Chapter Fifty-One

Harry Potter's townhouse at Grimmauld Place moaned and complained as only an old, wizarding home could. It creaked and cranked and occasionally whinnied in the strong wind.

It had started with rain, the kind that threatened to concuss if you were daft enough to venture outside without an umbrella. Muggle weatherpersons had predicted hail as well, but that had yet to eventuate.

Wind soon followed the rain. It had obviously found a breach in the aging roofing and was currently playing tag through the house's corridors.

Potter was probably used to the noise. It wasn't that the place was uncomfortable. Sirius Black's old residence was certainly hospitable, in a creepy, derelict sort of way. Draco was accustomed to living amidst the creepy and oftentimes macabre, what with being raised at Malfoy Manor.

It was just that it'd been some time since he'd had slept in a bed.

With a mattress.

And four squashy, goosedown pillows that smelled of lavender.

And a blanket he didn't have to share with bugs. And sand. Merlin, he would never forget living with all that sand…

As it was, the soft mattress was doing its best to swallow him up and Draco had had enough after the fourth hour of hopelessly tossing and turning and once, flailing.

He sat up in bed, cast Lumos as he flicked open his battered, travel-worn silver pocket watch to scowl at it. Habit made him wear it to bed, even though thieving bandits who robbed you while you slept probably wasn't a likely occurrence at Harry's home.

Potter appeared to be sound asleep, judging from the snoring that was filtering down the hallway from his room.

Draco slept with the room door ajar. He attributed this to the fact that he had grown so used to sleeping outdoors that the thought of being confined by four walls and a ceiling that was not made of stars had become just a little unpleasant.

Soft candlelight from outside cleaved into the dark room at a right angle to the wall. It was three am on a Tuesday morning.

Bugger this, he thought, as he tossed off the covers and strode out of the bedroom. It was only when he reached the landing did he remember to walk back to the room to put on some clothes.

**

Ginny wondered how she had ever survived in the Weasley household being such a light sleeper. What with the twins in the opposite bedroom, which meant that odd explosions could sometimes be heard in the dead of night (or small hours of the morning, depending on far away you were from breakfast or dinner), life ala Weasley tended to be noisy.

Harry wasn't a chronic snorer but he tended to be louder when he was extremely tired, which was the case lately. It had been a big weekend, by all accounts.

For all of ten seconds, Ginny briefly entertained the notion of waking Harry up for a bit of an early morning snuggle, but the poor man was clearly exhausted and she didn't have the heart. Besides, she was feeling a little peckish after a too-early dinner.

As she was already wide awake, she decided to compound the situation by venturing downstairs for a hot drink and whatever else she could muster up from the biscuit tin in the pantry. Maybe some drinking chocolate. And a cookie.

After that, she'd put her feet up in the lounge room and read yesterday's paper.

Ginny was walking across the dark expanse of Grimmauld Place's kitchen, trying to stir her coffee quietly when Draco suddenly materialised at the doorway. A bright shaft of lightning chose that precise moment to flash across the wet sky.

She was so startled by his appearance that she dropped the mug. Some of the hot liquid sloshed over her toes. The curses that followed were markedly louder than the earlier stirring.

"Hmm," said the long-haired, wild-looking apparition that was apparently Draco Malfoy, as he stared down at the dark puddle on the slate floor. "It would seem that I owe you a beverage."

**

She'd known Malfoy was in situ at Grimmauld Place, of course. It was the talk of the Ministry. Harry had complained about nothing else all of Monday. It was just that she hadn't had any time with Harry lately and considering her overworked fiancé had to add babysitting Malfoy to his list of duties, she thought she'd surprise him at home late that evening.

Ginny remained convinced, as she had been many years ago, that no jury in the world could possible convict her for bludgeoning Draco Malfoy to death with the nearest, large, blunt object. In this case, that happened to be an antique, iron meat grinder, which thankfully for Draco, was bolted to the kitchen counter.

He was just that aggravating.

After a few comments about clumsiness and weak nerves being ever-lamentable Weasley traits, the last of the Malfoys carried a replacement cup of coffee out into the dining room and slowly slid it, with one finger, across the highly polished dining table towards her. Ginny knew he hadn't poisoned it because she'd watched him make the drink.

Cautiously nevertheless, she sipped it and was surprised to note that he had added the precise amount of sugar and milk that she preferred, without having to ask her.

She raised questioning eyes to him.

Malfoy shrugged in response. The candlelight on the walls made the hollows in his face more pronounced. "I remember."

"You remember how I like my coffee?" Ginny asked.

The smirk vanished. She wondered if it was just the memories doing that to him. "That time at school when I sat down at Gryffindor table to inform Potter about the friendly Quidditch match against the Aurors. We had pancakes that morning. You were making yourself coffee. It's just a detail."

"Right," said Ginny, who wished Harry made himself aware of such 'details'.

There was a short silence, during which Ginny tried to pinpoint what it was that seemed so different about Malfoy.

Of course he was older. They all were. There was his general appearance, which had been somewhat tamed since Harry had forced him at wand-point to take a shower at the Ministry before he brought him home.

After which he forced him at wand-point again to take a bath, due to a distinct, lingering, eau de camel.

And then it came to her. He wasn't angry any more. That was it. She had always felt a brittle sort of tension being in Malfoy's company, which was why people tended to steer clear of the old Draco unless they were in his good books.

It wasn't unusual for teenage boys to be angry. Harry had certainly put in his fair share of angst during their later schooling years. But there had always been an…'instability' about Malfoy, a sense that he might snap at you for no reason other than because he felt like it.

And Merlin knew that Draco Malfoy turning on you was not something you soon forgot.

There was none of this now. There was a deep, but definitely calm ocean behind those familiar grey eyes.

His long fingers drummed lightly on the table, as if he was growing impatient with her sudden, close scrutiny.

"So what are you doing here?" he inquired.

Funny how he was able to ask her that as if she was the interloper at Grimmauld Place.

"Visiting with Harry," answered Ginny, hotly.

Did he really need to ask? She was wearing a dressing gown, for Merlin's sake. It seemed obvious enough. It was all Molly Weasley's fault for making Ginny particularly sensitive about the sleeping arrangements she and Harry shared whenever Ginny visited Grimmauld Place.

Molly was from the 'separate bedrooms' school of courtship. In fact, she wasn't just from that school, she was the Headmistress. Harry hated lying (and frankly, was shite at it) and so Ginny had to do it for the both of them.

Malfoy didn't nod or do anything that might have put her more at ease. He just looked slightly amused. "You look well," he said, with complete amiability. "Good to know Potter hasn't driven you to tear your hair out just yet."

"You on the other hand look like something Crookshanks dragged in," Ginny replied, feeling an immediate need to defend Harry, though she couldn't think why. "Didn't they have mirrors in the desert?"

Malfoy gave her a slow smile. "Ah, Crookshanks. Is that old fur ball still alive?"

"Yes. He's enjoying retirement at Hermione's cottage."

"So she lives alone then?"

"Oh, no," Ginny narrowed her eyes at him. "You're not getting any more details out of me. You're on your own."

"A state of affairs I plan to change," he informed.

Ginny stared at him. She felt searing hot indignation on Hermione's behalf. "You really think you're going to pull this off, don't you? Breaking Hermione's heart and going off on some suicidal journey of discovery for five long years. She hasn't forgotten you, you know? And not in the way you'd prefer."

Malfoy remained unfazed. "Then let her be the one to tell me that in person."

"Oh come off it!" Ginny really wanted to see him angry. It was easier to be cross at him in return if he was being deliberately obtuse. "We both know that you don't really have to be here. Harry can't hold you and he knows that. You could walk right out of this house if you wanted, so why pretend we're making you?"

"Diplomacy has its merits," he replied. "Even the serial rule-breaker snoring upstairs has managed to learn that. Given the circumstances of my return, I think it's best to behave myself for the time being, don't you think?"

Love wasn't a game, she wanted to tell him. Neither was the war. There was so much more than Hermione's future happiness at stake. If he was back for a reason, the solider in her hoped it had more to do with, than just Hermione.

"We're so very close. To ending all this for good, you know," she said softly.

"Well then," Malfoy leaned forward ever so slightly in his chair. His legs were crossed and Ginny only then noticed that he was barefoot.

He smiled. It was a sinister, Lucius Malfoy sort of smile. "Then I've picked a good time to make my return, haven't I?"

A younger Ginny might have retreated a little in the face of such subtle intimidation, but she'd grown up as well.

"At this point, Malfoy, I think you're better off wooing Voldemort than you are Hermione. Besides, Harry won't let you anywhere near her until he can confirm every inch of your story. And pardon my language, but it's one fucked up tale of obsession and revenge."

He surprised her by immediately looked disgruntled. "And pray tell how long will that take?"

It was Ginny's turn to smirk. He was obviously not used to operating on someone else's schedule. "Draco Malfoy, meet Ministry Bureaucracy. Normal turnaround is six weeks."

"Wonderful. And I'm shackled to Speccy Git until then?"

"Speccy Git is the reason why you're not spending that time in an interrogation cell!"

"I am not following Potter around like some besotted fan, for six weeks," he hissed.

Ginny glared back. "I have it on good authority that Harry wouldn't care for that either!"

He gave her a look that chilled her bones. "I've brought you Bellatrix Lestrange. You know what I want in return," he said, through gritted teeth.

"Yes, but until you're what Hermione wants, you can stew in the mess that you left. I know why you're back, Malfoy, but how are you back?"

To his credit, he seemed to understand what she was asking. The anger left him. At that moment, he looked like nothing more than a man who was tired, who was finished and who wanted to rest. "I'm ready now. It took me a while, but I'm ready and more importantly, I'm able," he explained. "I need to know if she is too."

Ginny gave him a look that was almost admiring. His honesty surprised her. As did that other signature trait of his. "Your arrogance is staggering."

He gave her an impatient glance in return. "It's not arrogance. It's fate."

He wasn't being romantic about the situation. Ginny didn't doubt that he could if he wanted to. That old cunning was still there. Rather, he was just sure. Sure of where his place was now and what he wanted. He had come back to see if Hermione could be just as sure.

A part of her wished Harry would be more like that.

Actually, no. She didn't wish that at all. Draco Malfoy was a whole other type of complicated no female should ever have to put up with. No, she would take her heroes steadfast and dependable, if a little unsure about matters of the heart.

Of all the people in the world she could have fallen for, trust Malfoy to be the one to catch Hermione's discerning fancy. The woman thrived on complicated.

"What are you doing up at his hour, anyway?" he asked her.

The turn in conversation was decisive. Ginny was actually glad for it.

"Can't sleep. Harry's knackered. I didn't want to wake him up by tossing about in bed."

"And does Mama Weasley know you two…" he searched for a phrase, smirking a little when he apparently found one, "share blankets?"

She scowled at him. The darkness hid most of her blush. He was once again dangling her sore point in front of her. "Oh, piss off. I'm twenty-two."

"In other words, no, she doesn't."

Ginny sighed. There was no way she was going back to sleep now.

Malfoy looked just as awake. She carried her now empty coffee cup back to the kitchen and wasn't surprised when Draco followed her. Idly, Ginny wondered how much solitude he had had to endure in the time he'd been away. There had been hardships, she could see that.

He sat, perched on the edge of the kitchen counter, staring at the rain splattered windows. His hair hung halfway down his back. Some of it had fallen over his face to partially cover one eye.

Ginny wondered if he was thinking about Hermione.

On a whim, she also wondered if Hermione happened to be awake as well, thinking about Malfoy.

"How about a haircut?" Ginny asked him, after a moment's pondering.

That caught him completely off guard. "What?" he blinked.

"How about I give you a haircut? I'm a fair hand with a scissors and no offence, but you have no idea how much you look like your, um, father right now."

The point was that this was not necessarily a good thing if one wanted to convince the Ministry of one's good intentions.

He was eighteen again for a moment, when he absently touched his long hair and stared back at her, as if his appearance could never have possible played a part in his grand plans of winning back Hermione's affections.

This was either extreme modesty or extreme conceit at work. "Do you think so?"

"It was a little unsettling seeing you appear in the kitchen just now," said Ginny, by way of reply.

She was digging through the numerous drawers in the counter, finally holding aloft a pair of large kitchen scissors. Not the best to cut hair with, but oh well. It wasn't like he'd be able to make it to the hairdressers' anytime soon.

"Here we go, then," said Ginny. She kicked out a chair for him.

Suddenly, Malfoy didn't look so sure. He was watching the scissors with mild concern. "Don't we need more light?"

Ah, so the man was mortal after all.

"Don't worry. How I act around you with sharp, pointy objects will depend largely on how Hermione reacts when she finally sees you again. Until then, I'm neutral," she assured, smiling sweetly. The scissors gleamed in the moonlight.

Looking only slightly apprehensive, he obediently took his seat in said chair, with his back to her. "Somehow I don't think Potter will approve of this," he warned.

Ginny had already gathered his thankfully clean hair into a ponytail.

"I suppose I could always do a bad job of it," she offered.

"That you could."

She didn't bother asking him if he preferred one style to another. She got the impression he didn't really care, so she ended up giving him the Weasley standard, which consisted of trying to cut the hair as evenly as possible without leaving any bald patches.

Years of practice on Ron had made her rather proficient, she thought.

Yesterday, if you'd told Ginny she'd be standing in Harry's cavernous kitchen at four in the morning, cutting Draco Malfoy's hair, she'd have patted you on the head and called you a name her mother would have rapped her over the knuckles for.