Disclaimer: : This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Authors Notes: thank you for reviewing! I am having so much fun writing this story!

Chapter five: Oh Lucius…

As I wake up this morning I sit on the edge of my bed and take several long minutes to collect my thoughts.

I must find a job today.

I have to repeat this in my mind as i amke my way out of my bedroom, to make the fact of the matter stick. There is no alternative. No matter how I mope and long to wallow in self pity, the truth of it is; I work, or I starve. Mum and Dad were always so good at working on a budget. But that, like many other of Mum's skills, died with her.

I shuffle, taking several long shuddering breaths as I go, to the attic. A cloud of yellow dust rises from the floor boards as I open the door. I sneeze twice before closing the door behind me.

"Lumos"

Though it is day light and there are two small windows in the attic, thick storm clouds have been darkening the sky all morning.

I turn my back to all of the boxes for a moment. For a second I am afraid that I won't be able to go through with what I know I must do. My pain is almost tangible. I brace myself on a box and inhale sharply, wishing that I had a cigarette.

Willing myself not to loose my senses, I stand. Although the attic is cluttered and disorganized, I know which ways to turn, and which areas hold some of Fred and Georges more dangerous pursuits. I spent a lot of long days in this attic as a child. Though the ghoul has long since left, a pipe creaks somewhere, and something in my heart breaks.

I kneel down at exactly the right place and blow the dust from a trunk, before opening the lid. I breathe deeply at the sight of Mum's old clothes. Worn and frayed, they bring tears to my eyes. Oh Mum…

I pull out an old dress. She told me once that she had worn it on the night that Bill was conceived. When she was my age.

It's even sort of pretty. I shake it out and hold my wand to it for a closer look. It's sage green and so old that it's almost back in style. A strand of my hair falls over my shoulder and on to the dress, illuminated in the half light. I would smile at the way my hair turns to a golden flame upon the old dress, but tears are streaming down my cheeks and I pull at another piece of fabric to distract myself.

I shake it out and sneeze through my waning cries.

It's a black cloak, simple and functional. It has to work.

I give a shrug of acceptance as I carry both garments back down the stairs and into my room.

I cannot, with certainty, tell you my reasons for keeping Mum's old things in the attic. Especially when I know that had I gotten them out long ago, I could have saved my self some very cold walks through London. I think it is a combination of things; the foremost of which being a tremulous amount of grief and guilt. Another has been my refusal to acknowledge and deal with what has happened in the past seven months. If I do not think about it, it has not happened.

But reality has caught up with me these past few days.

So now I take my wand and make the necessary alterations to Mum's-my dress. When I am done I am pleased with the results. Charm work always came naturally to me.

My hair, however, is my next obstacle. It's longer than it was when I was in school. But I do not want to be categorized as a school girl.

I have to take several long drags of my cigarette before my hand stills and I can hold the scissors steady. One snip. Then Two. Then three.

Hair is falling to the floor like crimson feathers. It swirls around my bare feet. I look in the mirror and let my wand finish the rest, evening out the ends. It is a layered, more polished look, and it goes with my dress.

I apply some light make-up before I walk out the door, and be sure to transfigure some old pumps.

She did not see me, but I saw her.

I felt my chest tighten and something like jealously flared within me as I saw another man, a mudblood, open a shop door for her.

I have never seen her wear that dress, which says something. Perhaps she borrowed it from the Patil girl. But somehow I cannot see that shade of green in her, Padma's, wardrobe.

I briefly wondered what she was doing. Why she was in Diagon alley when she had no money to shop with. But then, after speaking to and intimidating several shop owners, I discovered that she was looking for work.

I cannot say why this vexes me so, or why I feel slightly ill at the mere suggestion that she work. My sweet, sweet Ginny.

Narcissa never worked. Nor did she express any desire to do so. Breeding was always ingrained in her blood. From birth it is expected, and taught through example and lesson, that young pureblood women will marry young, pureblood gentlemen. And work is never discussed.

Work is for half bloods and worse. Work is for blood traitors like Andromeda Tonks and Molly Prewett. Through if memory serves me, because until now, I have never been able to force myself to care about the goings on in Author Weasely's family, I do not believe that Molly ever worked. Though in her case she should have, and maybe Ginevra would have had better things, things that were not second hand, and most importantly, worked properly.

My beautiful Ginny. It is growing dark and I wonder if I should make my presence known. Street lamps are magically lit, and in the light of them Ginny looks as though she is growing tired. She rubs her temples and fumbles through her hand bag for a cigarette. An endless display of all things muggle. I innocuously grind my jaw.

She has had bad luck today; I have watched her been shoved out of shops and verbally harassed. I almost came to her aid when a man physically pushed her from his store, but before I had taken one step she hexed him soundly. Good girl.

She has kept her hood up all afternoon. It has been unseasonably cool for early fall. But now, beneath the street light, she shrugs her hood off and shakes out her hair. I am slightly dazed when I discover that she has cut her hair almost to her collar bone. Enlightened in by the soft glow, she shakes her hair out and discards her cigarette on the gravel before disaperating.

The Burrow is always dark when I come home. I know this, but sometimes when I come home I am stunned with reality when I remember why.

I push the door open and light the kitchen hearth with a flick of my wand.

I make myself a cup of tea for dinner and sit in Mum's old chair. I close my eyes and imagine that I was her, that things were the way they had been, and that Lucius Malfoy is not something I yearn for.

I have tried not to think of him these past two days, but I have been as unsuccessful as I was in my pursuit of a job today. He floats in and out of my conscious relentlessly. I have tried not to think of what he might want from me, or when he will collect his life debt, but I feel powerless in my yearning, my need for him.

Lucius, Lucius, Lucius…

My mind wanders to things that make me half blush and grow warm at the thought of. Things like how his hand would feel on my breasts or how his mouth would feel between my legs.

I draw one leg up and let it rest on the table's edge as one hand slips up and under my dress. Oh, oh Lucius… Yesss…

I sigh his name aloud and then gasp in surprise when there is a knock at the door.

I sit ram rod straight in my seat. Who the fuck could be calling at nine o'clock at night? I grasp my wand in my hand and smooth out my dress as I fling the door open, breathing heavily.

The air leaves my lungs.

"Miss Weasley"

Lucius.