Witch Weekly, Which Wizard?

by Cyriathestrange

Seven years after the War, Ginny Weasley finds herself juggling a flourishing Quiddich career, newfound fame, and embarking on the process of helping to build a New Defensive Act that could transform the post-war community. When happenstance brings Draco Malfoy into the picture, she finds that working closely with a former enemy turns everything she thought she knew upside down...

17. Chapter 17

A/N: Thank each of you so much for your kind reviews.

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Braddocke Manor at Berkshire

The next month was a familiarly comfortable whirlwind.

Once she had decided, fully decided, that she wanted to do it— had to do it, things had moved rapidly.

First, there was Malfoy's support. He had studied her face for a mere 20 seconds before agreeing, and then they were off to the races.

Hermione and Harry were easily sold as well, as Ginny knew they were both under mountains of work as it was; they were eager to join in the slipstream of her energy down a path that would lead to resolution for the women and children they both felt partial responsibility for.

First there was the matter of inspecting Braddocke Mannor, in Berkshire. Malfoy had taken her there, on a Sunday afternoon, and she had known as soon as she set foot on the grounds, that it would do.

It felt much warmer, more welcoming than she had imagined. She realized she had expected Malfoy's associates to be sinister. She'd imagined the old manor to be something like Grimmauld Place. Gloomy, haunted, teeming with remnants of the Dark Arts. But she felt something entirely different when the driveway came into view.

A friendly series of sloping hills came into view, with a large, regal looking manor tucked into the basin where the grassy curves met. The drive was paved with old fashioned gravel, which crunched underfoot in a merry kind of way. Low hedges and unkempt honeysuckle bushes lined the path. The lawn was lush and traces of old garden beds lined the house.

Upon closer inspection, she had realized, as they came under the shadow of the impressive grey-brick structure, it was very dilapidated. Said garden beds were hardly visible beneath tangled mats of weeds and wildflowers, and a couple of fountains out front trickled a sad, thirsty stream, nearly hidden from view by the grass, which was waist-high in some patches.

Many bricks were missing from the stone wall of the house. Even as she stood, gazing up at the many windows above her, Malfoy had to yank her out of the way of a crumbled, falling bit of stone.

But it would do.

It would do.

That's what some blossoming voice inside of her kept saying, growing warmer with a glow that felt like a sunrise inside of her, as she stood outside the entrance, and turned to look back out at the view.

They were at the top end of a small mountain in the Berkshire countryside, and she could see down into the neighboring town, far in the distance. The breeze blew freely, as it does at such elevations, giving a sense of peace and removal from the world below.

Malfoy began to sense her blossoming excitement as she turned back around, to look at him with a face that was probably more madly inspired than she realized. His eyebrows shot high upon his face, and his lips tightened in the particular way they did when he was restraining from teasing her.

"Just hold on, alright?" he said, holding up a hand, "It's practically a war zone inside."

But she didn't care.

As they strode past the heavy, creaking wood of the front door, the atmosphere suddenly changed. It was considerably cooler inside, and as the door closed richly behind them, with the satisfying weighted thunk of a vault, they were engulfed in a quiet that seemed to transport them through time.

Ginny rather felt as though the inside of the manner was somehow trapped in another era— as though all traffic in and out had stopped a hundred years ago— leaving its walls comfortably alive in a more nostalgic time.

They left the small entryway and stepped into the foyer, which was massive, with a grand staircase that emptied itself into the middle of the room. The floors were made of marble, though badly cracked, and the walls were covered by portraits and tapestries, both so dusty that Ginny could not make out faces nor patterns.

But it was wonderful.

She walked to the middle of the room, looking up in amazement, at the three stories above them. Staircases and balconies on each floor waited patiently overhead, doors visible at the start of each corridor.

"It's perfect," she breathed. This time, Malfoy did snort.

"Figures," he said, a laugh in his voice, "the absolute last word I would have chosen— a 'disaster' being one of the first— but… you do have a way of seeing the best in things."

"The potential in things," she corrected him absently, her mind still completely occupied by the room.

It was true. As her eyes roved over the dilapidated, mismatched furniture and the chipping banisters, her stomach was alight with thrill, her mind alive with all of the improvement spells she had ever learned from her mother. What a project.

"It's beautiful, Malfoy— it really is—" she glanced over to see him silently taking her in as she drank in the room, "it's so full of potential— which is perfect, perfect for what we're doing. These women and children will get fresh starts," she turned to face him, beaming, "and so will this manor."

He snorted again, his eyes sparkling as he held her gaze.

"Alright, Tiny Tim. Do we dare go upstairs?" he asked.

"Do we ever! Of course! Come," she moved quickly to the base of the staircase, forgetting the state of the place in her excitement, but slowed slightly as a marble tile cracked under her weight.

Malfoy swore wearily, and hooked one of her arms gently with one hand, and she slowed her pace.

"Right, sorry. I'll be careful," she grinned back at him, and he glowered resignedly back, moving to follow her up the staircase. It felt sturdy enough, though some steps creaked rather ominously. They proceeded.

"Wow! Malfoy, look!" She exclaimed, as they rounded a bend in the first floor corridor, and it opened up into a stately room that might have been fit for political meetings. She imagined ministry officials and heads of foreign countries gathered in the rich, dark cherrywood, pounding their fists on the dilapidated but stately table, or brooding by the large window that overlooked the front grounds.

He made a noise of very weak, forced interest behind her, and she couldn't help but grin, hearing belatedly how much she had sounded like her father in the peak of his raptures with muggle paraphernalia.

"Do you think every floor has a room like this?" she asked, her mind whirring, trying to imagine how they might divide the women, children, and staff.

"Not exactly, but something like it," Malfoy answered. She turned to look at him, quickly scanning a precariously unhinged beam hanging above him. She pulled him a few feet forward by his forearm, and his speech faltered slightly. He looked up behind him at the beam and nodded his thanks before continuing, "I got the whole tour before. These two floors have about ten bedrooms each, and two larger rooms, for meetings or entertaining. The top floor is the old servant's quarters, so it's all smaller rooms— about forty in all.

Ginny nodded slowly, calculating numbers from what she remembered from the files in Hermione's folder. They peeked into a few of the rooms on the first corridor, and Ginny surmised each could comfortably sleep three or four people.

"It's perfect," she breathed again, though much more quietly this time. Malfoy, who was peering into the room over her shoulder, was only inches from her, the front of his robes brushing the back of her legs, so he heard her nonetheless.

"Right," he said, when she turned back around, "I can tell you're fully set on the idea now." Ginny could tell that he, like she, was now recognizing the inevitability of them both taking on this project. A strange flurry of excitement and relief flooded through her.

"So," he said, a familiar structure coming into his voice that she associated so clearly with time spent in his office, "we can start to work out the details if you'd like."

Ginny stilled. He was still talking, describing a conversation he had had by floo that morning with old man Withers, who, exhausted by the upkeep of the mannor, now lived in a cottage on the edge of the town below. She smiled, not taking in his words so much as the fact that he had taken lengths to initiate actually moving ahead with this before they had even come to Berkshire today. She felt a sudden moment of import, as one does in such times, where everything seems to slow down. All she could do was take in the strange significance of standing with him, in this musty old corridor that still held traces of grandeur, glimmering underneath all the layers of dust as though through a veil. The carpet, whose true color was hardly visible, hinted at a crested pattern. Spots of gleaming dark wood were still visible in parts of the doorframes and sills.

She had the delicious feeling of the calm before the storm. Cool there, in this secret place, sheltered from the growing summer heat outside, on the precipice of some great adventure.

"…or…. are you… not actually listening to a word I'm saying."

He had cottoned on to Ginny's deaf ears. It was not even a question, just a flatly delivered statement.

"I am listening," she said, dazedly.

"Your eyes were glazing."

"Not true."

"You know, despite what you may think of yourself, you are the kind of person whose thoughts and feelings are quite visible on your face."

"—I do know that, actually."

"Well, —"

"Alright, alright!" she waved the argument away, grinning around at the wallpapered hall, at the light trying to crest through the grimy old windows, "I wasn't listening at all—"

He snorted.

"— but only because," she pressed on firmly, returning her eyes to his eyes and making sure her gaze was one of shrewd focus, "it's perfect here."

"Yes— you actually did mention that about ten times downstairs—"

"No," she laughed, grabbing his hand, which had risen to illustrate his sarcasm in the aristocratic way that she always wondered if he was consciously aware of. "Thank you, Malfoy. Thank you for being willing to indulge my reverie again— thank you for taking me seriously, thank you for bringing me here— on your Sunday— thank you for speaking to Withers this morning— just—"

She broke off, eyes shining, becoming aware she was still holding his hand. She squeezed it gently and let it go.

"Thank you."

Thick silence fell around them. It was one of the things she appreciated most about him; the way he let moments become serious— knowing the time and place for banter. He made a small sound in his throat, straightening his shoulders, nodding slightly, his eyes on her face.

"You're welcome, Weasley," he said.

He shifted imperceptibly, and for a moment Ginny was sure he was going to take hold of her hand again. Her stomach did a strange flip, and the air, if possible, became more full. But he didn't move. If there was something she appreciated even more about him, she realized dimly, it was his judgement.

The corridor, with its traces of maroon in the walls and its small chandelier-style candle holders, felt cozy in a way that she associated with the nooks of the Gryffindor common room. They were alone. So alone, she realized with another thrill of a feeling that felt magnetic but frightening, that all of the usual reasons and complications around them didn't seem to be present.

Her breath had become a little unsteady, but she couldn't for the life of her take her eyes off of his. A muscle was twitching in his jaw and she felt that he was weighing… something. He opened his mouth as if to speak, his head cocked gently to the side, something changing in his eyes that momentarily seemed to take the air out of the room.

But then a little stillness fell. He took a breath and then grinned, almost nervously, dragging his eyes away from hers and to the wall beside them.

"Come on," he said, nudging her back down the corridor with a nod of his head. He reached up, grazing her arm with his hand sweetly, though he quickly took it away, grabbing at the thin air next to his hip instead, as though he had been shocked. Ginny stood, trying to breathe normally as she registered the warm feeling left behind in her stomach by this gesture.

"Let's go to the kitchens," he said softly, warmly, though Ginny felt the slightest undertow of pressing seriousness in his voice, a clear need to get them both out of this corridor, "before we get mold poisoning up here. Come on," he said again, nudging her forward with a little whistle, smiling now, "I know where Withers keeps his stash of tea."

"Alright, okay, Jesus, Malfoy— I'm not a horse," she said, turning as he urged her forward with another low whistle. She could feel that he was smiling behind her.

She smiled slightly too, though found herself looking at the floor. Tea. Yes. A strong cup of tea.

She led him back down the corridor to the staircase, noting distantly how he held up a hand to stop her a couple of times, when reaching a step that seemed dangerously close to collapsing.

At last they made it to the foyer again. The change in temperature, the cool crisp air that seemed to hang around the marble tiles, cleared her head. She flushed slightly, as recognition dawned on her at how close they had just seemingly come to breaking the ice-thin boundary of friendship and business between them.

She followed him curiously behind the staircase, towards twin doors that opened outwards, revealing a vast kitchen behind.

"The biggest strength of this particular room," Malfoy said wryly, his eyes traveling over the stone walls and thick bannisters, "is that it seems to be structurally sound."

"Well, that's good," Ginny said, struggling to leave the memory of the upstairs corridor behind them. She tried to inject normalcy back into her voice, "that means we can have tea and start to make plans without fear of being crushed to death."

Malfoy chuckled.

"I'm glad you're so easily appeased, Weasley."

He moved across the room and began peering into a large cupboard over an old-fashioned stove, pulling out a series of tins.

Ginny walked around the room. It was large, with a huge set of floor-to-ceiling windows. Light was fighting to get in, but the glass was so thickly coated in dust and grime, that only a few measly beams shone through. She pulled out her wand, hearing words in her mind she had heard her mother utter a thousand times. Extergimus.

The upper part of the window where her wand was trained was slowly wiped clean. She repeated the spell in her mind, working her way methodically down the vast expanse of glass until it was all spotless and shining.

She smiled, loving as always, how deeply satisfying that particular spell was.

"Merlin," came Malfoy's voice from behind her. She turned around to see him looking impressed. It was quite a sight. The kitchen had suddenly been thrown into much brighter focus. Malfoy himself was squinting slightly as he admired her handiwork. Ginny noticed that an old kettle was already basking in flames on the stovetop, and an open tin of tea leaves was waiting on the broad counter beside it.

Malfoy came closer, his appreciative look turning from the sparkling glass windows onto her. He looked at her for a few moments, his eyes lingering around her hair, and smiled.

"Where'd you learn to do that?" he asked eventually, his voice light.

"My mother," Ginny answered seriously, breezing past him to inspect a series of workbenches at the back of the room, "who, by the way, I think could be of great help to us here."

He didn't say anything, only went to the boiling kettle to take it off of the heat, nodding in a dubiously entertained sort of way, most likely at the thought of working side by side with her mother.

Ginny cast a few spells on one of the workbenches, until it seemed clean enough to sit and work at. Malfoy joined her with two cups of tea.

"There's sugar, if you like," he said, "and milk— though I didn't dare open it."

Ginny wrinkled her nose.

"Black is fine," she said. Then she smiled up at him, "thank you."

He smiled back and sat opposite her, commanding the talk between them back to one of comfortable planning.

They would keep it small, they decided. At least at first. Harry, Hermione, and the head of the Department of the War Victims Unit would help them to orient the women and children to the idea, then help them transition those who wanted to come to Braddocke.

But first, they needed to renovate. Malfoy had already talked to old man Withers, who was relieved at his offer to buy the place. It had been appraised when he was there a few weeks ago, and all of the structural concerns had been laid out in the blue prints, which Malfoy took from the inside pocket of his robes and lay on the table between them.

They began marking the prints, to get an idea of where to start. Magical builders would have to be the first to come, until they were sure that every inch of the place was reinforced and sound. Then they would clean and renovate, with the help of Mrs. Weasley and an old decorator that Malfoy had known since childhood.

Once, Ginny began to voice dawning concern about how expensive the manor and all of the refitting would be, but Malfoy assured her that it was so dilapidated, it had cost next to nothing. She hadn't quite believed this, but he had allowed no further protests on her part about it. In fact, he had started rambling on about 'Ministry Grants', and she hadn't been able to endure listening for very long. Though, she suspected this may have been his motive.

"And because it will house a charitable organization, the ministry will pay for some, and it will be a sizable write-off," he said, in a tone that said, 'it's nothing, Weasley'. Ginny thought she could sense a veiled desire to be of service under his neutral expression.

She nodded acceptance of this, and they began.

---

Once more, Ginny became so entirely active in the weeks that followed, that she hardly had time for sleep.

Only this time, she relished the experience. The re-awakening of purpose seemed to fuel her more than sleep had, in the weeks where Quiddich had been her only focus.

Now, she juggled her time between the Burrow, Braddoke Manor and the Quiddich pitch. At home, she made plans with her mother and cut photos of furniture and wallpaper patterns from the pages of Good Housewitch. At Braddocke, she and Malfoy spent endless time with the builders, going through each room, painstakingly reenforcing every column, wall, floorboard, and cieling. And on the pitch, she flew quite easily, enjoying the time above it all; her mind weaving together plans and ideas as she soared unburdened through the air.

After four solid weeks of combing through the house with the builders, they were finally given the stamp of approval: it was time to decorate.

Ginny delighted in the rebirth of the manor— it felt like bringing to life a dear old friend. She bounded up the stairs, feeling them rock solid beneath her feet, and ran down the corridors, not hearing a single creak in the boards. Malfoy took his own delight in her delight, though it was veiled under gentle mockery; shouting at her to quit hanging off the banisters already (when she was doing no such thing), and taking to calling her Mistress Braddocke, in a formal sort of way, whenever possible.

Ginny also delighted in the absence of her brothers from this place. Despite their frequent accusations that she was busy 'playing house' with Malfoy, and 'what were they even doing spending all that time together shut up in some mansion', and implying that the sole reason she had dreamed up this ludicrous project was so that she could spend time with him again— the latter of which caused the largest shouting match she and Ron had tangled in for years— so much so that Hermione had to intervene with a shield spell between them at the Burrow dinner table— she felt gloriously free of them and their opinions.

Fueled once more with meaningful passion— she found herself lifted from tabloid woes, once again shielded from insults by a thick armor of focus. She had a separate world to move within now.

It was for this reason that she held the slightest feeling of trepidation as the time approached for her mother to enter the picture. When they had started out it had seemed only natural, after all of their talks in the Burrow Garden, after all the miracles of cleaning and decorating she had witnessed Molly achieve in her childhood, that Mrs. Weasley should come and help— but as the days approached when it would no longer be her, Malfoy, and strangers within the walls of Braddocke, Ginny found herself growing inextricably nervous.

When the day came, it was a Friday. Ginny didn't have practice until later in the evening, so she apparated to Berkshire first thing in the morning. She made herself some tea in the now-familiar kitchen, loving the way it felt to be alone in the manor. It was still dusty; white sheets and swaths of fabric lay over most of the furniture and portraits, to protect them from the work they had been doing on the ceilings at the end of the builder's stretch. She loved the dust, the unkempt nature of the place in this stage. It felt inviting, full of promise. Sometimes she imagined she could feel the great house feeling pleasure, as though she was inside its belly and it was chortling with merry renewal. She had mistakenly voiced this aloud to Malfoy one day. For weeks afterwards, he'd advised her to 'mind the chortling' whenever the builders cast spells that made the walls shake.

She took her mug of tea out of the kitchen and decided to go for one last tour of the raw first floor, before everyone else arrived. She dragged her fingers over the beam of wood that divided the wallpapered walls in half in the corridor that led to the boiler room, watching the dust come off in streaking lines. She walked across the newly restored marble, giving a friendly pat to one of the massive columns beside the staircase. She sat on the bottom step and leaned against the railing, stretching her legs out and drinking her tea in contentment as she let her eyes travel across the room.

"Hey," said a voice.

She looked toward the entryway, but did not see Malfoy. She heard footsteps behind her and he soon emerged from the corridor behind the staircase.

"I came in through the back," he said, unecessarily. "I wanted to see if an unobstructionum charm might work on the big fountain— I thought maybe a mineral buildup in the pipes—"

"Any luck?" she asked, moving her feet for a moment so that he could pass her to settle onto the stair above. He sat facing her, leaning against the opposite railing and letting his feet fall beside her hand. He shook his head.

"Nope," he said, yawning. She smiled and held out her mug of tea, which he took with a nod of thanks. He took a drink and handed it back to her, rubbing his hands over his eyes and forehead tiredly. "It might be as we feared and a pipe has broken. I'll have someone come out who knows how to find the outline of the piping without breaking through the stone. I don't remember the spell."

"You used to know such a spell?" Ginny asked, bemused at such specific knowledge of fountain care. "Why would a boy who grew up in a manor filled with servants and groundskeepers ever know something so layman?"

He gave her a half-hearted eye-roll at the tease in her tone.

"It is precisely because I grew up on a manor with servants and groundskeepers that I know such a spell," he drawled, sounding bored with himself as he spoke the words. Then he smiled a little, looking at the railing near her head but clearly seeing something from memory.

"Because of one groundskeeper in particular," he said, shifting slightly against the railing, in a far more cramped position than she, what with his longer legs. "McBride. He was younger than the others— probably in his thirties. Scottish. I loved him when I was a kid. Used to follow him around all day."

He smiled to himself at the thought and Ginny watched him curiously. She had a sudden new image of young Malfoy's life. A boy alone in a massive house on a massive estate, making friends with the adult waitstaff in leu of siblings or kids his own age. She smiled.

"And what ever happened to him?" she asked. Malfoy grunted, smiling un-amusedly.

"My father," he said simply. "Fired him. I was never sure why— though I heard the maids talking right after he left. I think he confronted my father about the dark arts. McBride was a good man, warm, didn't feel like he had to allow himself to be treated as a lesser man just because he worked in a position of service. Not afraid to speak his mind," he said, looking Ginny with wry amusement, "it's what I liked most about him. But Lucious didn't agree, surprisingly."

He smiled again to himself, perhaps imagining his father enduring the confrontation.

"Were you close to others in the waitstaff?" Ginny asked, unable to quell her sudden curiosity.

Malfoy nodded, smiling again.

"I was. They all practically raised me. When I was really little my mother and father were always out— always at parties or functions, brushing elbows, re-establishing their position in high society, secretly networking, slowly re-forming their circle of allies—" he hesitated, and Ginny got the feeling that he had never said these things to anyone out loud, that some reflex in him still held that it was a forbidden topic. But he continued.

"So yes, I was very close with… I had three nannies growing up," he declared, meeting her eyes. Ginny thought she sensed a small measure of pleasure in this, as though he was curious as to what she might think of this revelation. "Mrs. Crook, Belinda, and Ms. Geminat."

"Belinda?" repeated Ginny with amusement, unable to keep the smile off her face, "was she a Fairy Godmother?"

Malfoy chuckled, looking at the bannister beside her again, a distant fondness blooming on his face that she had never seen before.

"Practically. She was— God, you know, I think she was my first love," he said, grinning at Ginny, "she was younger as well. In her twenties I think. She was with us from when I was 8 until I turned 10, but she was just… kind, and beautiful, and warm— nurturing, the opposite of my mother— of any member of my family come to that..."

He smiled at the memory, and Ginny found that she couldn't take her eyes off of him, amazed by these unprecedented disclosures.

"Isn't 10 a little old to be having a nanny?"

He rolled his eyes at her.

"Yes. But for lack of a better word. She… ate meals with me when my parents were gone, made sure I learned my arithmetic and did my reading and writing. We'd go on walks together and she'd keep an eye on my flying practice. Make sure I didn't get hurt or do anything too stupid— things like that."

Ginny nodded, feeling oddly touched at the thought of this extended family of sorts. Of maids, servants, and caretakers. It made sense, she realized. She could see in him hands, ideas, influences that clearly did not come from Lucious or Narcissa.

"And what happened to her?" she asked softly. Malfoy's gaze was still on the bannister. His eyes moved between two points, as though watching something play out, his expression slowly growing solemn.

"She… quit," he said at length, "…because of my father."

He returned his eyes to Ginny's, as though resigned to admit something out loud.

"He made… advances on her," that particular muscle was twitching again in his jaw, and he rubbed at his forehead again, looking worn in a different kind of way. "I happened to overhear it, though he never knew that. It was… aggressive," he said finally, and Ginny's stomach clenched. She could imagine. Lucious, in his cooly threatening way, using his position to intimidate a young woman who worked in his home into…

She had to bite her lip to keep herself from speaking her mind about his father.

Malfoy sighed, shaking his head.

"She fled, basically. Never even said goodbye, she was too afraid of him— and my mother. She did manage to get a letter to me though— through one of the maids. She told me she was forced to leave by a circumstance out of her control… but that she had cherished her time as my friend, and that she saw something in me that gave her hope."

He seemed to be replaying her words.

"Hope?" Ginny asked after a few moments, hardly daring to speak at all, so delicate seemed this glimpse into Malfoy's life. He looked at her, nodding again in that distantly satisfied way.

"Mmm. That I could grow to be different from my family."

Ginny smiled achingly, feeling a tenderness and… a strange sort of pride.

"And lo and behold," she said lightly. He flushed ever so slightly, returning her smile a little self-deprecatingly.

"What about the others?" Ginny asked, expecting this window back into time to pop at any moment. But Malfoy seemed completely relaxed, in repose next to her on the stairs.

"Nannies?" he asked, "Mrs. Crook was great. She was there from the time I was born until I turned six. Very motherly, very funny. Also Scottish. She was always who I would look for when I was upset. I remember running right past my mother to go find Mrs. Crook in the kitchens anytime I got hurt," he smiled. "And Ms. Geminat was French. Very French, very unpredictable. But I liked her. She taught me to speak the language and brought me pastries and chocolate croissants whenever she was in a good mood."

Ginny watched it all play out in her mind as he spoke, finding that he suddenly made much more sense to her. He was so full of surprises in his character… because he had more influences than she had known.

"The one I was closest to though," Malfoy said, with some finality, "was my house-elf."

"What— Dobby?" Ginny blurted before thinking. From what she knew, and from knowing Dobby, this did not track at all.

Malfoy looked up in surprise. They studied each other's eyes for a moment.

"I forgot you knew Dobby," he said, furrowing his brow as if the thought were very strange. Which, Ginny supposed, it rather was. "But, no… not Dobby. Dobby was my father's."

This sentence hung in the air for a moment, and the unspoken meaning, his tone of slight regret, said enough about what kind of a life that was for any creature.

"No, I'm talking about Bolby. He attended my wing of the house. He was there from the time I was born, practically. I remember the day I realized I had started to grow taller than him," he said suddenly, grinning as though he had forgotten until just now. "Granted, I was a spoiled little brat for a lot of my early life, but Bolby was just… you know. Just loved and served me unconditionally no matter how much of a rich little snot I acted towards him."

Ginny let her eyes roam over him. He had crossed his arms over his chest, looking slightly embarrassed at some memory she could not see.

"Where is he now?" she asked quietly, almost wondering if she should, and hoping dearly that Lucious had not murdered him or something horrific of the like. But Malfoy smiled.

"Bolby is now at my house," he said, grinning at her look of trepidation. "Probably fussing over the washing as we speak, even though I strongly suggested he should leave it and take a break. He's getting over a headcold," he added.

Ginny laughed.

"Will I ever get to meet Bolby?" she asked without thought, not meaning or realizing the possible implications of this question. Malfoy looked at her, and the implications seemed to leap out of the words between them. He smiled after a moment. He swallowed and Ginny couldn't tell if he hadn't noticed her embarrassment, or was just trying to smooth over the unexpected pause.

"Of course. If you want. I actually thought he might be a lot of help here. He can whip a kitchen staff in order like no one I've ever met."

"You've never met my mother."

Malfoy smiled.

"Well that's about to change in a minute, isn't it?" he glanced at his watch, and then settled back against the railing. Then he smiled again, "I think you'd like Bolby, actually. He's incredibly stubborn and determined."

He looked at her pointedly. She rolled her eyes.

"Then I'm sure I would. I loved Dobby, in any case."

There was a small silence, and Malfoy made a low noise in his chest, a thoughtful sound that held a note of regret.

"Also incredibly stubborn and determined."

They looked at each other.

And then a voice broke the reverie between them.

"Hello? Ginny?"

It was her mother, calling from the entryway.

"Here, mum!" she called back, suddenly self conscious in front of Malfoy. She had a sense of colliding worlds, magnified by this glimpse into his childhood, as her mother strolled into view from the hall. There was the sound of the great door opening and closing again, and after a few moments, another woman peered into the room. Ginny presumed she must be the decorator, Mme. Autrielle.

"Oh… hello," said Mrs. Weasley. She was a little winded from the walk, but smiledg warmly at the two of them, lounging on the staircase like teenagers.

"Hi," said Ginny, getting to her feet to kiss her mother in greeting. "Mum, this is Draco Malfoy— I don't… know that you two have ever actually met."

Mrs. Weasley shook her head and reached her hands out to clasp Malfoy's. Ginny found herself holding her breath. She realized, belatedly, that part of her nerves around introducing her mother into this circumstance, came from the teasing they had all endured from Hogwarts-aged-Malfoy. She did't know what she expected, however, because that version of Malfoy did not seem to be anywhere in sight.

He had gotten to his feet at once and descended the stairs to greet the two women.

"Hello, Mrs. Weasley," he said, taking her hands in his, and Ginny was almost surprised to hear the same amount of respect in his voice that was there for any other person they had ever encountered in business. And even some extra cordiality.

"Hello, Draco, it's wonderful to meet you at last," Molly smiled warmly at him, and Ginny felt her stomach relax, as some unbidden expectation of prejudgement between her mother and Malfoy disappeared. She had almost expected her mother's hatred of Bellatrix Lestrange to have been transferred to Malfoy. Though she knew her mother could never hold a young person to such negative standards.

Malfoy was smiling back.

"It's wonderful to meet you as well. And—" he looked up at the elegant Mme. Autrielle, who was waiting for him with a coy expression of dignified tenderness. Malfoy kissed her on both cheeks, saying, "Bonjour, Vivienne, may I introduce— Mrs. Weasley, Ginny, this is Mme. Autrielle."

"Oh, please! Call me Molly," Ginny's mother told them at once. Ginny watched in awe as Malfoy looked at her mother, nodding in a shyly respectful kind of way.

"And me, Vivienne!" Mme. Autrielle exclaimed to both Ginny and her mother in a heavy French accent. "I have known Draco since he was a wee, petit petit ouseau! It is bien, tres, tres bien to make both of your acquaintance."

"Moi aussi, Mademoiselle," Ginny said, with relative fluency, and Vivienne clapped a little, making a face that looked something like approval at Malfoy. He gave her a look and she laughed, a deep but elegant sound, and clapped her hands again.

"Well," Vivienne said, walking across the room, her heels clicking on the newly installed marble. She was older, at least sixty or seventy, with one large streak of black left in her otherwise grey hair. But she was elegant— tall and slender, dressed in black, with rouge on her lips. Dramatic lines of kohl framed her brows and eyes, which were inspecting the room with shrewd appraisal, "where shall we begin?"

And stage two began.

And it was wonderful. Quite unexpectedly wonderful.

Before she knew it, Ginny's life went from one of following builders around, assisting them as they reenforced ceilings and beams, any numbers of tasks that typically caused cascades of dust and rubble to fall down upon them five times a day—a world of men in which she was perpetually covered in grime, much to Malfoy's amusement— to a world of women.

Molly and Vivienne wasted no time, and by the second day of their decorating endeavor, the foyer had been transformed into a decadent workshop filled with rolls of fabric, samples of wallpaper, floor polish, wood polish, portrait-frame polish, vases, antiques, busts and paintings.

The kitchen had been likewise transformed. Molly had been horrified by the lack of proper food and drink, and had promptly remedied this by stocking the gigantic charmed cooler and pantries with fresh fruit, vegetables, breads, cakes, eggs, and cutlets. She had produced a case each of butterbeers, spritzers, and lemonade sodas from somewhere in the depths of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, and had stocked them up with a far better assortment of teas and coffee.

The kitchen had been scoured, the tables and workbenches mended and sanded, and here they had lain pages upon pages of ideas, samples, cutouts, shop addresses, and catalogues.

In short, immediately after Mrs. Weasley's arrival, Braddocke House had gone from feeling like a barren but friendly hallowed haunt— to something of a haven.

Ginny had also watched, in an aching kind of amazement, how Malfoy and Molly had taken to each other. There was, she couldn't help but notice, something reminiscent of Mrs. Weasley's relationship to Harry in their kinship— though it was faint. Ginny didn't think anyone but her might have seen the flicker of parallel, but her mother, a woman whose greatest talent was her ability to nurture, could sense parental neglect in anybody— no matter how guarded, successful, or full grown they were.

She didn't fuss over him the way she fussed over Harry— they were far too old for that. But Ginny noticed how, after a couple of weeks, her mother seemed to make a point to make Malfoy feel cared for. She insisted on cooking him lunches alongside Ginny, and she touched his shoulder, his arm, his hand, when walking past, or ending a conversation with him, in a way that seemed intuitively designed to fill a void that mightn't have been fully filled in childhood.

Ginny also watched Malfoy's slow warming to this. He was taken aback at first, but she caught the imperceptible flushes of pleasure a few times, when from across the room, Mrs. Weasley said something to him that made them both laugh, and then squeezed his shoulder amicably before going to confer with Vivienne about fabric samples.

Molly and Vivienne had also caught on like a house on fire. Again, Ginny was surprised. She hadn't known her mother to be particularly fond of the french, but they had delved into the project with such equal enthusiasm that all cultural boundaries seemed to be broken. They discussed cloths, textures, and colors endlessly; often Ginny would hear both of their voices, ringing with laughter, echoing from some distant part of the manor house.

The house, her love, had become so much more attractive with the arrival of Mrs. Weasley and Vivienne, that Ginny found herself spending nearly every waking moment of her time that she was not contractually obligated to be on the Quidditch pitch— within Braddocke's grounds.

Even Hermione had not been able to stay away. She had come to visit one morning, when they were a few days in, and had become equally enraptured by the creativity within the walls of the mansion. The women spent days pacing the rooms and halls, trying this and that, or conferring at the kitchen workbenches over tea while vast shafts of late afternoon light poured in through the windows, illuminating the now gleaming metal of pots, pans, surfaces, and polished floors.

Ginny had been shocked by how much of this part of the process Malfoy stuck around for. She hadn't imagined, all those weeks ago, while they were planning, that he would ever take an interest in helping them pick tapestry fabrics and wallpaper, and… while he didn't always exactly relish or participate in the specific tasks, he was usually always… there. Either going over plans, walking through the grounds with potential gardeners, or joining in the seemingly endless process of trying to get the ancient old fountains to function properly.

She didn't know when he was dong his other work— didn't know at this point if he was doing other work, if he had the power to just delegate whatever he wanted to others and spend his time on the projects he pleased— she really didn't know what the rest of his life was like in any way— but nonetheless, she was surprised and pleased by the consistency with which he came to Braddocke.

She'd voiced this much to her mother one day, when they were taking a break out back, under the shade of a vast elm tree. It was in the center of a space of the grassy grounds mapped out for an elaborate rose garden. Enchanted string twirled and looped its way in pleasing patterns all around them— marked by small wooden stakes that designated plots of land for different species of roses.

"I'm just surprised he's spending so much time here, what with all the detail — the fabric swatches, and embossing shades we're getting into," Ginny said to Molly, taking a sip of her mother's special frosted ice-tea.

"Are you?" Molly said, eyeing her daughter with an amused, knowing expression, that made Ginny straighten at once, suddenly uncomfortable.

"Yes— it's just— I'm surprised, happy, but surprised with how much he's been willing to take this all on."

"And why," Mrs. Weasley said patiently, still sounding amused, "my dear, do you think he's taken all of this on?"

Ginny could feel the unspoken meaning in her mother's words and furrowed her brow.

"Mum. Because, I think… I think he was affected… by our work with Trinity. We all were. I know I needed a way to continue that way of life. I think he did too."

Molly made a sound of agreement beside her and sipped her tea, ice cubes clinking satisfyingly. A row of puffy clouds moved gently across the sky in the budding breeze.

"I think that's probably true. But," her mother continued delicately, brushing Ginny's hair from her shoulder with a familiar, loving touch, "it is also my experience that men don't usually buy mansions on a whim for just anybody."

Ginny gave her another look.

"You're making it sound a lot different than it was, mum."

"Am I?"

"Yes. There were — Grants and such," she muttered, wishing she had actually listened to the specifics.

Molly pursed her lips and made a strained 'mmm' sound. Then she snorted with laughter, which only increased to outright laughter when Ginny looked indignant. It was contagious though, and Ginny found herself laughing for no reason as Molly dabbed at her eyes between gales.

"Mum," she said. Her mother shook her head, patting her on the back.

Ginny rolled her eyes. She took a deep breath of the lovely summer air. The scent of fresh-cut grass was pungently sweet in her nose. They had finally decided on a gardener and a groundskeeper, and the grounds were swiftly transforming from wild to freshly cut and pristine.

Except for one area. The pond. Ginny had discovered it within days of arriving, and had been so immediately won over by its wild charm, that she had proposed to Malfoy that they leave it wild.

It was a small pond, only twenty meters in any direction across, but it was alive with wildlife. Red oaks, patches of rogue hedges, and wild strawberries lined its edges. Reeds and tall grasses whistled in the evening breeze, and a variety of birds flitted day and night from tree to tree. Frogs and crickets chirped and sang from the outer banks, deafening at dusk, and the occasional splash of a fish would punctuate the still waters. It was beautiful. It reminded Ginny of the Burrow.

"Of the what?" Malfoy had asked when she had said as much on their first exploration together of the grounds. She had grinned, her back to him, looking out at the still water, the reeds rustling with the disturbance of some small animal, making her think of the gnomes.

"Of my home," she said. He had made a sound of understanding.

And they had agreed to leave it as is. Save for clearing a path to the edge of the bank, and adding a small bench beside the water. It was a good place to come and think. To heal, Ginny thought, imagining the women that would sit, watching the serenity of the water, teeming with the fullness of life.

Ginny brought her mind back to the present, finishing her tea, and pushing thoughts of Malfoy from her tired mind. But her mother wasn't done.

"I like him," Molly declared, studying her daughter's face, "Merlin knows I loathe his father, but… he's different."

Ginny returned her mother's look, an unexpected feeling of relief unfurling itself quietly in her stomach.

"I know your brothers, and your father think they know what's best for you," Mrs. Weasley continued, hitting her feelings on the head, "but they're all so stubborn, and I don't honestly think they've been able to set their prejudices down an ounce since the war— they've certainly not made an effort to get to know him, or stop to think about the extent to which he's helped you and Hermione."

Ginny made a noise of tired agreement. She raised her tea in a jesting toast, draining the last of it.

"But you can trust yourself, Ginny," Molly said with finality, looking at her with a warm, conspiratorial expression. "I trust you. And I trust Hermione. I daresay you both have far more rational judgement than your brothers," Ginny snorted at this, "And Draco, for all of his family line, seems like a young man, who has made mistakes in his young life, but who has made a great effort to rectify them— and who has integrity."

Ginny stared at her mother, drinking in this confirmation that she was too old to need. She realized a part of her had been it craving nonetheless.

"I…— thanks—mum," she said, reaching for her mother's hand. They shared a look filled with a cascade of things, and Ginny felt breath coming slightly more easily to her than it had a moment before. "I— I mean, Malfoy, he's become a dear friend. I care for him very much, I really do—" she heard herself speak, looking out at the hills, a sudden wave of feeling creeping up her chest and into her throat. But she wasn't ready to say any more, to her mother or to herself, so she looked back at Molly and smiled.

"Merlin's sacks, it's been so difficult with Ron, George and Charlie over all this for the last six months— it's just really nice to hear you say that. Really. Thank you."

"Mmmhmm," her mother said, easily, letting Ginny's decision not to go any further slide without pressing. "Besides. It's not like our family line is as clean as all that anyways— you know Muriel's side of the family— and we're related to the Blacks too, even distantly. Your father had a hard time swallowing that when we met, let me tell you."

"Really?" Ginny asked with interest.

"Mmmhmm," Molly said again, smiling in reminiscent amusement.

"Good lord, so it's just Weasley genetics, this moral high-horse?"

Molly laughed.

"Yes, possibly. We love them for it, though."

She put her glass down and leaned into Ginny, so that their shoulders were touching. The sky was beginning to turn ever so slightly pink in sunset. Ginny smiled.

"We do."

---

They had decided, that rich warm hues, comforting fabrics, and strong feminist themes were the way to go.

They were working on the ground level and first floor, having decided early on to start from the top down— as the rooms on the third floor were small, nearly identical, and therefore quite simple.

Because of their size, they had naturally determined that the third floor would be the children's ward.

It was beautiful. Three weeks had passed since Molly and Vivienne's arrival, and Ginny often found herself drifting up the polished cherrywood stairs to the top floor, to wander around in a hushed state of wonder. They had grouped the floor in sections according to age. In the rooms for the very young children, they had managed to fit four small beds quite comfortably. There were two beds in each room for the older kids, and the colors in each varied between deep blues, reds, and golden yellows. Molly had managed to find little portraits of all of the famous wizarding fairytale characters, which were set in many of the rooms in gilded frames. Soft poufs, pillows and chairs lay invitingly in the corners of the small spaces, and thick rugs were set in the centers of the rooms.

At the end of the corridor there was a larger room, where the old serving staff might once have gathered for parties or shared their meals. An old piano that they had fixed up stood polished against one of the walls. A bookshelf laden with children's books, pre-Hogwarts-age history texts, introductory spell books, and comics took up half of the wall opposite, with couches on either side, and a large expanse left open in the center of the room for play.

The rooms on the two floors below had been carefully divided, enlarged, and planned to house all of the women, as well as overnight staff, with an extra room they could keep open for guests.

The second floor had a distinctly feminine feel— though in a way that Ginny loved— not garish or overly sweet, but cozy, beautiful, full of life.

They had divided the rooms into single suites and rooms with two beds, so that the women could choose to have their own space— or company, depending on how they did best.

The quarters were brimming with plants. They hung by the windows, and sat in stocky pots on desks and nightstands. Vases of fresh flowers in each accommodation produced a dreamy floating mix of scents that mingled together in the corridor— of lavender, lilac, sweet pea and gardenia.

The rooms had a blend in style and feel of Molly and Vivienne, that Ginny had decided, worked very well indeed. The women's floor had come out feeling like a beautiful Bed and Breakfast in the south of France. The sheets, bed hangings, tapestries, and rugs had the curation of Vivienne's practiced French eye— rich in quality, with inviting autumnal shades and soft, silken textures. The furniture and arrangement had Molly's touch, feeling perfectly home-y, in a way Ginny could only ever associate with the Burrow. Sweet lace curtains fluttered in the breeze, and mix-matched lamps sat on the nightstands. Books and novels of all varieties sat on little floating shelves or small second-hand bookcases. Small antique knick-knacks sat here and there on the shelves or surfaces. A ceramic tissue box shaped like a tea kettle that would expel a tissue with a little toot, whenever someone needed one. A music box ballerina who would step down from her box and dance, whenever the evening sunlight caught her porcelain body.

At present, they were tackling the foyer.

Ginny yawned, nudging the door from the kitchens open with her foot as she carried two hazardously full mugs of tea out into the great room— where Molly, Vivienne, and Malfoy were deciding where the best place for a large bust of Evangeline Orpington, the beloved minister of magic from 1849, might be.

She stepped through a stack of tables, chairs, and dirty portraits, and over a few rolls of rich golden, green, and turquoise silks they were considering for reupholstering the couches. Arriving having spilled only a few drops upon the gleaming white marble, she handed one mug to her mother, and took a weary seat on the staircase. Grimacing, she shifted uncomfortably, her behind feeling rather sore from a particularly long match yesterday— five hours— curse that elusive little snitch. They had won, but barely, and the five hours of mental and physical stress had worn her out.

"Are you sure you don't want to go home and rest, dear?" her mother asked shrewdly, having watched her daughter's slow progression to the staircase. Ginny shook her head.

"No, I slept for fourteen hours last night."

At this Malfoy looked up with a kind of disbelieving horror, and Ginny laughed. "I'm not tired— just," she shifted again, glowering when she simply could not find a position that did not grate upon one of her aching muscles, "…a bit sore."

Molly made a sound of dissatisfaction and put her hands up in surrender, turning her attention back to Vivienne, who had moved the bust to just beside the staircase, so that it was at the center of the room. But after a moment, a cushion soared from one of the chairs in the stack by the kitchen and landed next to Ginny. Molly caught her eye and smiled.

"I think that's lovely," Mrs. Weasley said, appraising the bust of Evangeline with her hands on her hips, head cocked to the side.

"Oui… I agree. Tres magnifique! She shall greet everyone who passes by— such symbolism of strength," Vivienne proclaimed with finality, clapping her hands and moving on to the matter of the enormous portrait of Wendelin the Wierd, waiting for them impatiently in the far corner. "What do you think about mounting Wendelin opposite, Molly?…"

The two women clicked across the foyer to attend to the matter, and Malfoy stayed behind, smiling slightly at the pair. He caught Ginny's eye and she bit her lip on a grin. He came to sit beside her, nudging her over with his foot.

"Have you talked to Granger today?" he asked her, accepting her mug of tea and groaning slightly as he leaned back against the stairs.

"Nope— did you hear the part where I slept fourteen hours? I —,"

"Of course I did— honestly, Weasley, that confounds me—,"

"—So, that means," Ginny said, holding up a hand, "I literally woke up, at noon, and apparated straight here, thank you very much. No, no need to praise my austere dedication— I think any more praise might go to my head—,"

Malfoy snorted.

"I know you think you're joking, but it probably would. That's precisely why I refrain."

"Oh?" Ginny scoffed, unable to help a laugh as she looked over at him, "is that why— you know, Malfoy, I would actually probably begin to thrive if I got proper credit—,"

He snorted again, his eyes glimmering. He shifted his body to face her properly.

"Who exactly, Weasley, do you feel is not giving you your proper credit," he began, in a lower voice, raising a hand to illustrate his point, "your many quidditch fans?" he put down a finger, "the papers?" he put down another, "McGonnagal— you know she practically cried when you and Granger gave your Trinity presentation to the Hogwarts staff—,"

"Alright, alright!" Ginny laughed, too tired for a joke of this length. "Perhaps you're right. Well in that case," she turned to look at him again, "thank you for keeping me hum—,"

There were the sounds sudden footsteps of someone quickly and heavily approaching, and a loud clear of a throat.

Ginny looked up, and to her absolute and immediate annoyance, saw Ron fast approaching from the entrance to the foyer. She noted how strained their relationship really was, as she felt some small part of herself wanting him to go off, just so she could have an excuse to jinx him properly, while Hermione wasn't here.

"Sorry to interrupt," he said, sounding quite the opposite of sorry—in his stupid voice, Ginny's brain spat, unbidden.

"You're not interrupting, darling!" Mrs. Weasley was crossing the room with delight, arms open wide. Ginny knew her mother well enough to see that this gesture was 90 percent genuine, and 10 percent to diffuse the rapid rise of tension in the room between her youngest children.

As her mother pulled Ron into a hug, graciously muffling whatever else he might have had to say against her shoulder, Ginny saw Hermione… and Harry entering the foyer behind him.

"Hermione! Harry!" she exclaimed, getting to her feet and beaming at Hermione. "No one told me you were coming—,"

"I actually," Malfoy had risen to his feet behind her, "was just trying to."

"Bit slow about it," Ginny quipped over her shoulder. He rolled his eyes. Ron glowered. Ginny flicked her eyes to her brother for a mili-second before deciding that she could not bear to even acknowledge his presence in the room. "Mmm," she said, shaking this off and turning back to smile at Hermione. "Well, welcome to the final days. And Harry— you've not been here yet, have you? Welcome—,"

She beamed around at the high ceiling, the fresh tapestries, the gleaming staircase, "to Braddocke Manor."

Harry raised his eyebrows in slight amusement. His hands were in his pockets. He followed her lead and let his eyes travel over the carved ceilings, down over the few grand portraits they had already cleaned and hung, over the bust of Evangeline to the perfectly polished bannisters along the staircase.

"Impressive," he said, nodding in a surprised kind of approval, "Hermione's told me all about it, of course, but I didn't quite expect— it's really nice — Hi, Molly—"

Mrs. Weasley had finished with Ron, and had come to give Harry's arm a loving squeeze. He returned this gesture with a sheepish smile, and Ginny's heart warmed at the look that passed between them.

"Well, I'll echo Ginevra's sentiments, and welcome you to the house! …Hermione, dear, what do you think of the bust of Evangeline there?"

Ginny winced at the use of her full name, knowing, without looking, that a smirk would have sprung to Malfoy's lips behind her. Hermione stepped to the side with Mrs. Weasley to appraise the position of the famous female minister, and Harry turned his gaze back to Ginny… and then to Malfoy.

An odd moment passed. It wasn't awkward, per-say, but a marked silence fell. The expression on Harry's face as he looked at Malfoy was strange. Not unpleasant, not friendly; just mild and… interested. Ginny was reminded with a flush and a recurring spark of curiosity of Harry's words to her that day in the Burrow kitchen, regarding Malfoy. She felt suddenly strangely self-conscious, to have been caught here like this, as though this might confirm his teasings. She also wondered, with intensifying desire as she watched Harry nod his head slightly to Malfoy, an unmistakable history passing between them— what their private relationship had been like these past years.

"Hi, Malfoy."

Harry held out his hand.

Malfoy stepped forward, to stand next to Ginny, taking Harry's hand with only the smallest of pauses.

"Potter."

They looked at each other for a moment, and then, and Ginny could not believe it had taken him so long, Ron butted in.

Or he tried to at least. He had only just started to speak, uttered a single syllable that already sounded far more aggressive than was warranted, when their mother intervened swiftly for the second time.

"Ron, Harry— let me introduce you to Vivienne— Ron, come, don't be rude now," and Ginny watched with a satisfying measure of mirth, as her brother's attention was dragged away from them, and onto Vivienne, who seemed slightly starstruck by Harry's sudden appearance. Ron's shoulders lowered imperceptibly, and he grudgingly held out a hand as Molly introduced them.

Hermione caught her eye and let out a slow breath with a wide-eyed expression.

"Sorry," she said, so that only Ginny and Malfoy could hear her, "I knew he'd have to come check it out at some point, and since Harry and I were coming today, it seemed like as good a time as any."

She smiled a rather strained smile at them, and then seemed to wave the matter away.

"So," she continued, her eyes alight as she switched into organizational mode as only she could, "I spoke to Maury this morning, and to the post-war treasurer as well. Our grant has gone through, so we have funding for a staff—"

Ginny's heart made a little leap, and she raised her arms in triumph— although it had always been a given that the proposal would be approved.

"— and Maury has collected the last of the paperwork from all of the women, as well as all of the orphanages that are currently housing the children. He wants to move them in two weeks— do you think that will be enough time?"

Hermione bit her lip as she finished this sentance, looking around at the piles of old antiques that lined the room, the raw boards of the wall along the kitchen that had yet to be papered, and the layer of dust that still coated the back half of the room.

Ginny's mind spun. She tried to calculate how much work was left to do on the rooms of the first floor. On the grounds, and here, in the foyer. Behind her, Malfoy shifted. Ginny was sure he was appraising the room as well, and in doing so, he had moved closer to her. She could feel the heat of his chest an inch away from her back. She found herself resisting a strong urge to lean back into him. Seemingly turning back to Hermione, she felt him realize how close he was and moved to stand next to her instead. Ginny tried to let the moment roll off of her.

"I think…" said Malfoy slowly, seeming completely undistracted by the micro-exchange, "it really depends on the staff. What did Maury think about where to hire from? If we go with the agency, they'll all be trained, and I think we could do it in two weeks. If we're hiring completely on our own, we'll need a little more time to train and orient them, I think."

Hermione nodded. Maury was the Head of the War Victims unit. Ginny loved him. They all did. He was actually an old friend of her fathers— they had worked together in lower levels of the Ministry for years before the war. He was a good man. Not unlike her father— fair, kindhearted, thoughtful and dedicated. He had taken to Ginny's idea immediately, had been thrilled when Malfoy had made the move to buy the Braddocke Estate, and had proved a strong partner to them in getting the women and children ready.

"He suggested Madame Clementine's agency," said Hermione. "He said they used them when they had to rehabilitate all of those Aurors who were held captive. He said they are really professional— and I trust his judgement."

Ginny looked at Malfoy. He was nodding in thought.

"Who will pick them?" he asked. He and Hermione looked at each other, and Ginny had a momentary appreciation for how well they worked together when it came to organization and detail.

"I can," Hermione said. "Ginny will be busy here, and I have a good idea of the type of caretakers we'll need."

"Do you have the time?" Ginny asked dubiously. Hermione gave her a tired smile.

"I'll find it."

"What about the tutors? And the therapists?" Malfoy asked, ignoring the girls' aside.

Hermione smiled again.

"That too— I work with a pool of both already, in liasing with the education department and St. Mugoes. I have some candidates already in mind, actually."

Ginny felt her admiration for Hermione swell. Of course she already had candidates in mind.

"Alright," she said, feeling that it was settled, and yet feeling as she said it how little of a time two weeks seemed.

And even as she sunk into momentary doubt, Malfoy was moving into action.

He crossed the room to where the others stood, where Mrs. Weasley was pointing out especially interesting antiques they had found to a polite Harry and a glowering Ron. Afternoon sun was falling in beautiful golden shafts through the textured crystal windows, causing the marble floor to glitter at certain angles. The large fiddle-leaf fig tree they had bought from the magical nursery swayed blissfully as the light spilled over its leaves, shivering in pleasure, in the way that cats sometimes do. Cassandra Trelawney, in the large portrait behind it, yawned lazily, apparently entranced by the sunny afternoon as well. She checked the teacup on her desk, and upon finding it empty, got up gracefully and exited the frame, presumably to make more.

"Oui mon amour? il semble que vous ayez des instructions importantes. vous semblez très autoritaire, ma chère," Vivienne was speaking softly to Malfoy, who was approaching her purposefully. He smiled at her words, at some joke Ginny's patchy French didn't quite permit her to understand.

"Je ne présumerais jamais d'être votre patron, madame, votre travail est parfait, comme il l'a été toute ma vie," Malfoy said, and Vivienne swatted him affectionately. "Non," he continued, "je veux seulement vous dire que nous venons de recevoir la nouvelle que nos invités arriveront dans deux semaines."

"Deux semaines?" Vivienne gasped, her expression morphing fluidly into one of wide-eyed thought.

"Pensez-vous que ce sera assez de temps pour vous?" Malfoy asked.

There was a moment's pause, and Vivienne's eyes moved rapidly, though she was staring into space. Then she stopped, and drew herself up straighter. She looked at Malfoy with her brand of dignified gumption and nodded.

"Oui," she said at last, and now there was a definite note of determined excitement in her voice. "Oui, je pense que nous pouvons le faire, ma chère."

Ginny let out a slow breath. She pushed away all of the half-formed thoughts swimming in her subconscious— of a young Malfoy, learning French from his nanny over hot chocolate and pastries— and tried to get herself on board. She knew enough French to get the gist. They would open in two weeks time.

"Merveilleuse," Malfoy said, and he sounded impossibly calm, still smiling at Vivienne, who Ginny now knew had known him since he was a boy. She had been something of a benevolent Aunt figure throughout his life, who had tolerated his parents purely for the opportunity to decorate their manor and their summer homes— to work with the riches, the historical artifacts, and the quality of things Narcissa had coveted in her spaces.

"Molly?" Malfoy was now addressing her mother, gently edging into her conversation with Harry. Ron, who had watched the French exchange with narrowed eyes, shaking his head occasionally, turned white.

"Yes, dear," Mrs. Weasley turned her attention to Draco, putting a hand on Harry's shoulder as if to momentarily press pause on their discussion.

"Do you feel like two weeks is enough time to finish here?" Malfoy asked her. His eyes searched her face, and Ginny watched, both bemused as she still sometimes was to see her mother and Malfoy interact, and impressed by Malfoy's easy focus. He seemed entirely and unconcernedly attentive to the matter at hand, even while Ron's eyes attempted to bore holes into him. Ginny knew firsthand that her brother, obnoxious as he was, was nothing to some of the characters Malfoy was used to dealing with in business. She had met some of them herself.

"Oh, my— two weeks?!" Molly had raised a hand to her mouth, looking to Vivienne to gauge what she thought.

"I think it can be done," Vivienne said graciously, and proceeded to list, with a hawk-eyed intent as she counted on her fingers, all of the things they had left to do.

"Well…" Mrs. Weasley paused. She deliberated, seemingly weighing the amount of work left to do. Ginny knew she was probably also weighing the amount of work there was to do at home at the Burrow— for Teddy, for Aurthur, and the revolving door of her sons. But, like Vivienne, her mother stilled eventually, nodding to herself, and then looked back up at Malfoy. "Alright. Yes. That does sound do-able. The sooner those poor souls can get out of the orphanages and boarding houses, the better."

Malfoy nodded. "I agree. Right. Well, if that's the case, I have some things I need to get in order. I'll see you all later."

Mrs. Weasley smiled warmly at him, and reached out to squeeze his arm, which was at this point, not unusual.

"Alright dear. We'll be here," she said, and then turned to Vivienne, who immediately began to lead her over to the collection of fabric samples, their voices quickening as they walked.

Ron was showing some danger signs. His face was still white with rage, though a tell-tale redness was creeping up his neck. Ginny saw that his fists were balled so tightly that his knuckles were popping out alarmingly. It appeared that the sight of his mother treating Draco Malfoy with kindness, was the final straw of the last six months where Malfoy was concerned.

"Hermione," said Ginny quickly, "why don't you and I give Harry and Ron a tour of the upstairs?"

Hermione looked over at her, then at Ron, and understood instantly. She swept over to his side, and with one hand on his back, the other on his arm, began to steer Ron up the stairs without hesitation.

"Yes, good idea, Ginny, come on, Harry!"

Ron was spluttering slightly, and Ginny could hear Hermione speaking rapidly to him in a quiet undertone. She closed her eyes, praying for patience, immediately regretting her decision to include herself on said tour.

"See you later," Malfoy said to her in a low voice, not blind in the slightest to the not-so subtle Weasley dynamics. Ginny looked up at him. He stood tall, as he always did, seemingly as integral to the stability of everything around him as the great stone column that anchored the floor to the ceiling beside them. She had a sudden urge to say… something. To just go with him; to ask him to meet her for tea, for dinner, later, so that she might organize her mind and her feelings— and all of the many things that needed to happen in the next two weeks— with the person who made her feel slow and steady enough to tackle it…

But she didn't.

Instead, she found herself reaching out for his arm, not unlike the way her mother had done moments earlier. She pressed her fingers and palm against him, a brief familial squeeze that conveyed something of the things she hadn't said.

"Okay," she said softly, smiling at him and not caring that Ron and Harry could see her. She made a face that said she was going into battle, and he chuckled. She let go of his arm, and after taking a few steps backwards without breaking her gaze, he turned for the front door. Ginny turned for the stairs, hearing his footsteps fade through the entryway, then the familiar heavy pull of the door.

She could feel Ron's eyes on her, and found that she simply could not deal with him. She was maxed out. She found she felt a sudden sense of numb clarity, perhaps a semblance of the kind of practical, detached focus that seemed to possess Malfoy all the time.

"You know what?" she said firmly, cutting across Ron, who was just beginning to speak. Her eyes were closed, and she held a hand up, effectively silencing him. "Hermione, why don't you take Ron on a tour, and I'll start with Harry on the upper floor."

Ron opened his mouth, but Ginny cut him off again.

"No, Ron, I will not have it. You are a guest here. I am working, and I will simply not have it. I've had enough, so you can just save it," she spat. She met her brother's eyes at last, absolutely fuming, and found her steam matched by a volcanic amount of resentment in his eyes.

"Ron, come on," Hermione said, tugging at his arm. Ginny could hear in her tone an allusion to the many, many discussions Hermione and her brother had presumably been through at home where Malfoy was concerned. Ron broke his eye contact with Ginny, shaking his head, though remaining silent.

"Fine. Fucking fine, Hermione, just let go of me though, alright?" he yanked his arm free, and climbed the remainder of the stairs with her to the first floor. Ginny tensed at the sound of his voice, but relaxed slightly as she heard him answer something Hermione said to him in a much gentler tone. They turned left at the top of the stairs and Ginny saw Hermione slip her hand into his, leaning into him bracingly as they disappeared down the corridor.

She closed her eyes, trying not to let Ron ruin her day. She opened them after a deep breath, turning to look at Harry. He was looking at her with amusement.

"Just another Sunday," he said mildly, after a moment, and Ginny found the anger in her chest cracking gratefully. She snorted.

"You two are Saints for tolerating him," she said. Harry grinned. They started up the three flights of stairs. Ginny felt her anger ebbing away as they climbed, the air growing slightly warmer, quieter, around them as they reached the top floor. Ginny always loved the hush up here. The dark wood and the lush green carpets held a lovely peaceful fullness, and sunlight from the windows in all the little rooms slipped through the open doors to grace the corridor.

Though, she supposed, it wouldn't be peaceful for very long. She tried for a moment, as she had hundreds of times before, to imagine the same corridor abuzz with children. She imagined toys bouncing out of the open doors, causing caretakers to trip, little shrieks and giggles, the patter of small feet. At least she hoped this would be the case. She didn't honestly know much about the children who were coming here. She turned to look at Harry, who had stopped at the first room, and was peeking in through the door.

He let out a low whistle.

"Wow, Ginny. It's a hell of a lot nicer here than at the orphanages, I can tell you that," he looked over at her, eyebrows raised. She came to stand with him in the doorway. This particular room was decorated in yellows, with a little bookcase and a portrait of Babbity Rabbity hanging on the wall.

There was a slight note of regret in Harry's voice, and Ginny thought she understood.

"Yeah," she said, nodding, although she herself had never been to the orphanages, "I imagine so. We'll keep it running as an orphanage and women's shelter even after the war generation has gone… though it would be nice to be able to take in everybody…."

Harry smiled wistfully, nodding.

"Well," he said at last, "there's always Hogwarts eventually, hopefully, for the ones that don't get to come here first…" he walked with her to the next room and peered inside. "You know— this place actually reminds me a little of Hogwarts."

Ginny smiled. She knew that was why she loved Braddocke so much.

"Yeah," she said softly, "me too, a little."

They walked in silence for a moment, Harry taking in the views from the windows, out onto the now manicured lawns below. They reached the common room and stepped inside. Afternoon light was bathing the finished floors, and Ginny bent to straighten the plush rug in the center of the space. Harry walked around a little, taking a closer look at the books and picking up a few toys.

Then he stood and smiled at her.

"I'm impressed, Gin. It's really great. It's the perfect solution— for this group of kids at least. I—," he held her gaze meaningfully, "—thank you."

Ginny smiled. She knew how much people and things from the War still got to him— how much responsibility he still felt. Justified greatly by the amount of mail he got— from people who did still see him as a savior. From kids who looked up to him, who were sure he could help make their lives better.

She shrugged.

"Of course," she touched the lacy curtain and gestured to the furniture, "honestly, a lot of the way it feels is mum, and Vivienne— but…" she trailed away, and then met his eyes again, "I needed this too, you know. I'll get just as much out of it as any kid who sets foot in here," she brandished a small raggedy doll, smiling as she did. "Probably even more," she admitted.

Harry nodded.

"Quiddich not quite what it used to be after Trinity Teneo?" he asked, sitting down on the arm of the couch. He smiled ruefully when Ginny nodded, "yeah, I thought it might not be. Well. You'll be doing a lot of people a lot of good. Not least of whom, Malfoy."

She raised her eyebrows at him and he crossed his arms, smiling at her. He looked towards the window for a moment— clearly choosing his words.

"I just mean… you two work well together. You really do. And I think it's really good for him to have something like this to be involved in. Trinity did him a lot of good too."

They looked at each other, and a thousand questions threatened to burst from Ginny. To hear a clear implication that Harry both knew something of Malfoy's life that they didn't, and, perhaps more surprisingly still, seemed to care, gave concrete legs to this newly unfolding version of the last seven years that Ginny's mind had been trying to reckon with ever since her dinner with Hermione.

She was dying to ask him more— dying to know what his relationship with Malfoy was actually like after all these years of… she didn't even know what to call it. 'Work' didn't seem right. Nor did 'friendship'.

But she let the her questions lie. Given… everything, it did not feel entirely right to talk to Harry about Malfoy. Things between them had truly come back into an easy, familial balance— but all the same, he was not the one to confide in about this.

Instead, she smiled, nodded as graciously as she could, and then asked him her second most burning question.

"So… how are they? Have you seen them?"

He searched her eyes for a moment, grinning at her quiet excitement.

"Who— the kids? Yeah, I have. I went with Maury last week. We went to three of the four orphanages where the War orphans are housed— the fourth were all out on a summer holiday— they're… not bad," he smiled at her, "most of them are good. I'm always surprised at how well kids recover, usually. Orphanages aren't always easy, and I think some of them need a lot more attention than they're getting, and probably therapy, but, they're… alright. They'll be loads better once they've been here for a while, I think."

Ginny nodded, her fingers still toying with the lace of the curtain. She felt a fresh wave of both excitement and nerves. Harry being here made the arrival of real-live kids seem more tangible than they yet had. She remembered the conversation they had just had downstairs and her stomach lurched a little. Two weeks.

---

The night before Braddocke Manor opened officially, was chaos.

Ginny found herself being sent back and forth throughout the house and grounds like an owl, tending to every detail that arose— every question the new staff had. The antique wardrobe in one of the women's quarters was refusing to open; is was speaking only in French and scoffing at all English attempts to coax her drawers to unlock. The tablecloths had been misplaced— the bloody fountain was still sputtering— the cooks couldn't locate the tins of soup-bases they had imported. The curtains in the upstairs common room had torn and the staff were afraid to try to mend them, at risk of damaging the expensive fabrics further.

It was relentless. But she loved it.

She felt more alive than she had for months. By an act of God, the Harpies hadn't had a game scheduled for this weekend, and Ginny had been able to spend the entirety of Friday afternoon, and all of Saturday, within the grounds of the estate. She felt an inexpressible pleasure in watching the final stage of Braddocke coming to life.

The house was now quite bustling— the kitchen, cleaning, and care-taking staff had arrived three days ago. Ginny had a sense of the rich atmosphere within the manor walls finally reaching its full potential. She imagined that this is what the house had been, in its prime. She imagined balls held in the great foyer, the butlers, house elves and waitstaff that must have once raced around behind the scenes. She felt an immeasurable satisfaction in returning this lifestyle to the place.

The decorating was done, save for the smallest of details that Vivienne and Molly, like herself, were bustling around frantically to fix. At quarter to six on Saturday evening, Ginny found herself running down the second floor corridor, her footsteps padding softly on the rich green carpet, as she left the room with the French wardrobe in search of Vivienne or Malfoy. She had left the snooty wooden piece of furniture — who had rejected even her French, which was passable in most places— in the hands of two frustrated maids, who were attempting to move in all the linens before the women's arrival tomorrow morning.

"Mum?" Ginny called, pausing momentarily to wait for a reply, "Vivienne?"

She had last seen them up here— tending to the tear in the common room curtains. No one answered her call, however, and she peered out one of the small windows onto the grounds below. Malfoy was visible, standing beside the faulty fountain with one of the groundsmen, so Ginny changed course and ran towards the stairs.

No one even looked up from their work as she clamored down the great staircase. They had all been rushing around for the past ten hours straight. She breezed past two more maids, who were decorating the foyer with vases of flowers, and past a couple of house elves who were dusting the bannisters in preparation for the morning.

Opening day had turned into a bit of a Ministry to-do. There would be officials, as well as reporters there, and Ginny wanted to make sure everything was in ship-shape. As Maury had pointed out, if they made an impression on the Ministry and the general public, they were more likely to inspire more organizations around the country to follow suit and pick up some of the other decaying estates. Which would mean more space for the displaced— of which there seemed to be an endless population, both from the War and from the recession that had followed.

But what propelled Ginny most of all, was that they were arriving tomorrow—Sunday morning. All the women and children that had haunted her from grim photos within files. It felt important to her that they arrived into a place that was warm, full, lovely and functioning.

She pushed through the backdoor and crossed the grass to where the fountain stood, taking a deep breath of the cool grassy air. Malfoy looked up as she approached. Behind him, the fountain churned a steady stream of water, originating from the blowhole of an ornately carved whale and trickling down merrily into several levels below.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, when she drew near enough to see the strength of the spout "you got it to work?"

"Marley did," Malfoy said, and Ginny smiled at the older groundsman, who shook his head, saying,

"No, Mr. Malfoy was a lot of help— we did it together— I wouldn't have thought of the patitur spell right away. It's unusual for a fountain to be charmed to be so particular."

Malfoy nodded, and Ginny was amused to see his genuine interest in the subject of fountain-ry clearly peaking.

"I know— but I'd guess this is here from when the Wahlen family lived here in the 16th century, the Whale is their family crest, and they were known to be… particular."

"They weren't French, were they?" Ginny interjected delicately.

"No, German. Why?" Malfoy asked, squinting into the setting sun, which was at her back.

"We have a bit of an, erm… situation, with a very particular wardrobe on the second floor. She's French, and is refusing to open unless she can talk to someone who speaks the language to her… standards," Ginny explained, a bit bitterly. Malfoy smiled.

"I'm guessing you didn't make the cut?" he drawled. She rolled her eyes.

"No, even though I know she could understand me full well— but the maids are trying to stock the linens and I don't want to hold them up— it'll be dinner in a few minutes, and then I'd like to let everyone go home at a reasonable hour so they're not all exhausted in the morning… will you come?" She grimaced at him in what she hoped was an endearing way, striking a couple of poses in an attempt to sell the prospect with sheer charm. He snorted.

"I notice you said they and not we— how long are you planning on being here tonight?" he asked shrewdly.

"As long as it takes," she sighed resignedly, although she could hear the note of pure glee in her own voice. He seemed amused by her transparency and she decided to take this as a sign that her charm was working. She pressed on. "… so will you come help me… please?"

He laughed quietly and turned back to survey the robustly flowing fountain. Then he sighed.

"You know, Weasley, I genuinely cannot think of something I'd rather do less, than go have a conversation with a bloody women's wardrobe, but here we are," he raised his hands beside him, seemingly in defeat. He began walking backwards towards her, saying goodbye to Marley, and Ginny punched the air in triumph before he could see. He turned to walk with her. Ginny waved goodbye to the chuckling groundsman.

"Right, what else is there to do?" Malfoy wasted no time in asking, as they made for the backdoor. Ginny began to list things, eager for an opportunity to organize her mind by speaking them out loud.

"Jesus. And when's dinner? I'm starving," Malfoy looked around towards the kitchen as they entered the house. A delicious smell, like carmelized onions and roasting meat, was wafting down the corridor that lead to the back entrance. The kitchen staff were doing a test run this evening, so Ginny had decided that everyone should stay; to celebrate their imminent opening with a meal together.

"In… twenty-five minutes," she said, peering round the foyer to the grandfather clock in the corner, "bugger, that's not very much time. Will you go up?" she asked, pulling a beseeching face, "I've got to check in with the house elves to make sure all the fireplaces are in order— and find mum while I'm at it— I haven't been able to find her or Vivienne for the last hour—"

"They were in the dining room last I saw," said Malfoy absently, turning to face her and giving her an amused once-over, "and yes, I will… You're loving all this," he noted, as he turned to jog up the staircase, smirking.

"Oui, monsieur, je le suis!" she called after him. She heard him laugh, then turned, grinning, to see if she could find her mother before locating the head house elf, Toobey.

Her mother and Vivienne were, indeed, in the dining room. They seemed to have just finished some slight rearranging and were standing back to scrutinize the room. Ginny went to join them, appreciating as she did, how much the place had transformed. The high stained-glass windows were spotless, as was the floor. Rich floral tapestries hung from one of the walls, portraits and renaissance artwork hung from another. Long, polished benches in a light, friendly shade of wood filled the room. Fresh flowers, fragrant cuttings from the gardens, graced each table.

Sensing Ginny's presence, Molly turned and smiled warmly. She reached out to put an arm around her daughter, and the three women stood in a moment of peace. After a minute, a side door opened. A stream of house elves entered, armed with dishes, utensils, and cloth napkins for setting the tables. Ginny spotted Toobey in their midst and waved at him. He waved enthusiastically back, leaving the line to bow low in front of her, beaming. She loved him. She had hired him mostly because he reminded her of Dobby. He had already, in the three short days he had been here, been a delight within the walls.

Toobey informed her that the fireplaces were, of course, in order, and he the house elves went quickly about setting the tables. Ginny took her leave to speak with the gardener before dinner, and was surprised to find that when 7:30 came, everything was mostly done where the staff was concerned.

She was in the foyer when the great gong sounded from the kitchens, summoning everyone to the dining hall to eat. Malfoy came down the stairs along with a few of the maids. Ginny could not help but notice that they seemed quite taken with him. They were soon followed by the care-taking staff and tutors— all of whom had been in a meeting in the upstairs common room. The groundsmen and gardeners came in through the back door, and, Ginny was delighted to see, Hermione, Harry, and Maury came in through the front.

"Oh! You're just in time!" she greeted the latter three, beaming at the full house. Hermione beamed back, and Harry, who had not been to Braddocke all week, surveyed the greatly improved and clear foyer with interest. Not a moment later, they were all ushered into the dining room by Toobey, who stated with great formality and excitement, that dinner was hot, and ready to be served.

The occasion itself was… perfect. It felt like such a hearty culmination of the whirlwind of the last few week's work, that Ginny felt tears unexpectedly threatening to form in her eyes more than once. Though between herself, Molly, Vivienne, Hermione, Harry, Malfoy, Maury, and the entire staff, only a quarter of the dining hall was filled, it still felt deeply satisfying to feel a gathering occur in Braddocke at last. They squeezed around four of the tables, their voices echoing comfortably around the vast room. She watched the staff, whom she was getting to know slowly, as they laughed and ate amicably. As most of them already knew each other from the Agency, this came with the benefit of a group of people who already had a warm and strong rapport.

The food was fantastic, and the elves brought out a round of mead for a toast, which Maury graciously gave. Everyone was tired, but seemingly in the best of ways. Ginny spent most of the meal in conversation with Hermione, Vivienne, and her mother. Vivienne told them of her son in France, who was to be married soon. Molly relived Bill and Fleur's wedding, and Ginny and Hermione recounted for Vivienne, their part in the War. The honey wine was delicious, and Ginny could feel that her cheeks were as flushed as the rest of the women's, by the time the meal was over.

Malfoy, Harry, and Maury were sitting just a little ways down the table from them, with Marley, the head groundsman, and a few of the tutors. Though Ginny could hardly hear anything they were saying over the din of voices in the room, she found herself looking over curiously, irresistibly— many times, to see how Harry and Malfoy interacted. There was, she decided, an unmistakable familiarity in their treatment of each other. Stiff, perhaps, and definitely minimal, but there was an undeniable air between them of two people who were used to each other's company. Twice, she saw Malfoy look at Harry expectantly while speaking to Maury, as though knowing Harry would corroborate whatever they were discussing. And once she watched them furtively as they seemed to have a disagreement, though they talked through it, with furrowed brows and calm hand gestures, giving Ginny the sense that conflict-resolution was not foreign territory for them. Merlin, the fact that they could sit at the same table at all— that they could speak within the same group without it erupting into a duel— really said everything. Something over the last few years had happened that had taken all of the more overt hostility out of their relationship. Thanks to Hermione, she had a layman's understanding of what that had been.

After they had all eaten as much dessert as their already-full stomachs could handle, Ginny stood, picking up her glass of mead from the chocolate cake and berry-strewn table, to address the party. She thanked them for all of their work. For their willingness to build something with her, and for their good company. She noticed, a bit distantly, feeling the tiniest bit thick from the mead, how used to speech-giving she had become. She beamed at all of their faces, eager to see them in the morning, and urged them to go and get some sleep, so as not to frighten the children. Then she sat back down to go over any remaining tasks that needed to happen tonight, with Hermione, Molly, and Vivienne.

An hour later, all of the staff, save for a few of the cooks, who were prepping for tomorrow's brunch, had gone. Ginny smiled an exhausted thanks at her mother and Vivienne, who were both shrugging on their summer jackets, having just satisfied themselves that the tapestries in the dining room were well and truly finalized. They both kissed her on the cheek, and bade goodnight to Hermione, Maury, and Malfoy, who were the last of the remaining reinforcements.

After they left, Ginny and Hermione made sure the house elves had everything they needed in their quarters, double checked that the linens had all been pressed, the beds all made, and made their way to the kitchens for a final cup of tea.

The cooks were just leaving as they entered, and they bade each other a genial goodnight. Ginny sat down heavily on a work bench, realizing belatedly how tired her legs were, as Hermione went to put on the kettle.

They had just finished going over the plan for the morning, when Malfoy entered.

"Oh, Draco, you're still here— I wasn't sure," Hermione said, looking up. "There's tea if you'd like."

Malfoy smiled in thanks, taking the extra mug she offered.

"Thanks. I was just seeing Maury out— we couldn't find you guys. He said they'll be here at ten tomorrow. Can we work out the press release before you go?"

Hermione tried and failed to stifle a yawn at the exact same time he said this, and Ginny laughed.

"No— Malfoy, I'll do it. Hermione," she reached out to squeeze Hermione's hand, "you go home. You really didn't need to stay even this long."

Hermione went to make a gesture that said 'it's no big deal', but yawned again as she did. She smiled.

"It was nothing, Ginny. I was happy to help— are you sure you don't need me? I really don't mind…."

But Ginny wouldn't have it.

"Go," she repeated, laughing again as some of Hermione's hair came out of its tie— always a telltale sign of her state. "I know you have someone at home who does mind— and I want him to be in a non-troll mood tomorrow, if possible."

Hermione smiled again at the thought of Ron.

"Oh, you're probably right there. Alright. Goodnight you two," she stood, gathering her things from where she had left them earlier, on a bench in the corner, "Malfoy, don't let her stay here all night obsessing over the linens— we all need to be energized for tomorrow."

She grinned at Ginny. Then she waved them both a sleepy goodnight and disappeared from the doorway.

"Hear that, Weasley? I've been given official authority to monitor your level of mania in regards to Braddocke tonight— and I declare us done for the day."

Ginny laughed cynically, rolling her eyes.

"Done? Malfoy, do you realize the state that the second floor common room is currently in?"

"Yes…. I was just up there. It's perfect," Malfoy cocked an eyebrow. The expression on his face said clearly that he was not going to let her get away with unnecessary fussing.

"The couches still aren't right," she grumbled after a moment. He snorted.

"No one is going to notice, much less care if the couches aren't in the ideal arrangement," he said, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Fine. Well I do have to unblock the fireplace, at least. And check on the safety charms in the kid's ward," she said, fretfully, deciding not to speak aloud the three other unfinished details in her mind.

Malfoy sighed, getting to his feet.

"Why don't I check the safety charms, and you see to the fireplace? Then we can both go home," he said, leading the way back into the foyer.

"Do you know the charms?"

"Yes, I know the charms, Weasley— you can't be serious—"

"—Alright, alright, as long as you're sure," she said, her voice a little raspy. She summoned her tea from the kitchen on second thought, and they began to climb the staircase. Malfoy left her at the second floor and continued to climb the last flight. Ginny went to the common room, enjoying the hushed peace of Braddocke's last night without a full house. She frowned at the couches for a long minute, and then tore herself away to poke around the floo.

When she was satisfied that the chimney was completely clear, she turned to study the room. It was lovely. Mismatched couches and all. She had just allowed herself to sit on the squashy one, drawing her feet up beside her, when Malfoy appeared in the doorway. He smiled at the sight of her resting, and came to sit down opposite her; summoning a piece of parchment and a quill from one of the desks against the wall.

"Right. Let's write this fast and go home— I'm exhausted," he said. She nodded her agreement.

She sipped her tea. The summer evening had turned cool, and Ginny found herself gazing into the unlit fireplace, fantasizing about winters— when the grounds would be covered in snow, and the fires would be burning in the hearths throughout the mansion. She thought of Christmas and smiled to herself, her mind already making plans, plays they could put on with the children— banquets, carols— the festivity that would fill up the house.

Malfoy was watching her. There was a strange expression on his face. Fondness mixed with… something she could not place.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked, gently, as though hesitant to disrupt her reverie.

"Christmas," she said absently. He snorted and leaned back into the couch, stretching his legs out to rest his feet on the low table between them. She eyed the soles of his shoes, a most Mrs. Weasley-like urge to shoo his feet off of the polished wood rising up in her. She gave him a look, but let it slide.

"Christmas here sounds nice," he said. Another odd expression came over his face. She had expected him to tease her, but he sounded as though he was genuinely considering the thought.

"What were Christmases like in your house?" she asked, suddenly overcome with curiosity.

The look on his face didn't change very much, though it grew a little distant.

"They were… stark," he said eventually, looking at her as though he had never really given it much thought, "full of presents but empty of much else… the servants would have a big dinner all together though, after we had eaten and retired. I'd usually find way to smuggle myself in. They'd play music and dance— drink, and eat," he nodded, his eyes a little glazed in remembrance. Then he focused them on Ginny, "it was nice."

She let the images play out in her mind.

Then she thought of last Christmas. How truly different everything had been. How much she had hated him, and how now… her feelings could not be further on the other end of that spectrum. Her heart picked up a little.

Malfoy, on the other hand, was peering around the room.

"Fancy a nightcap?" he yawned, summoning two crystal goblets from a table in the corner, where they sat next to a large pitcher of water.

She smiled. That did sound nice. It would feel good to celebrate in the peace of Braddocke, before things really began tomorrow. And it would relax the small measure of nervousness that had suddenly crept into her stomach. She realized this was the first time they had been alone together for weeks.

"Sure," she said. He conjured a small bottle of mead.

Fifteen minutes later, they were deep in conversation about Braddocke. They were imagining all the things they could do there, now that it was opening. They had amused themselves for rather a long time entertaining the idea of a Hogwarts inspired house-system, mostly coming up with outrageous names. The piece of parchment and quill for the press release lay blank and forgotten at the side of the table.

"No… Goodness, no, what are we thinking. Of all people, we should know better than to sort them into houses and pit them against each other. Let their prejudices bloom a little later— when they enter Hogwarts," Ginny laughed after they had considered the matter far more thoroughly than was warranted. Malfoy laughed and raised his glass in agreement. He always held his mouth in a particular way when he laughed. As though he were about to say something. His eyes always lit up, which added to this impression. Though he usually finished by grinning and biting his lip, which punctuated the illusion.

Ginny grinned. Her nerves had been soothed by their laughter.

"Can I ask you a serious question?" he said, after a short lull, looking up at her from his glass. Behind him the portraits slept soundly. Her heartbeat spiked without warning.

"Of course," she said, a little tentatively.

"What's… what is your relationship with Potter?" he smiled, looking almost embarassed, "I hate to say it, but I've only ever really seen headlines about you two— I never fully understood… but I remember you were together when we were at Hogwarts."

Ginny blinked in surprise. This was one of the last things she had expected him to say.

"With Harry?" she repeated, a little dumbfounded as she tried to catch her brain up to the present moment. Malfoy gave her a look.

"Don't pretend that it's an unreasonable question," he said.

"No…" Ginny began, pausing to think. She shook herself and felt resolution slowly spread through her. "No, it isn't unreasonable at all."

She straightened up on the couch in an effort to draw herself back to some semblance of alertness.

"We… well, we were together at Hogwarts. For a year— my fifth, his sixth. And then…." Ginny stared into the fireplace, seeing it all in her mind's eye, trying to find the right words, "and then, the War broke out. Really broke out. He, Ron and Hermione left, instead of coming back to school, and the next time I saw him was at the Battle of Hogwarts."

She looked at Malfoy, who was studying her face. He met her eyes and she knew that they were both remembering the Battle. What vastly different experiences they must have had. Or then again… perhaps not.

"After the War… there was just so much wreckage, so much to grieve— and Harry— I mean, Merlin, I know you two always fought about it at school," Ginny shot him a look of her own, "but being 'the chosen one'…" she let her voice trail away, shaking her head, "he never asked for that. It's meant loosing almost every parental figure he's ever known. And so many friends… And the amount of responsibility that came with the role he played— it's come from all sides, and it's continued for years after— still even now… and there just was never an opening again for us to… slide back into place together. Which I think we both always expected we would…"

Ginny let her voice trail away again, her eyes roving over the portraits on the wall. Watching them, so peaceful in slumber, seemed to help organize her thoughts into a new kind of clarity.

"You now, I think it was a pipe-dream, in a way," she said, at last, looking up at Malfoy, "I think … we were a token for each other, of a time of carefree innocence… and I think part of me always wanted desperately to get back to that, after the War," she furrowed her brow in thought, "but so much of that was wanting to go back to a life before grief— before loosing Fred— before having seen so much death and destruction… and it's like I hadn't fully let go of that wish. Until recently," she added, as an afterthought, but realized as she spoke that it was true.

"Harry is family," she smiled at Malfoy, "he always will be. We finally talked, recently, and we were able to actually be honest with each other— lay all of that down… and it… was a huge relief."

She looked at him. She felt a fresh kind of relief, even speaking the words out loud. She realized she had never before tried to describe, honestly, simply, what had happened between her and Harry.

He was still studying her. His posture had not changed. He had seemed relaxed the whole time she was speaking— but unless she was very much mistaken, she could feel something ease in him too.

He nodded. Her words seemed to settle around them. And then Ginny realized she had questions of her own.

"You know, I could ask you the same thing," she said at length, holding his gaze steadily.

He shifted slightly, though he did not break her eye contact. A few seconds of silence passed.

"What is my relationship with Potter?" he asked, growing still. He stared at her, tilting his head, unmistakably questioning wether or not he had understood her properly. A dual note of caution and seriousness slipped into his posture. He sat up straighter.

"Yes," she said.

For a few moments he said nothing, just continued to look at her, and she knew he was weighing out this twist in the conversation.

"Well," he said at last, slowly, and still seriously enough that Ginny felt a small measure of trepidation flood her stomach. He leaned back again, his eyes fixed on hers and finished dryly, "I suppose that depends on how much you already know."

"I know… that you've kept him informed of everything the Dark Magic movements have been up to, since the end of the War," she said, watching him intently.

He blinked at her, unmistakably surprised. His lips had parted, and he was staring her again, as though unable to absorb her words right away. Then he closed his mouth, leaning back again and shaking his head.

"How…" he stared at her, "how long have you known that?"

His tone had darkened in a way she had not experienced for months, and Ginny was suddenly brought back to their first few encounters in his office, back when they seemed to have had a knack for drawing out the deadly in each other.

"A few weeks," she said, wondering if she had erred terribly in bringing it up. He seemed to relax imperceptibly for a moment, but then tensed again. She searched his eyes.

"Did he tell you?" Malfoy asked. There was unmistakable anger in his voice.

"No— Hermione did," Ginny said, still searching his eyes in an effort to understand his reaction to this.

"Did he tell her?" Malfoy demanded.

Ginny hesitated, regretting asking at all. Almost.

"He did," she said at last, and added at once, "but only when we — I— had first turned down your investment. He was trying to help— and you know them, they've always told each other everything. Harry never told me, but he did encourage me to trust you, after I turned your money down. He did help all of this happen," she said hotly. She knew that by this, she was talking about more than Trinity; more than Braddocke.

Malfoy was shaking his head, though Ginny was the tiniest bit relieved to see that he looked more irritated than angry now.

"Bloody Potter," he said, seemingly to himself. Then his eyes snapped back to Ginny, "I could tell Granger knew. And that you didn't— that much was exceedingly obvious, but he promised me," his eyes stilled on her, and Ginny could feel the threat of danger in his mind, could feel how much must have been riding on that particular promise. "I just thought that Granger had… figured it out on her own— she was always ten times as smart as the rest of us— does your brother know?" he shot at her suddenly.

"No," she said, "Harry trusts Hermione, and for good reason. She understands how serious this was between you two— as you said, she's smarter than the rest of us by a long shot— she would never tell anyone, not even Ron."

"Well, she told you," he said, rudely.

"Yes," said Ginny, indignantly, realizing belatedly that she had just painted herself into a corner, as the memory of why Hermione had told her came back to her, "but that was— that was because…"

She trailed away, feeling unexpectedly caught. The tension in the room had risen so rapidly in the last two minutes. Ginny was confronted all too abruptly with the forgotten sleeping-dragon of volatility, that used to rise between them. She could feel a flush rising in her face, could feel her eyes shining. She felt suddenly emotional, and he mirrored the same sort of charge— having drawn himself up in his seat, his eyes shining fiercely as well, an imperial eyebrow raised as though urging her to continue.

"That was because," she said finally, hearing the loud note of defiance in her own voice, "I had to know. I had to, Malfoy. And she knew that."

"Why?" he asked, firmly. "Why did you have to know?"

His eyes were challenging, and she felt the flush rise in her body as the unspoken thing between them swelled into the room, threatening to burst for the hundredth time. He wanted her to say it. She could feel her eyes flash as stubbornness took hold of her, and stared him down instead.

Then something tiny, nearly imperceptible shifted. It was like the smallest of punctures in a balloon, and the air around them seemed to deflate ever so slightly. She leaned back into the couch, away from him, away from the charge that was buzzing in the space between them.

"Because it was hurting me not to know, Malfoy," she said at last, searching his eyes. An unexpected wave of emotion was spreading through her chest. She realized, suddenly, that they could do this battle of pride which would undoubtedly escalate into a fight, or she could be honest with him. Be vulnerable.

The tension eased a little further around them. He softened slightly as he looked at her. There were a few moments of silence.

"Why?" he asked again, though much more gently.

They looked at each other. Ginny tilted her head slightly, knowing he knew full well why. It was filling up the room, but…. She wondered for the briefest of moments, if he was fully aware of it. If he doubted it.

"Malfoy," she said, hearing that her voice had come back to a reasonable volume again, "you have to understand… I never expected any of this."

"I understand that," he said, his eyebrows raised pointedly, and she smiled. True, none of them had expected this.

"But you, I mean— I never expected to grow so close to you. For you to mean so much to me," she said, looking at him carefully, "and… it just became too hard not to know, not to understand entirely, who you really were."

"Didn't you trust me?" he asked. "After we finished Trinity?"

"I did," she said, thoughtfully. "But all the same. I needed to know more… to understand fully. And Hermione was in a position to help me."

He nodded, seemingly deciding, after a minute of studying the table between them, to let it lie. His lips were pursed as he thought something through. The muscle that always jumped in his jaw, was jumping now. He took a breath, letting it out in a half-sigh. And then he said,

"Alright, what is it that you want to know?"

There was a beat of silence, and the air around them changed again to house this offer. Her breath caught.

He was really willing to tell her anything she wanted to know, she could tell by the wary expression of dread on his face. She studied him. She felt that in inviting her to ask him what she wanted, he was offering her more than just answers.

"Everything," she said, simply.

A moment passed between them. Some silent wordless exchange that even she didn't understand for a moment. But then she did. Here it was at last, between them. An offering of mutual trust. But this time, based on transparency, rather than a blind leap of faith. He took a breath, and settled back into the couch, nodding his head once in a way that made her pulse quicken.

"Alright," he said again, "then I guess we'd better start in my sixth year at school — when I was made a Death Eater."

Ginny stared. He stared back.

"You really want to know?" he asked, in the tone of someone making very sure that another person knows what they're getting themselves into. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

"I was fifteen when Voldemort started courting me," he said, after a lengthy pause, "that was when he came to my house for the first time."

Ginny inhaled, silently. He noticed and paused, raising his eyebrows as if asking for her consent to continue speaking. She forced herself to sit back, seeking the comforting embrace of the couch. She nodded slightly once more. He continued.

"It was... it must have been during Easter break, because I was home. It was cold, there was still snow on the ground where we lived in Wiltshire, and it was late— probably midnight. There was a knock on the door, and one of the servants answered it. I was still awake, reading in the study, and I heard her scream."

His eyes went distant, staring at the bookcase behind her without actually focusing on it. Ginny felt a cold feeling seep into her stomach. She had not… expected this. She supposed she had never given the details of his teenaged experience much thought— hadn't been able, or hadn't wanted to go there. She knew of his mission to kill Dumbledore, of course, but had somehow always imagined that Malfoy had never had much to do with Voldemort himself— that he would have been shielded by his parents. As a kid in his position ought to have been.

"I went at once, to see what was wrong," Malfoy said, "and there he was. At our threshold. The Dark Lord himself."

He trailed away, his tone hardening with what could have been sarcasm but could also have been resentment. Ginny tried to discern his emotions. She could hear regret in his voice, but it was oddly devoid of fear.

"Wormtail was there too, as he always was, and so was Bellatrix," he looked up at Ginny suddenly, his brow furrowing as though the thought were strange, "you know— that was the first time I had ever met her. I recognized her immediately, of course, but she had only just broken out of Azkaban a few weeks before— she'd been there my entire life up until that point."

"Anyways," he continued, "they pushed their way inside and the servants started ringing for my parents. Bellatrix was fussing all over me— her only nephew, she kept saying, and all the while, he just watched... quietly."

There was no mistaking who the he in this story was. Ginny envisioned the scene, finding it difficult to even imagine such a casual encounter with Voldemort... though, then again, things would have been very different from Malfoy's side of the war. Voldemort had not been the enemy to him— at least not then.

"My father came downstairs, followed by my mother, and... it was the first time I had ever seen him act like that," he studied the carved ceramic vase between them, blinking slowly. "Deferential. I had never seen Lucious cater to anybody in my life before that. Not even the Minister of Magic— Christ," he rolled his eyes, "growing up Fudge came for dinner once a month, and would spend the entire night sucking up to my father, to all of us— it was exhausting, honestly—but with Voldemort... it was different. I could tell my father was afraid. That he felt small in comparison. I knew he was drawn to Voldemort's power, I could see how eager he was to manipulate some of it for his own... but Voldemort scared him. And that scared me."

His gaze stilled, narrowing slightly on the vase, and he continued.

"It started that night," he said, looking up at her, and Ginny wondered if he, like she a few minutes before, was speaking things aloud to someone else for the first time. "They invited themselves in, and my mother tried to dismiss me, she told me to go up to bed, but Voldemort said I should stay. He was... charming. Not in a way that you could trust, exactly, but he knew how to flatter."

He looked at Ginny, his brow furrowed, as though he hadn't thought of any of this for a long time. He seemed to be seeing an image in his mind. She was seeing one too. A beautiful, flattering, perfect teenage boy— one who had flattered her and flattered her until she woke up one day, in a chamber in the depths of the castle, Harry's face swimming in front of her, a giant dead basilisk lying just feet away.

Malfoy looked at her curiously, and then all too understandingly. He gave her a grim, commiserating smile and said,

"But I forgot... you already knew that. Anyways... he allowed me to stay while he met with my parents. They were planning something— a break-in to the Department of Mysteries. They'd had some complications earlier in the year, and needed a new plan."

Complications. Ginny felt herself bristle.

"You mean my father almost loosing his life—," she asked, or rather stated, her tone going cool.

Malfoy looked at her. His expression changed to one of surprise. A light of regretful compassion entered his eyes.

"Yes," he said, after a very pregnant silence, "among other things."

He paused again, looking at her attentively, questioningly. Ginny could tell he was rethinking this idea. It was full of landmines, horrible memories, reminders of all the triggering things between them— the horrors their families had experienced at each other's hands.

"You're… not going to like most of this," he said, intently, and very unnecessarily.

She took a breath and stared into his face. She felt sobered, but resigned.

"I know," she said, softly, "but… I think… that it's very important that it's all said."

He watched her, his lips parted slightly, looking just as weary as she felt.

"Alright," he said, nodding distantly, his tone soft too. "Well. As I said, he began courting me that night. I could tell he had started to plan something, just from the way he was looking at me. Dropping little hints and flatteries— how he could tell I must be at the top of my classes, how I was mature for my age. My parents could tell too, my mother especially, and she kept trying to slip into the conversation how young I still was, how busy I was with school, and my experience at Hogwarts…"

"They left after a long time, and I went back to school a few days later. I didn't really think of it again for a while— it was my O.W.L. year, and we were all so inundated with schoolwork— there was hardly time to think. But then…" he looked at Ginny, his eyes roving over hers slowly, "they broke into the Ministry. Or rather, Potter, and you, and all the others did— and they poised themselves there to wait for you."

A very tense moment passed over them.

Ginny was flooded with memories of The Department of Mysteries. Of dueling with wizards four times her age. Of Lucious Malfoy's voice. The horror of seeing hooded figures emerge from the darkness in the hall of prophecies. She let out her breath in a deliberate, trembling stream, feeling a mixture of rage, anxiety, and questions bubbling up in her consciousness at the mention of this long-buried incident.

Malfoy was watching her, seemingly steeling himself for whatever she would have to say about this.

"Did you know?" she asked after a minute, her eyes stilling on his. She was beginning to regret the opening of all these Pandora's boxes. She had been forgetting, most likely willfully, how tied Malfoy seemed to be to all the scariest memories of her life, "that they were going to lure us there, I mean. Did you know what they were going to do to Harry? That they would trick him into thinking they had Sirius— that they would use Kreacher?"

Malfoy stayed with her eyes. She saw genuine regret reflected back at her. He shook his head.

"No," he said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. He looked at the floor, heaving a sigh, and then met her eyes again, "I didn't. I knew that they were planning to break in, knew that they had been trying to all year— and I knew they had a 'final' plan, but… I was young, and I was at school with Potter. So they were careful not to tell me anything. That was the first thing Potter asked me too, though."

The images swimming in Ginny's mind shifted at this.

"What do you mean?" she asked. Malfoy smiled a humorless, half-smile.

"When we met, after I first contacted him about wanting to cooperate with him and the Aurors. That was one of the first things he asked me about. If I knew about the plan that led to Black's death," he looked at Ginny, holding her gaze firmly, "I really didn't."

She nodded. She believed him.

"How… how much do you know of what happened in The Department of Mysteries?" she asked, hesitantly. She wondered what Lucious' version of it had been. Malfoy sighed again, rubbing at his jaw.

"Enough," he said, considering it for a moment, "mostly from other students, though— my father was arrested on the spot, remember," his eyes flickered to her, and she was surprised to see a shadow of a grin touch his features, "though he definitely had some things to say about it— much later on— about you specifically."

Ginny's heart gave an unpleasant lurch.

"What kinds of things?" she asked dryly. Malfoy shook his head.

"I'm not going to repeat them. But…" his voice trailed away and the grin came back, but fully this time. "Reading between the lines, I think he felt that you got the better of him, somewhere down there… how old were you then?" he asked, looking at her carefully.

Ginny thought for a moment.

"Fourteen," she said. Malfoy chuckled, deep in his throat, a low, distinctly gleeful sound.

"You are…" he shook his head, looking at her with a mixture of admiration and incredulity, "something else."

The silence thickened around them. Ginny felt one of the most confusing mixtures of emotion she had ever felt in her life. Rather— she felt full of every emotion she had ever felt in her life— all at the same time. She felt like she might burst, and she had no idea which one would be behind it. Her lips had parted, to say something that hadn't formed yet, but she found she couldn't draw words. Instead she nodded, then shook her head.

"Anyways," he said again, shaking himself too, "everything changed for me when Lucious was arrested," his eyes found Ginny's, and a steeliness had entered them. "Voldemort was furious. Furious that you all had thwarted his plans— furious that arrests had been made, that his cover had been blown so much earlier than he had been planning for. And since he was down a Malfoy… he saw it as the perfect opportunity to gain another."

Ginny shook her head, despite herself. Blooming out of everything else was the absolute absurdity of being made a Death Eater at the age of sixteen.

"Do you know why?" she asked, "I mean… was it to get revenge on your family, or did he really think you would be useful at the age of sixteen?"

"Both," said Malfoy, after considering it for a moment. He fixed his eyes on hers, "that's how he worked— you have to understand he was a master manipulator. Everything he did genuinely had two sides… so it was never quite possible to feel used, or punished… because he had a way of also making you feel incredibly useful."

He looked at Ginny, who felt a cold, sick, dread settle into her stomach. She did know this. But she hadn't been prepared to hear Malfoy voice it. He had known Voldemort so much better than she'd ever thought. The cold feeling churned uncomfortably as she supposed, that this was yet another thing they had in common.

"How did you feel about it?" she asked, pressing on through the concern that had entered his eyes as he looked at her, "about being made a Death Eater?"

He was silent for a few moments.

"Honestly?" he said, leaning back in his seat again and looking openly at her, "I was excited. I didn't know him yet. Not really. I was a full and willing participant, at first. You have to understand," he rubbed at his jaw again, putting a thumb to his lips in thought for a moment, "that I was raised with a very different impression of him. My father was one of his most loyal supporters. I grew up hearing stories about how great Voldemort was. And it was so secret, it had to be— it was this big secret thing that my father and his friends would share with me. It was our bond— and the stories he told me were all so positively slanted… after my father was arrested, I wanted to do something. I was so angry— so when Voldemort asked… Yeah. I was more than willing."

"At first," he added.

"What changed?" she asked him. Her eyes were on his right hand. He had unconsciously dropped it into his lap as he spoke, and had wrapped around his left forearm. Her heart gave another unpleasant lurch. He must have been branded with the Dark Mark. Somehow she had never given thought to this either.

"I… was sixteen," he said, shaking his head in disbelief, "and I had been charged with the task of killing Albus Dumbledore. It was absurd— I knew it was absurd, and I knew I couldn't do it. Even if I had been capable of doing it… I don't think I could've."

He looked at Ginny, and his face held the most regret she had yet seen from him. He shook his head.

"It became a nightmare pretty quickly. Voldemort knew I wouldn't be able to go through with it— and it just became his excuse to taunt my parents, to torture my father. It gave him a valid reason to kill me, and my parents couldn't do a thing about it. Snape tried to protect me, and so did Dumbledore— he knew the entire time, of course, and I managed to save myself by letting the Death Eaters into Hogwarts, which, again, you know firsthand…"

He trailed off again, and Ginny was once again flooded with memories. Of Harry, gone. Dumbledore dead. Bill, mangled.

"It just got worse and worse after that," said Malfoy, blandly. "There was another prison break, and my father came back, but we were disgraced beyond redemption at that point. Voldemort took over our house, and we were expected to serve him there. Do whatever he asked."

He looked at her, and for the first time, Ginny felt that he was letting her see him.

"I've done a lot of things, Weasley. Things I can never take back. Things that caused immeasurable harm to other people," he held her gaze, not holding back. "I can't pretend otherwise."

Ginny looked at him. She let out a shaky breath, looking down at the table between them and finding her words.

"Well," she said, "having been a pawn in Voldemort's game myself, I know it's not as simple as people would like to think."

Her words hung in the air for a moment, and he nodded, not letting go of her eyes.

"It was the circumstance we were in, until the end of the war," he said simply, at last. "It was only after it ended, and after I was cleared in court, that I felt like I could finally choose differently."

"And you reached out to Harry," she said, softly. He nodded.

"I did. After a while. Lucious was starting to build himself back up again, finding the old secret network, and I watched everything start to return to how it had been before— as though he really hadn't learned anything, and I just… decided."

Ginny studied him. He seemed incredibly at peace with it all.

"How did that work, exactly," she began, "how did you and Harry work together?"

Malfoy ran a hand over his chin, remembering.

"It was simple, really. I just kept living the life that was laid out for me— kept moving in the circles I was born to move in… and I just… told Potter all about it. And we'd decide how to act, slowly enough so that it could seem random," he raised his eyebrows, rather expressionlessly. "It's taken a long time," he added in a hollow voice.

"I just… it's just hard to imagine… after everything," she said. The shadow of a smile crossed his face.

"You don't have to shield me from your words," he mumbled. He sounded very tired. "I know we were ridiculous to each other at school. Complete asses."

"Where would you meet— how often?" Ginny felt like she needed to be able to picture it, in order to fully believe it.

"Grimmauld Place," he said, inconsequentially. She nodded in surprise, another wave of memories coming back to her— though these were not all bad. "Whenever we needed to. It really depended on what was happening. Sometimes a few times a week, sometimes not at all for a couple weeks."

Ginny let this sink in. She found that she could see it. As he had once said, it was all probably more simple than she was prone to imagining.

"Did you get along?" she blurted. He snorted.

"Sometimes. Not at first, honestly. We've gotten better at it though. But believe me it doesn't exactly come naturally," he drawled. He crossed one foot over his knee.

"And now?" she asked. "Do you still... work together?"

"Now…" he cocked his head, considering, "to be honest, nearly everyone I knew of, has been arrested at this point. There's this newer group, more European from what I can gather— they were the ones responsible for the raid that went bad at Hollowhand a couple of months ago— but I don't know them. It's an entirely different ring. I'd kind of begun to consider myself retired, that's why I decided to be so public about Trinity Teneo, but Potter came to me a few weeks ago, to see if I'd be up for working my way into this other circle."

Ginny felt a strange mix of things at this news. Her first reaction was a little spasm of anger, though she didn't quite understand why.

"What did you tell him?"

Malfoy looked at her.

"That I'd consider it," he raised an eyebrow in response to her furrowed brow.

"How dangerous is it— the work you did for him?" she asked, feeling as though she didn't fully understand what the dark magic movements were like nowadays.

He shrugged.

"It's gotten steadily less dangerous, over time— as I said, most of the ex-Death Eaters have been arrested. I don't know about this new group, to be honest. It really depends on the people, the leaders, if they have one. You know how it's gone, historically."

Ginny found that something about this was making her chest swell with anger. Malfoy had noticed, too, and was looking at her warily, unsure of what was happening.

"But— do you really want to continue to mix with people like that?" she asked, the words coming out before her thoughts or feelings had properly formed, "I mean, will you just carry on, moving in those circles forever, as long as there are underground movements out there?"

Malfoy's look of suspicious confusion had intensified.

"I don't know," he said, slowly. "Like I said, I'm considering it."

"What is there to consider, exactly?" she pressed, unsure herself, of where her sudden issue with this was coming from.

"A lot of things— it puts my entire life in jeopardy— it would have to make sense. There would have to be enough of an opening for me to be able to play a role that didn't seem suspicious, that wouldn't be hard for me to sustain believably—"

Ginny had stood up before she realized what she was doing, filled with a sudden flight instinct.

"That's just it," she said. She had paced across the room, behind the couch, and she stopped now, turning to face him, "how do you play these roles so convincingly?— it just seems like everyone genuinely does think you are on their side, Malfoy— how can anyone really know?—"

He had gotten to his feet and was setting his glass down on the table. He straightened slowly, to glare at her with an expression of disbelief.

"What are you— are you honestly questioning my loyalties— after all that—?"

Ginny stared at him fiercely, though feeling rather like she could cry. It was all too much. It seemed insurmountable. These vastly different circles they moved in. They had found a way to intersect, here, at Braddocke, but Ginny felt as though she were still swimming in an ocean of unlocked memories from the past. Some kind of undertow seemed to have gripped her— the old familiar doubt, that mistrust, was back.

"It just—" Ginny heard the rising panic in her own voice, suddenly upset. She lifted her arms beside her, letting them drop to her sides, at a loss, "how does it look, Malfoy? It's the same old Snape-quandry. We think you're on our side, and they think you're on theirs. How can any of us ever really know?!"

Malfoy had crossed the room, hotly at first, though he slowed as he came closer, with the sort of caution one uses when approaching a wild animal.

"Snape was on your side. I — How can you not trust me?" he demanded, anger in his voice.

"How can I?" she shot back, hearing the anger in her voice too. Though it also wavered with defeat. She realized she was close to tears, felt them fill her eyes without any warning—

"—Ginny," he said, forcefully, though his tone had softened. She felt his hand close around one of hers. It was warm and solid, and she stopped, breathing shakily. She turned to face him.

He was close, very close. Only a couple feet from her. He was looking down at her, searching her face. She blinked tears away, fixing her gaze on the dark windows. When her eyes were clear, she looked back at him. His face was full of gentle concern.

"What can I do?"

He asked it calmly; gently. He was even closer now, and Ginny became aware that her hand was still held in his. She stood, letting the mess of feelings wash over her, starting to come to her senses.

"I—," she shook her head. She looked down, slowly taking his other hand in hers, "Merlin. I'm sorry— I do trust you, Malfoy. I do. It's just…. a lot. I forget how tied we are— to all of those things, and…"

She let her voice trail away, looking up at him.

He seemed to understand the sentence she had not finished. He nodded, and then he brought a hand softly to her face. He brushed a piece of hair behind her ear, grazing her jaw gently with the backs of his fingers. He let his hand fall to her arm, squeezing it lightly. He nodded again, sighing.

"Yeah," he said, quietly, "I know."

Something in Ginny gave way. She could not think, she could not work it out, she could not talk anymore. Driven by some wordless need to just know him, she closed the distance between them and kissed him.

For one brief moment, they were both taken aback. His lips were warm, like his hands, and Ginny had the odd feeling, of this being one of the most natural things she had ever done. Then, as the volatility between them was want to do, everything changed instantly.

The charge that was so often around them, magnified exponentially. She felt his hand tighten around hers in surprise, felt his body tense— and then everything was movement. His arm came around her waist, his hand found the small of her back, pulling her closer. He kissed her, slowly at first, but as her free hand slid over his neck, brushing his hotly pounding pulse, he made a noise low in his chest, and pressed into her mouth with mounting intensity.

They were moving backwards. She was dimly aware of her feet stumbling over the thick carpets, his chest against hers, as they careened unsteadily towards the bookshelf behind her. Somehow, he seemed to know it was coming before they crashed into it, and she felt him pull her closer in order to slow them, bringing his other hand gently behind her head as they came to rest against the sturdy shelves. Pressed against the case, Ginny pulled him closer, feeling the heat of his chest, the broad wall of his back.

One of his hands slid into her hair, his thumb dragging down her neck, under her chin. A soft sound escaped her lips, and he exhaled shakily, pulling her closer so that there was not a gap between them.

Then a loud, abrasive bell rang out, feet from her head.

They broke apart, looking in the direction of the sound. It was the grandfather clock in the corner of the room, striking midnight.

It seemed to break through some snowballing motion between them. Ginny was still pressed against the bookcase by his body, but some urgency from the moments before was beginning to ebb, leaving her with a thick, full feeling, muffled by the heat of him. He laughed, quietly, shakily, and turned back to her, his hand still on her neck, her cheek, his lips centimeters from hers. His breath rippled across her lower lip.

They stood there, inches apart, as the clock finished chiming. The heat of his body made it impossible for Ginny to think clearly, but she had the presence of mind to drop her hand from the nape of his neck, to his chest. She held it there, feeling his heart beat forcibly, as the seconds slowed down around them. He took a deep breath, dropping his head as he let it out. He cursed quietly.

A cool sobriety seemed to settle into the darkened corner of the room where they had landed. Ginny felt her mind begin to wake, and tried, exhaustedly, to stop it. Malfoy's hand found hers.

"I… should go," he said, squeezing it gently. His voice held an unmistakable wrestle with restraint. He looked up, searching her face. There was a slowness in his eyes, an intoxicated glaze, that she recognized had nothing to do with the mead. She nodded, feeling a little drunk herself, though she had barely touched her own glass. He stepped back and she felt the absence of his body heat keenly. He squeezed her hand and let it go, looking at her for a long moment.

"I'll see you in the morning," he said, as though he were asking a question, and she dimly thought she could see a flicker of apprehension pass over his eyes.

"Okay," she said. Her mind was threatening to become rational, so she forced it to be quiet with all her might; not allowing herself to begin to think about what had just happened, or how she might feel about it tomorrow.

Malfoy looked as though he were going to say something else, but changed his mind at the last moment. He took a few steps backwards, still searching her face. There was definitely concern in his eyes now.

"Goodnight," he said, at last.

"Goodnight," she said.

An unsure kind of tension rose between them as they looked at each other, for one last time in the peaceful dark solace of Braddocke before opening day. Then Malfoy bowed his head ever so slightly, and left, taking one last look at her as he reached the door.

Ginny stared at the empty threshold for a long time after he had gone. Then, grateful for the exhaustion that was setting in, which rendered all thought impossible, she turned to smooth the cushions of the couch, gathered her things from the kitchen, and aparrated home.