was.
The Muggle man looked surly. "You do know him, then?"
"Of course." Ginny wondered if she was hallucinating, because her brain could not make sense of seeing Malfoy in a Muggle pub, though she was having a hard time remembering why that was such an odd sight. Hallucinating or not, though, she recognized Malfoy's presence for what it was—an escape out of this pub, an escape from this angry Muggle. Somewhat daftly, she reached back and patted Malfoy on the shoulder. "Malfoy and me go waaaaay back. Actually—" An involuntary giggle escaped her lips "—the first time I met him, my dad punched his dad. Remember that?" She slipped a little as she turned back to Malfoy, but now she was giggling too much to notice.
Grimacing, Malfoy's grip on her arm tightened a little, just enough to keep her from falling. "Yes. I remember."
"So," Ginny said, addressing the Muggle man, "I'm just going to leave now. With Malfoy." And without waiting for either man to respond, she broke free of Malfoy's grip and started for the door.
She made it all the way outside without falling once, which was quite a feat, she thought, because her vision was going funny again. In contrast with the pub inside, the street out here was very dark, and Ginny looked right and left, wondering which way to go. The dark seemed to make her mind even fuzzier than before, and she couldn't think, she couldn't think.
"I just have to Apparate home," she mumbled. Apparate. She knew how to Apparate. "Just remember the three Ds," she said aloud. "Desperation, Divination, and—no, that's not right—"
"Weasley!"
Ginny whipped around—much too fast. Her knees buckled again, but luckily, someone caught her before she fell—Malfoy again. As he tried to get her upright, Ginny stared into his face. She was beginning to think she wasn't hallucinating him.
"What are you doing, Weasley?" Malfoy said crossly, as though he was quite annoyed to be helping her stand. He probably was, she thought vaguely. Since they didn't like each other. This was a sudden thought, something Ginny had forgotten until now, and she tried to pull free of Malfoy.
"Let go," she said, trying to make her slurring voice sound cross too. "I'm trying to Apparate."
"Weasley, you can't Apparate right here, there are too many people watching." Malfoy spoke rather slowly, as though he thought she couldn't understand him. "Nor can you Apparate like—like this." He gestured at her with the hand that wasn't holding her up. "You'll Splinch yourself five ways across five counties if you try to Apparate right now."
Ginny giggled again at the image of herself Splinched in five different directions. She tried to stop giggling, but found that too difficult.
"Merlin," Malfoy muttered. "Come on, Weasley, try to walk. The Leaky Cauldron's this way—" He began leading her, or rather, frog-marching her, down the street, one hand on her shoulder and the other clutching her arm. "You can Floo home from there."
"I don't have to Floo home," Ginny said defensively. Her voice sounded so odd, so thick and high-pitched, not at all like her usual voice. "I live in Diagon Alley now. With my brother." George. "I'm…looking after him."
"I'm sure you are."
"I am." She and Ron were both living with George, though Ron was so busy with the Aurors these days, she and George didn't see him much. That was why she'd moved in, several months ago. To help George, to keep him company. And there were no other reasons, no matter what anyone else said.
"What were you doing in a Muggle pub anyway, Malfoy?" Ginny demanded, suddenly realizing why this was such a strange thing.
"I could ask you the same question, Weasley."
"I'm a…blood traitor, remember? I love Muggles!" Now her voice sounded too loud, and Ginny tried to moderate it as she went on. "But you, you hate Muggles."
"You don't know anything about me, Weasley," Malfoy said acidly. He shifted his grip on her, still prodding her along down the street.
"And why're you helping me, anyway?" Ginny asked, trying to inject some suspicion into her tone. "You hate me too."
"Yes, well, with my luck, the one thing you'll remember tomorrow is seeing me," Draco said sourly. "And I don't need Potter coming after me, thinking I left his girlfriend drunk and passed out in some Muggle alley somewhere."
"I'm not Potter's girlfriend," she said sharply. "Harry's, I mean. We broke up ages ago." Ages might have been exaggerating a little, but it certainly seemed a very long time ago, now that Ginny thought of it. Her happy days with Harry seemed a lifetime ago, a lifetime away from this dark, Muggle street Ginny was staggering down with Malfoy's help.
"Your brothers, then. I don't need them coming after me either." This was all Malfoy's reply; he made no mention of her break-up with Harry. Which Ginny thought rather odd. "Come on, Weasley, we're nearly there."
"My brothers," Ginny repeated. She thought of George then, and suddenly, a single, urgent thought pierced through the drunken cloud smothering her senses. George.
"Weasley," Malfoy said irritably, tugging at her, because she had stopped moving. "Come on—"
"No. No, I can't, Malfoy." She looked up at him in desperation, willing him to understand, to read her mind, because that hazy cloud was descending over her again, everything jumbling together. "I can't go home, not to George, don't—don't take me there—"
"Why not?" Malfoy demanded.
He can't see me like this, she thought miserably. She thought of George, all alone in the flat above the shop, all alone now, because Ron was out of town on Auror business and Fred was dead—and she didn't want him to see her like this, like the mess that she was, she didn't want to put that on him—
She couldn't say any of that though. Not because it was Malfoy; right now, she was beyond caring what he thought of her, what he knew. She couldn't say it because she couldn't seem to form the words. Her hazy vision was going dark, everything was going dark—
"Weasley, where am I supposed to take…"
Malfoy's voice was the last thing she heard. Then everything went black.
It felt like only a few seconds—she'd just closed her eyes for a few seconds, that was all—but it must have been longer than that, because when Ginny woke, she wasn't on the dark street with Malfoy anymore. She was inside somewhere, sprawled on an incredibly comfy couch, and when she sat up and peered over the back of that couch, she saw Malfoy puttering around a dark kitchen.
Ginny winced, regretting that she'd sat up so fast. A throbbing pain was pounding away in her left temple, and her stomach roiled unpleasantly. The light was blessedly dim in this place, wherever this place was. Ginny's eyes briefly left Malfoy to travel around her surroundings. It seemed to be a house, or perhaps a flat, though a rather large flat, certainly large for London, if that's where they were. She sat on one of two long, upholstered couches in a sitting room of sorts, the light coming from a chicly shaded lamp set on a gleaming, cherry wood table.
When she turned her gaze back on Malfoy, she was startled to see he'd come out of the kitchen and stood before her, the back of the couch between them.
"Here." He held out a mug towards her. When Ginny shrank away from it, he rolled his eyes. "It's only tea, Weasley." Malfoy had a most curious look on his face, one that stayed there even after she carefully took the mug from him.
Ginny sniffed delicately at the tea. A wonderfully cozy scent swept over her, a warm blend of sweet spices. Cinnamon, she thought, and maybe clove. "It smells nice," she said, the lingering effect of the alcohol making her tongue loose, "but I don't think I can drink it." Her stomach protested the thought.
"That's up to you." Malfoy went back into the kitchen. "I would've made you a Sobering Potion instead, but I'm pretty sure that Muggle bloke slipped something in your drink, and as I've no idea what it might have been, I don't know what kind of effect a potion might have on you right now."
Ginny bristled. "That man was a pig," she said bluntly, "but I would've noticed if he'd put something in my drink!"
"Weasley, as much as you drank in that pub, you wouldn't have noticed if Longbottom had Apparated in and stripped naked in front of you."
"That's an image I didn't need in my head," Ginny mumbled, turning around and sliding down the back of the couch until she sat, somewhat comfortably. "And what do you mean, as much as I drank? How long were you there, anyway, watching me?"
"Long enough to see you make a right fool of yourself, that's for sure."
Ginny scowled. She thought of asking him, again, what he'd been doing in a Muggle pub, but she had a shrewd feeling he wouldn't give her a better answer than before.
Instead, she went quiet and closed her eyes. Her stomach felt too uneasy to drink her tea, but there was something nice about the heat of it between her palms, and she enjoyed breathing in the spice-filled aroma. She sat still for several minutes, trying to get her bearings, trying to convince herself she didn't need to vomit.
When she opened her eyes again, it was quite suddenly. "Where are we?" she demanded. She looked around for Malfoy but didn't see him; he must have still been in the kitchen. "Where did you bring me, Malfoy?" The question came out quite accusatory, and she didn't mind, even though she vaguely remembered passing out on the street. This was Malfoy, after all, and she'd recovered enough of her senses to be wary of this. Of him.
"My flat," came Malfoy's voice, floating out from behind her. "Well, it's Theo's flat, actually. Theodore Nott. I've been living with him for a while now."
Ginny peered around, as though this Theodore Nott would pop out from somewhere, but there was no one else. Perhaps he wasn't home, or already asleep. "And he's rich, this flatmate of yours." For it really was a very nice place.
"Not particularly. Or rather, his family isn't. But he's done quite well for himself since leaving Hogwarts."
Ginny was about to ask what he did for a living when she remembered that she was talking to Malfoy, and that she didn't care what he or his friends were up to. Not unless it concerned her. "Why did you bring me here?"
Malfoy appeared as he answered, coming around the end of the couch with his own steaming mug in hand. For the first time that night—now that she was seeing, if not quite thinking, a little more clearly—she got a good look at him. His hair was different than she remembered—her first thought was that it was longer, but then she realized it just wasn't slicked back, like he always wore it in school. He was also dressed as a Muggle, which made sense as they'd been in a Muggle pub, but the garb still looked odd on him—dark jeans, a button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled back to his elbows.
"I brought you here because you didn't want me to take you home," he said, and he certainly sounded like the old Malfoy, even if he didn't look it. His tone was almost sullen. "And you passed out before you could tell me where else I might take you. So here you are."
Ginny narrowed her eyes at him. She recalled what he'd said before, about not wanting Harry or her brothers going after him, and that explanation sufficed…to a point. "But why this?" She held up her mug of tea. "Why…why bring me here, why make me tea?"
Malfoy sipped at his own tea, his expression unchanging. "Because I didn't want you puking all over the couch, of course. I'm trying to sober you up, Weasley."
Ginny continued to stare at him, not bothering to hide her suspicion.
Draco lowered the mug from his face. "If I told you I was trying to do something decent," he said, and though his eyes never wavered from hers, there was something of a tremor in his voice, "would you believe me?"
"No," said Ginny frankly. There was that alcohol, still loosening her tongue.
Something flickered over Malfoy's face, but it was there and gone too fast for Ginny to read it. "Then like I said, Weasley," he repeated, "I don't want you sicking up all over the couch."
He turned away, and Ginny found she couldn't help herself. She asked him again, "Why were you in that Muggle pub, Malfoy? And why," she tacked on, another oddity occurring to her, "why are you living here? Why not with your parents, in your big, fancy manor?"
Malfoy went still, but he did not turn back to face her. He was quiet for so long that Ginny thought he wasn't going to answer her, but she waited just the same, waited patiently. Then—
"It's a test, Weasley." Malfoy's voice sounded strangely haunted, a dark shade looming over his words. "A test for me."
Ginny was about to ask him what kind of test when it came to her, in a sudden, piercing rush of understanding. A moment of clarity, like the one she'd had about George just before she'd passed out. Malfoy was testing himself…moving away from his parents, mingling with Muggles, being decent to Ginny even…testing himself to see if he could do things differently. Be different.
She knew, she understood, because— "I'm doing that, too," she told Malfoy, "but your way of it seems more noble than mine."
Malfoy did turn to face her now, and the bewildered frown on his face looked so funny on him that Ginny wanted to laugh. But she didn't have the energy to laugh anymore, or to talk, or to do anything at all. A tide of drowsiness swept over her, and at the last minute, just before she slumped down, she remembered the mug in her hands, and set it aside. Then she sank into sleep, the pleasant scent of the tea lulling her into pleasant dreams.
NOW
Ginny's plan was to take Draco back to the hotel where she and Ron were staying, but halfway there, as she and Draco slipped through a narrow alley running between two canals, Ron's silvery terrier Patronus shot towards them with the message, "Do not return to the hotel. Suspicious characters about."
Ginny saw Draco's lips silently repeating the phrase "suspicious characters." Aloud, he said, "What the hell does that mean? And what exactly was that, anyway?"
"A Patronus." Ginny watched him surreptitiously. He looked so…so common, so Muggle, his white t-shirt still splattered with liquor, his jeans and scuffed loafers giving him a ruggedly normal look. "You don't remember what a Patronus is?"
"I do, but I've never heard of one being used that way."
"Well, it's not widely known." Ginny tapped her foot. "It's likely some others—some others like the man who attacked you—have somehow tracked us to our hotel as well." She cursed.
"Well, that's not surprising," Malfoy griped, sounding a lot like his old self, "since no one tried to kill me before you turned up. That's probably how they—whoever they are—found me. Through you." His tone was unapologetically accusatory.
Ginny cursed again, for he was probably right.
After some discussion—and some persuasion on Malfoy's part—they decided to go to Malfoy's place, a small flat he was renting nearby. Ginny immediately wondered where he'd gotten the money for such a thing, but since she'd told him to wait for answers to his questions until they were safe, she supposed she would have to do the same.
As they reached the end of the alley and Ginny peered around the corner, checking to see if the street looked clear, Draco said, "Tell me this one thing—whoever you are—"
"Ginny," she said absently. "My name is Ginny." She tensed as a shrieking whoop broke through the night, but it was only distant laughter, some late-night revelers off having fun somewhere.
"Ginny." Her name sounded off in his voice; she wasn't sure he'd ever called her that before. "Tell me this one thing."
"What?"
"Were we—are we—friends? I asked you before, and you didn't say yes. So…are we?"
Ginny tensed, but not because of any threat out on the street. Everything before he looked clear, but she remained where she was, as though she was still looking. In a tight voice, she said, "First of all, whatever we were, we're not anymore. Truthfully, I haven't spoken to you in…almost five years."
"But we were friends, then?"
Ginny turned to look at him and nearly flinched at his proximity. He'd moved in close to her, so close that he had to bend his head down to look her in the eye. So close that she could smell the warm, antiseptic scent of the liquor in his hair.
"Were we?" he pressed her, and she could feel his soft words rumbling through his chest. "Friends?"
Ginny gripped the edge of the alley wall behind her, and the pitted brick dug jaggedly into her palm. "Sometimes, I thought we were friends. Other times, I've thought we were…I don't know." She shook her head. "Whatever the word is for a relationship that's twisted, codependent, and utterly wrong."
These words had a visible effect on him, as though they'd gone through him like a hot blade. His jaw tensed, his eyes went shuttered and dark, and he took a step back from her. Ginny immediately felt the loss of heat, the cold that filled its absence.
"Well," he said in a tangled voice, "I prefer the idea that we were friends."
"Yeah," she whispered, glancing back over her shoulder at the open street. "Me too."
FIVE YEARS AGO
Ginny wasn't quite sure how it happened, but the night she spent at Draco's—or rather, Theodore Nott's—flat, sleeping on that very comfortable couch, wasn't a one-time occurrence. The second time she turned up there, once again incredibly drunk, she was half-sure that Malfoy was going to turn her away. If he was even home. If he wasn't home, then either Theodore Nott would turn her away, or she would probably end up passed out on the stoop, because she definitely, absolutely could not Apparate in such a state.
But Malfoy was home, and for some reason, he did let her in. Perhaps because he was still "testing" himself. The morning following her first night in the flat, Ginny had assured Malfoy she remembered very little of the night before, but that wasn't true. She remembered most of it, including what he'd said about why he was in that Muggle pub, why he'd helped her. She just kept that to herself.
If she was honest with herself, this new Malfoy…intrigued her. She wasn't as wary around him as she had once been—not that she had ever been afraid of Malfoy, he wasn't much to be afraid of—but she no longer anticipated the worst when it came to his actions and motives. He had helped her, twice now, out of sticky situations, and if it hadn't been at much risk to himself, there had been no clear benefit for him either. And she still remembered the look on his face, that day after the Battle of Hogwarts. She still remembered the lie in his voice when he'd claimed not to care what she thought of him.
It made him very…intriguing.
And that was the only reason, of course. The only reason she kept turning up at his place, every time she drank too much, every time she left some young man at a bar, or sometimes when she left one elsewhere—in a Muggle car, some strange flat. Always, when the thought of returning home to the joke shop, so drunk, so mussed, such a wreck, woke a twinge of panic in her—always, in those times, she found herself at Malfoy's flat.
Malfoy didn't care, after all. Malfoy didn't care if she drank or slept around, Malfoy didn't care if she looked a mess. Why should he? They'd never been friends, and they still weren't. He was just a place to go, a place to crash, until she could pull herself together.
The first time she turned up there, she passed out almost as soon as she was in the door, sprawling out on the couch in the sitting room. The second time, though, she was in quite a chatty mood, drunk enough that any filter between her brain and her mouth had gone, but not too drunk for a cup of Malfoy's wonderful tea. So they chatted. Well, perhaps "chatted" was taking it a bit too far. Their chats still mostly involved sniping at each other, or at least they started out that way. But inevitably, the night would wear on, growing deeper and darker, and their mugs would empty down to the dregs, and all the lines between them became so tenuous, so hard to see…and all of a sudden Ginny would realize that they weren't sniping at each other anymore, but talking, just talking, like two, normal people.
She discovered, during one of these late-night chats, that Malfoy had been living with Theodore Nott for almost a year now, and that his parents were not happy about it. "They don't understand," Malfoy expressed, his tone almost petulant. He was lounging in an armchair beside the couch, her couch, and he didn't meet her gaze as he ran a finger over some spot on the arm of his chair, over and over again. "They just want to go on like everything's normal, like everything is still the way they used to be. Oh, they know…Voldemort is finished." He hesitated a little before saying the name, as he always did, like he was still getting used to it. "They're not delusional. And given they were both pardoned, that we were all pardoned…well, they aren't going to waste that. They just want to live a quiet life now."
"Quiet life," Ginny murmured, bringing her mug of tea to her lips. "Sounds nice."
"No, it doesn't." Malfoy's voice went so flat that Ginny glanced up in surprise at him. "I mean…it's all they can manage, I guess. But it's not enough. Not after—after everything. I can't just sit around in our manor all day, just…" He shook his head. "It's not enough."
Ginny watched him over the rim of her cup, wondering exactly what he meant. That it wasn't enough. Not enough to entertain him, not enough to drive him? Or did he mean that he, that his parents, weren't doing enough, in this post-Voldemort world, in a wizarding world that was working hard to piece itself together?
Ginny certainly wasn't doing much on that front, either. Everyone else was. Harry and Ron were already bringing about change in the Auror Department, Hermione was hard at work for the rights of house-elves at the Ministry. Her parents, Bill and Fleur, Charlie, Percy…they were all doing what they could. Even George was, in his own way, still creating new products for the joke shop. And it was his twin that had died, after all.
The thought hit Ginny hard. It always did, but the more time that passed, the more unexpected it was when it came. She could go hours, sometimes even days, without thinking of Fred, and often when she did think of him, it was some memory of him, some happy memory. She didn't dwell on the fact that he was dead, that he was gone, not anymore. So when the thought did come—when it hit—it was like a knife inside her, slicing through her skin and twisting in her gut, enough to leave her breathless and shaking.
"Weasley?"
Ginny flinched, remembering where she was. The pleasant blanket of alcohol was beginning to fade from around her, stealing her warmth, stealing her good mood, and leaving her with a familiar ringing in her head.
"You look like you're going to vomit," Malfoy said bluntly. "Are you going to vomit?"
Ginny flushed. "Have I ever once vomited on this couch, Malfoy?"
"Maybe not," he said evenly, "but I do remember you vomiting in the toilet once."
Ginny tried not to remember that. She wasn't usually sick up after drinking, but then, she didn't usually drink vodka either, and she had that night. "I'm not going to vomit, Malfoy," she said, and she heard the snappish note in her voice. Oh, yes, she was definitely beginning to sober up.
"Then why do you look like that?"
"Like what?"
"Like your cat just died."
"I don't have a cat," Ginny said, and she was horrified to hear her voice waver. Her chin was trembling too, and she clenched her teeth together, trying to stop it.
"Okay." Malfoy was watching her. She darted half a glance at him and saw a wary look in his eyes. Then he stood. "Well, I'm just going to have another cup of tea and go to—"
"I moved out from my parents' house, too," she said.
Malfoy stopped, standing in front of the chair. "I know," he said, after a moment's pause. "You told me. You're with your brother now, here in Diagon Alley."
"Don't you want to know why?" she asked softly.
Malfoy didn't answer. When she looked at him, his face was a frozen mask, and her suspicions flared.
"Or do you already know?" she demanded. "Have you guessed? Come on, don't pretend you don't know anything, haven't read anything about me, in those ratty tabloids—"
"I don't read ratty tabloids," Malfoy said icily.
"I didn't even finish school, you know." Her chin was still trembling, and she set her mug aside, bringing her knees in up to her chest. "Not at Hogwarts, anyway. I finished at home, I took my N.E.W.T.s, but—I left Hogwarts." Her voice turned wry. "Not that I had much choice. They were going to expel me otherwise. They 'let me' leave."
"They were going to expel you?" Malfoy stared at her in disbelief. "You're Ginny Weasley. Darling of the wizarding world—"
"That's what I'm telling you, Malfoy." Ginny lifted her eyes to his. "I'm not, not anymore. I was picking too many fights at school, breaking too many rules, acting out…. So I finished at home, and then, almost as soon as that was over, I left there too. Left home, I mean. Oh, I tried to stay." She perched her chin on her knees, grief and gloom welling inside her. "But I was such a mess, and I couldn't stand it—couldn't stand them, my parents, I couldn't stand them watching me, the way I was—the way I am—"
That day after the Battle of Hogwarts, she'd gone up to the Astronomy Tower to fall apart. That was what she'd thought, anyway. One, quiet moment alone, to fall to pieces, to lose it, to sob and sob. But she hadn't, not even after she'd met Malfoy there. And she'd thought, naively, that that meant she was all right, that she would be all right.
Instead, she fell apart slowly. Not in a single moment, but over months, a year now, slowly unspooling like a stray thread. And she couldn't stop it. She didn't feel like she could. All she could do was stand by and watch, watch the train wreck of her life, like a horrified bystander. Helpless. Out of control.
"I moved in with George," she said aloud. "I thought that would be better. And it was—it is. I—I'm better now." She said it defiantly, as though daring Malfoy to contradict her. To point out that, clearly, she was not fine, trembling, drunk girl that she was, sitting hunched on Draco Malfoy's couch, Draco Malfoy, of all people.
But Malfoy didn't say anything. He was silent and still as a statue, his unrelenting gaze the only sign that he was even listening.
"I just don't want George to see me like this." Her voice dropped so low that she was almost whispering. "He's—I'm—I'm looking after him, I'm supposed to look after him, now that—now Fred is—" She swallowed. "I don't want him to think he needs to take care of me, so I'm—so…" Her voice caught in her throat. Her eyes stung, and she was tired, that was all, her eyes were so tired, and she rubbed at them with two fingers, rubbed away the wetness.
"Everything's just so wrong," Ginny mumbled. "We—we won, Voldemort's dead, but everything's still…so…wrong. The world's wrong, I'm wrong—"
"Nothing's wrong with you, Weasley," Malfoy said sharply. Ginny almost jumped, so unexpected was his voice. She looked around at him, surprised by the look in his eyes. It was not a nice look; it was a hard, vicious look, one that seemed to highlight the shadows of his face, the sharpness of his features. "Everything that happened—everything we went through—that was wrong. This—now—" He gestured vaguely, indicating everything around them. "It's just how we sort it all out."
Ginny stared at him. Malfoy wasn't looking at her anymore, but he seemed aware of her gaze, because he began to busy himself by picking up his mug and hers.
"And you might think you need someone to take care of you," he added, as he turned his back on her, heading for the kitchen, "but you don't. If there's one thing I know about you, Weasley, it's that you can take care of yourself."
Author's Note: Only two chapters left! Thank you for your reviews.