DISCLAIMER: I am not in any way affiliated with JK Rowling and her creations.

It wasn't the busiest day at King's Cross that Draco had seen, but he certainly hadn't seen it like this for a while. Then again, he hadn't been in London since he'd graduated from Hogwarts. The scenery reminded him very much of Grand Central's; swarms of hurried businessmen navigated their way through the crowd without giving so much of a glance up from their handhelds, passing unfortunate or unwilling Hagrid-looking men with handmade placards detailing their hardships. Robust women, uncannily perched upon stilettoed heels, accompanied other robust women, their rolls of flesh (as Draco was sure they had hundreds) camouflaged by their expensive taste in overcoats. It wasn't even that cold yet, so they weren't even bloody necessary.

He opened his copy of a muggle newspaper he'd never read before. He didn't read muggle newspapers. That was just it; the sooner he finished his business here, the sooner he could head out and get a real handle on the world. He'd been too busy packing up and canceling leases that he hadn't even had a decent meal in the past three days. Thankfully enough, he enjoyed another bite of the croissant he'd picked up from Nero's along with his tea. It wasn't much, and he was hardly a meaty man as it was, but it would hold him over for the next hour or two.

He leaned back in his seat. Granted, the lounge here was hardly possessing of old-time charm, but he wasn't looking for a piece of artwork. Ever since he'd first come to the station, to catch the Express during his first year, he'd never thought of it as anything special. The paper he had open in his lap even had an article about their plans to refurbish within the next few years. New students would get to see it in a brand new sort of grandeur, if you wanted to call it that. Then again, to an eleven year-old who wasn't brought up the way Draco was, anything could've been an engineering marvel. He imagined the Weasleys' first steps into the station. Even the homeless men here were unfazed, but the Weasleys must've been in awe.

A part of Draco tasered himself for thinking so lowly of the family, but he didn't know where that part came from. He'd never had a particular sympathy for them before. Had it not been for Harry, he wouldn't have had to associate with them altogether.

This time, though, that particular shot of nostalgia was a bit more blunt than he'd expected.

He hadn't thought about it much recently. For the first few months, yes, it was something like a kick in the teeth, to go from having Harry as a roommate to not having anyone at all. He didn't want to consider it as anything more than a teenage obsession, but for some reason, after giving it up, he'd almost felt like it was something much more serious.

It was as though he was grieving.

But, with the usual vigorous attempts at squashing any and all emotion (it was darkly hilarious in accomplishing that), he'd managed to move on. Or at least, as much as he could move on without even getting over it.

He'd never really gotten over it.

But, there was a time and place for Spring Cleaning the skeletons out of Draco's closet, and by all means, this was not the time nor the place. Again, he was unfortunately tied to the Weasley family, waiting to meet with the only one who hadn't managed to grind his nerves quite as much as the rest of the lot. Percival Weasley had been promoted sometime last year to the rank of the minister's Senior Undersecretary, and had to be the youngest in the government's history to ever receive the title. Hell, Draco was twenty-four, and though he'd held a fairly prestegious place in the American ministry for quite some time, it wasn't nearly as ridiculous as Weasley's job. Of course, that was the business of being here in the first place, when it came down to logistics. Someone had recommended him— it was always recommendations, wasn't it?— for a position with the ministry he'd grown up with, and here he was, ready to take on the details.

Sure, he was ready to work with them, as long as he kept his head low. He just wasn't sure how fair they would be in their considerations.

A flash of red darted into the corner of his vision, but unfortunately, it was accompanied by a hot splash of spilled coffee and a feminine voice. Draco reflexively cursed loudly, his arms angled up in shock and natural defense. "God, will you bloody watch it? Fuck," he snapped, moving the now brown and soggy newspaper aside. This definitely wasn't Percy, which meant it would only be worse when he met up with him as stained as his slacks now were—

He looked up, and was momentarily stunned. This definitely wasn't Percy. This was his sister.

"I'm sorry, sir, accidents happen," she retorted, hardly sounding sorry at all. She didn't realize who she was talking to until she was finished picking up the remainder of her things that had dropped to the floor. "I wouldn't have tripped if you didn't leave your luggage in the walk— oh my god . . . " she ended in something close to a whisper. "All the duffers in London and I drop my breakfast on you?"

"Oh, okay, it's great to see you too, don't bother asking if I'm all right," Draco said sardonically. "It's not as though you just poured hot liquid on my crotch."

Ginny grew a little redder in the face, if that was possible. "I said it was an accident. Though it's no use explaining it to you, I suppose."

Draco grabbed a wad of napkins from the empty seat next to him. They weren't used, but one or two of them had a distinct brown ring stained from the same sort of to-go coffee cup. Had they not been in such a muggle-heavy location, he could've cleaned it up without a problem.

"No, I wouldn't want to hear an excuse anyway," he said, wiping up the mess. "God, keep talking to me like this and I'll start to think you don't like me."

"Oh no, wouldn't want you to think that!" she said in a ridiculous tone. "Mind my asking what you're doing here in the first place? I could've sworn I had Harry tell me on numerous occasions that you'd dropped off the face of the earth," she added.

"Is that how he phrased it?"

She smiled to herself. "No, but that's the way I'd like to think of it."

Draco finished mopping up what little he could and set the wet napkins aside. Thank god he still had his own beverage. Ginny's had spilled entirely.

"Touchy, aren't we," Draco said, raising the cup. "I'm here on business."

"I thought your business was overseas."

"It is, or at least, it was. For a while. Today, though, my business is with your brother."

Ginny gave a look teeming with suspicion. "Which brother?"

"Your star-child. Unless you have a brother with a more impressive career than Undersecretary."

Ginny sat down to Draco's right. He found it odd that she felt so inclined to know.

"Percy? Why are you meeting up with Percy?"

Draco leaned back, attempting to become one with his tea. Drinking it was the only routine he'd accomplished today. And he needed his routines.

"Ministry stuff. You don't need to know. Frankly, I don't feel like telling you," he said, a devilish sort of smile cropping up from his own enjoyment.

"Fine. Okay. I'm done," she said, throwing her hands up. "I don't trust you one bit, but Percy can take care of himself. You can be his headache today, not mine."

"I'll make sure of it," Draco said, reeling with laughter on the inside. God, she didn't know how to ease up, did she? Ginny and her entire family were exactly the same. If they weren't taking one thing too seriously, they were brushing it off completely.

"Honestly," she said, gathering her things in preparation to leave, "I don't know how Harry put up with you and your lot for a year. I'd have thrown a few Unforgivables at you in the first week."

"You are a greater man than I, Ginevra," Draco said, not even focusing on her.

"Don't let me catch you calling me that again," she snapped back. Draco wondered if she meant "a man" or "Ginevra".

She stood up, her purse slung over her shoulder, before she flipped her flaming scarlet hair over her shoulder. "I guess I might have to see a lot more of you, Malfoy. Don't think that's a good thing."

Draco watched as she took a few steps toward the exit of the lounge, before he called out to her. "I didn't see a wedding ring, Weasley. Or am I supposed to call you Potter after all?"

She stopped, deadweight, in her tracks. She didn't say anything right away, either. Draco watched her carefully.

"No," she said quietly, without turning around right away. "It's Weasley again."

"Again?" Draco asked, retaining a flat demeanor. "So it did happen. I got an invitation three years back, you know."

"Don't even bring it up," she said, finally facing him, but then she seemed to change her mind. She took a few strides back in his direction. He had to admit, it was quite intimidating. "Yes, if it answers your question, we lasted two years."

"And then?"

She shook her head, staring at him directly. She inhaled deeply, but her answer was more calm than Draco was expecting. "And then, we ended it. Simple as that."

She watched him for any sign of acknowledgement, that this was the answer he was looking for, but she didn't get much in response. Instead, she turned to leave, much more slowly this time, but stopped before she reached the exit.

"He didn't want me, in the end." Draco didn't know she was going to say anything, so he looked up quickly. "Nothing I could do about it. Nothing we could fix. He said he . . . well, I don't know what he meant by it, exactly, but I don't think I fit his preference," she said, almost too quietly for Draco to hear. "He wasn't cheating. Still loves me, just not like that. I don't know," she said, shrugging much too easily for it to have been a natural reaction.

Draco watched her struggle. "I'm sorry to hear that," he said.

"Don't," she quickly covered, shaking her head. She exhaled, and looked at Draco for longer than he would've been comfortable with. "You know, he mentioned you a lot. How you turned out to be a pretty okay bloke." She rummaged through her purse, and took out a small white card before letting it drop to the floor in front of Draco. "That's his business card, for the Auror's office. I think . . . he meant for you to come back."

And Ginny, just as quickly as her onset of honesty had dripped like fluid from her lips, turned on her heels and rounded the corner. Draco tentatively set his cup down and stood to pick up the card. Sure enough, emblazened in gold and green lettering, the name HARRY POTTER graced the front of the card, with a messy scrawl of handwritten contact info scratched across the bottom. It was obviously for Ginny, and it was very Harry of him to add it on at the last minute.

Draco wondered how long she'd held onto this card. Maybe, giving it up was a final reconciliation with the past.

It was an ending for her . . . and Draco knew, without question, what she'd meant by telling him all of this. It was a beginning for him.

Somehow, he found himself insane, pacing with his luggage through the station's atrium and quickening to a trot toward the entrance. He didn't notice the caged owls and oddly dressed men and women who began to appear around him. It was September 1st, but he couldn't have told anyone that had they asked. There was only one crazy, farfetched thing on his mind, controlling his body to move forward, to hasten into a slow jog to catch a cab— he suddenly realized that, yes, he was a wizard, and could rid himself of the obstacles without even thinking twice. His bags were quickly shrunk— there was no need to check them at a desk when they could fit in his pockets— and his wand, he could apparate in a millisecond . . .

He stopped. What was he doing? Was it even right to assume he was wanted? Ginny had only said it in speculation. There was nothing confirmed, nothing that said in any way that Draco Malfoy could appear on Harry's doorstep after six years of absence . . .

He finally noticed the families, the kids who were bound for Hogwarts. He'd taken that leap of faith before. He'd asked Harry to be his friend, blindly, without any doubt in his mind, and he was shot down. That was thirteen bloody years ago.

Was he a coward? Or was he a realist?

He closed his eyes. The light from the glass overhead windows cast a redness through his eyelids. Around him, he heard thousands of shoes scuffing their way across the concourse, each hustling toward a muggle platform or a wizarding platform or a restaurant or a toilet. Did he know where he wanted to go? Was he stuck?

No. He'd been stuck. For too long.

And then he did it, when a large group passed by and engulfed him in its mass. He did it with the address in mind, and he felt the strong pull that often incurred him with motion sickness. He heard the sounds of the station slipping into white noise and then nothing but a suburban street.

He opened his eyes. 12 Grimmauld Place.

And he knocked.