A/N: Thanks to all of you who have reviewed so enthusiastically. Remember, if you ask me a question in your review, you have to leave an e-mail address where I can answer you! And thanks, as always, to Gabriele, for all the formatting work he puts into this.

Chapter 7

The morning after the episode in the sitting room, Draco lurked in his bedroom until he was sure Ginny had left for work, and then rang for Lolly.

"Lolly," he said, when the house-elf had appeared and made her curtsey. "Has Ms Weasley gone yet?"

At the mention of her mistress' name, Lolly fairly shone. "Yes, Master. Mistress is leaving for her work at the Ministry fifteen minutes ago." She didn't, Draco thought irritably, have to look so damn worshipful about it.

"Good. Pack me a bag; I'm going away for a few days."

Lolly cast a discreet, puzzled glance at the empty fireplace. "Master –" she began timidly, "Master is not called away again?"

"No," he said brusquely. "Not this time. I'm just... getting away for a while. You can tell your mistress I'm working, though."

"Working, sir?" Lolly's eyes were wide and innocent, but she hadn't been his house-elf since childhood for nothing, and Draco fancied he saw something of a shrewd gleam in them. He suddenly wished he had a servant who didn't know him quite so well.

"Yes, working, dammit! Quit asking so many questions and pack my bag. I wish to leave at once." He stalked into the bathroom and slammed the door behind him. The solitary, mindless task of showering helped him organise his thoughts a little, and the hot water worked to loosen up his shoulder muscles.

It was ludicrous to think he had to skulk around and avoid someone in his own house. If anyone were uncomfortable here, it ought to be Weasley. She was the intruder. She had been uprooted from her home and family, and transplanted into the middle of Scotland, where she didn't know a soul. Apparently, though, she'd made herself very comfortable. Comfortable enough, at any rate, to be climbing all about his furniture. Comfortable enough to be bringing stray creatures home, as though the place were a bloody menagerie.

He thought about the way she'd looked last night, when she'd held the kneazle kit to her cheek and buried her face in its fur, how she'd closed her eyes and cooed nonsense to it. He closed his own eyes against a palpable surge of uneasiness he couldn't name. He leaned his forehead against the cold tile of the shower wall, and let the hot water beat down on his back. Something about the uncomfortable sensation roiling through him took him back in time. He'd last felt it... when? He let his mind drift.

He was eleven years old; the Sorting feast was over, and he had just stepped into his dormitory in Slytherin House, for the very first time. Crabbe and Goyle had climbed into their green-hung beds and were snoring almost immediately, but he... he had lain awake a long time that night, with this very same feeling in the pit of his stomach...

His eyes flew open in horror. Homesickness. That was what he'd felt, his very first night at Hogwarts. And it was what he'd felt last night, when he'd watched Weasley make such a ridiculous fuss over that ridiculous kitten. Something about the sight had recalled him to the possibility of things he had not thought about before, had never wanted, had never considered that he might be missing.

He shut off the water and stepped out, reaching for a towel.

It wasn't decent, he thought, that she should parade around the house – his home – wearing off-the-rack clothing that didn't fit her properly: tight jeans and shirts that rode up and showed her skin. He should be able to walk into his own sitting room without having to look at that. It disrupted his concentration entirely too much. His work was dangerous – his life was dangerous, and he could not afford to be distracted that way. More to the point, he could not afford to be distracted by her. Not when she was who she was, and a year from now would be out of his life for good.

He dressed with hardly a thought for what he was wearing, and collecting the travelling bag that Lolly had packed for him, stalked down to the Apparition Port. He owned a smallish home called Journey's End, on the Isle of Crete, which he used once or twice a year for entertaining business clients, but it was empty just now. He would have privacy there, and peace and quiet. He would not have to come home from a hard day's work and find animals sitting on his draperies, and freckled witches eating breakfast at his table. He Apparated over.

The problem, he thought later that day, as he swam laps in the heated pool at Journey's End, was that Weasley had no breeding, and no real beauty to speak of. It was a travesty, really, that she should go around dressed that way, flinging her long, brilliant hair into his face, trying so... transparently to entice him. She was trying to provoke him.

Well, she would be disappointed. He, Draco Malfoy, knew what a gorgeous woman was, and Ginny Weasley was not it. He'd had the very best before he'd married this... wench, and he'd still be having the best, long after she was gone. He would not be distracted by her. Would not give her another thought. She was nothing: plebeian and unsophisticated and plain. Worse, she was an old enemy, and Harry Potter's leftovers.

The hell of it was, he dreamed about her that night.

He would conquer this. More exercise was all he needed; he would wear out his body until his mind stopped reeling. He would not give himself time to remember how warm and soft and real she had felt under his palms. His second day at Journey's End, he swam more laps in the pool, and ran ten kilometres in the heat of the day. He buried himself in business and met with his account clerk. He paid a surprise visit to one of his vineyards, where he stormed and ranted, and fired three people. And that night, he dreamed about her again.

By the third day, he was afraid to sleep any more. His own body was betraying him, and he did not know which was worse, to see her, and wish he wouldn't or not to see her, and wish he could. He thought about it all day, and when evening came, he packed his bag for Scotland, and went home.

When he opened the door of the Port at Four Winds, he looked around cautiously, and listened. All was quiet. He headed for the stairs, intent on the sanctuary of his own bedroom and study. At the foot of the stairs, however, he hesitated. The library door was ajar, and lamplight spilled through the crack. She was in there. He would go directly to his room, of course. He had nothing to say to her. He put his foot on the bottom step, and looked back at the library. The grey kneazle kit wandered through the door, just then, and catching sight of Draco, came to sit at his feet.

He looked down at it. It had been right up against her face... "What?" he snapped at the kit, stifling the urge to kick it. It blinked up at him, and twitched its tail. Draco closed his eyes against the thoughts warring in his mind. What did he care, after all, where she was, or what she was doing? But... he should just go in, and see her, and then he would know that this preoccupation he'd had with her for the last three days had been all a jumped-up distortion of perspective. One look at her would remind him that he could not stand her, that they still hated each other and that nothing had changed, would ever change. "Oh hell," he muttered at last, and wrenched himself away from the staircase.

Ginny was reading in the library, when Draco opened the door. She had seen very little of her new husband in the three weeks she'd lived here. Often, he was away from home – she had a vague idea that he owned a vineyard in Italy that occupied most of his time – and when he was home, she usually went straight to her room after dinner, to avoid having to spend the evening with him. He had been gone three days this time.

She had eaten her evening meal alone, and not expecting him to return, had kicked off her shoes and curled up in a chair before the fire with a volume of Wordsworth and a glass of wine. She was idly stroking Ginger, the orange kneazle kit, in her lap.

She looked up from her book, startled, when he came in. "Oh," she said. "I didn't know you were home."

Draco crossed to the chair opposite hers and dropped into it, looking at the fire. "I finished up my work a bit earlier than I expected."

"Oh." She cast about for something to say, in the atmosphere that suddenly vibrated with tension. She didn't want to ask what kind of work he had been doing, because she was sure he would tell her to mind her own business, and she wasn't brave enough to risk it. Instead, falling back on a lifetime of watching her mother's example, she asked, "Have you had anything to eat?"

He looked up at her, surprised. "Yes. I ate before I came home."

"Good." She wanted to go back to reading her book, but she thought it might be rude. Her eyes caught her half-empty wine glass. "Do you want something to drink?" She was an idiot. Surely, if he'd wanted something to drink, he would have got it himself, before he'd sat down.

Again, he looked surprised. "Erm – yes. All right."

She stood, glad to have a task to occupy herself. "What do you drink?"

"Straight scotch." She knew he was watching her as she crossed to the little bar in the corner, found the scotch and a tumbler, and poured him a drink. She did not look at him as she handed it to him. It was probably no more than he expected, for a Weasley to be serving a Malfoy. She hoped he didn't think she was going to do it all the time. She had only been trying to find something to do with her hands.

"What are you reading?" he asked, as she sat down and picked up her book again.

"William Wordsworth." She showed him the cover. "He's a – a poet." She'd almost said 'a Muggle poet', but she was sure he would have scoffed at that.

"You like poetry, then?" he said, sipping his drink.

"Yes, don't you?"

He shrugged. "I haven't read much of it, so I couldn't say."

"Oh." Silence fell between them again, and he stared into the fire while she tried to read her book.

At last, draining the contents of his glass, he stood up. "I'm going flying," he said. "Do you want to come?"

Ginny was startled. Surely he didn't actually want her to go flying with him. He was just being polite. But... Draco Malfoy, being polite? That was even more unlikely. He was up to something. She looked at him narrowly, but his expression was indifferent, almost... preoccupied. He certainly didn't look dangerous, right now. And the idea was oddly appealing. She hadn't been on a broom since she'd been living here, and she did miss it. She didn't necessarily want to spend more time in his company, but then, they wouldn't have to talk while they were up in the air.

"I don't have a broom," she told him.

He waved that away. "There are loads of them in the shed. Are you coming or not?"

Well, she thought, die all, die merrily. "Yes, all right." She stood up too, and followed him out of the library.

In the foyer, they donned their heavy cloaks, boots and gloves, then went out into the night. It was dark and starless, with a fitful, waxing moon making itself seen now and again through the clouds. A heavy dampness hung in the air.

"It'll rain tonight," he predicted as they made their way around the back of the house to one of the small outbuildings in the rear. "The password is 'Thursday'," he told her. "Just plain Alohomora won't work; otherwise anyone could get in here. If you ever want to fly when I'm not here, just tack 'Thursday' onto the spell, and the door should open. Alohomora Thursday," he said, tapping the lock with his wand. It swung open with a 'click'.

"'Thursday?'" she asked. "Why 'Thursday'?"

He gave a self-deprecating shrug. "Not the most creative password, maybe, but I bought the house on a Thursday so it's something I can remember."

She followed him into the tiny shed, their breath hanging in white puffs before them. A lone broomstick occupied the holder on the left wall. She was unsurprised to note that it was a Stratosphere Unlimited, the latest – and most wildly expensive – in broomstick technology. Draco gestured to the right wall. The rack on that side was filled with brooms, every one of them superior to anything she had ever flown on before.

"Take your pick," he said.

She studied the brooms, choosing, at last, a Galaxy Twenty-One. It was small and light, with a handle of ash polished to a high sheen.

He nodded his approval. "I see you know your broomsticks." He took his Stratosphere from the holder, locking the door behind them as they stepped back out into the damp night. "Ever been in the Cairngorms before this?" he asked her.

She shook her head.

"Come on, then. I'll show you around." He mounted his broom and kicked off, and she followed suit. They flew straight up for about two hundred feet, before Draco levelled off. She stayed behind, in his slipstream, until he looked back over his shoulder and motioned impatiently. "Come up here," he called. She leaned forward and drew up alongside him. The compass on the Galaxy's handle showed them to be heading northeast.

As they flew, Ginny felt her tension begin to drop away from her. This was familiar territory: She'd always loved to be in the air, where she could see but not be seen, far away from the duties and disappointments of life on the ground. Below, stretching away in all directions in the intermittent moonlight, lay the vast, graceful sweeps of the Cairngorms. Already, their sides were dusted with snow. A narrow burn wound a silvery path along the valley floor, and they followed this for about five minutes before Draco caught her off guard by plunging into a sudden, steep dive. Startled, she followed him, leaning forward to match his speed in the nearly vertical drop. In front of her, he pulled his broom handle up and, flying flat out, swooped through the middle arch of a railroad bridge. Ginny hardly had time to do more than react. She pulled her own broom up, levelling out, and leaned forward until she was lying flat against the handle. With a speed she had never experienced on a broom before, she shot through the arch behind him, gasping as the stone wall of it flashed by in a grey blur only inches from her face.

She pulled up and came to a hover, looking back at the bridge. She was breathing hard and her heart was racing, but she felt exhilarated, and it was the first time she'd felt anything besides numb since the day she'd agreed to this marriage. She saw Draco in the distance, hovering, waiting for her. She turned her back on him and looped the bridge again, shooting through the middle of the three arches as fast as she could make the broom go. When she came out on the other side, she dove toward the glittering water below, pulling out of the dive and rolling in the air, just before she hit the surface. Without a pause, she shot straight up and looped the bridge again.

She did it over and over again, each time feeling a little of the emotional deadness drop away, feeling more like her old self with every plummet and roll until, fifteen minutes later, she pulled up beside Draco, who had been hovering on his broom and watching her the whole time. She was sweaty and breathless, and her face was numb with the cold. She looked at him defiantly, daring him to laugh at her.

But he only said, "Nice bit of flying. Feel better now?" And when she nodded mutely, he said, "Come on, I'm freezing my arse off. Let's go home."

She flew back to Four Winds beside him, feeling more optimistic than she had done in weeks. Draco unlocked the broom shed again and, taking the Galaxy from her, placed it in the left wall holder next to his own Stratosphere. They walked back to the house in silence and stripped off their cloaks in the foyer.

"Goodnight, Weasley," he told her perfunctorily, when he had taken off his boots. He started to go, but turned back. "You want to have a hot shower before bed," he said. "Won't do to have you getting pneumonia." And she thought there was a certain softness in his expression that hadn't been there before, but before she had time to be sure, he was gone. Only then did she remember she had never thanked him for the ATS Pass.

When Ginny got to work several days later, she found Ted sitting on the edge of her desk, waiting for her. She caught her breath, but forced herself to speak lightly, as though she frequently came into the office to find good-looking men waiting for her.

"Hullo... Ted, isn't it? I think we met at the office party the other week..." She injected just the right amount of puzzlement into her voice, and moved around the desk to put her purse in a drawer and hang her cloak in the cupboard. She turned to face him. "Had a nice weekend?"

"Yes, I did. I went to watch the Berwick Buccaneers' first pre-season match."

Ginny gave an admiring whistle. "I thought Bucs' tickets were supposed to be impossible to come by, after they won the Nationals for the third year running. Who'd they play?"

"Aberdeen. Have lunch with me today, and I'll tell you all about it."

Her pulse leapt, and she felt the colour flood her face, but she fought to keep her voice light. "Oh, I wouldn't say no to an offer like that. What time, then?"

"Can you get away at twelve?"

She pretended to consult her desk calendar. There was nothing scheduled at or near twelve o'clock. "Um... I'll be a bit pressed," she said. "Twelve-thirty?"

He smiled and stood up. "Twelve-thirty it is, then. Meet you here." He gave her a little wave, and was gone. Ginny sank into her chair, dazed, and stared at the place where he had been. She had a lunch date with Ted!

The morning dragged by while she ploughed her way through a mountain of paperwork, hardly conscious of what she wrote in her reports, and not caring in the least. She kept her office door open and glanced up sharply every time someone passed, hopeful for a glimpse of him before lunch.

At twelve o'clock, she dashed to the ladies', brushed her teeth and re-plaited her hair. She refreshed her makeup, put on some perfume and did a quick Pressing Charm on her robes. By twelve-twenty, she was back at her desk, thumbing demurely through a report and looking for all the world like she hadn't moved from that spot all morning.

He took her to a pub known for its lamb stew. Over lunch, he told her about the Berwick match, and they talked about the prospects for the Quidditch season ahead.

"...Fitch started out last season as a long shot, and ended up high scorer in the league and the number one draft pick this year." Ted shook his head in admiration. "I'll tell you, Ginny, if he doesn't take the Bucs all the way to the World Cup this year, I'll eat my own Quaffle."

"Yes, but he's a Chaser! That's all well and good, but what about Robbins? A team needs an excellent Seeker to make it all the way to the cup, and I wouldn't call Robbins excellent, not by any stretch of the imagination."

Ted shrugged this away. "He's not terrible, and he is improving. He caught the Snitch this time. Besides, look at the World Cup of '94, Ireland versus Bulgaria. Bulgaria caught the Snitch, didn't they? But Ireland still won. And I'll tell you why –" He leaned forward, his warm, brown eyes sparkling, his face animated. "– Because they had excellent Chasers, that's why! The Chasers carried the day."

"But," Ginny challenged him, "in the Berwick-Aberdeen match, how long did Robbins take to catch the Snitch? If a Seeker mucks about too long, the Chasers tire out. Then, it doesn't matter how excellent they are. For every hour – after the first one – that a Chaser is in the air, his accuracy in shooting is reduced by five percent."

Ted grinned approvingly at her. "Well, I think we'll have to wait and see how old Robbins pans out in the end. I thought he played a decent game. It may come down to what the other teams have – or haven't – got this year."

He glanced at his watch. "We'd better be getting back to the office, or we'll be missed." He paid the cheque and held the door for her. As she brushed by him, he reached out and took her hand, smiling at her in a way that caused her heart to skip a beat or two, then race to catch up with itself.

They walked back to the office, hand-in-hand, chatting comfortably about Quidditch. When he left her at her office door, he leaned down and whispered, "Can we do it again, sometime?"

"That would be lovely."

"Great. I'll hold you to it." He walked off down the corridor, whistling jauntily, and Ginny watched him go. Then she shut herself in her office and floated through the afternoon, not accomplishing a single worthwhile thing, but happier than she remembered being in months. Maybe even in years.

She came home that night to find Lolly scurrying about the house in a state of nerves she had never seen the creature in before.

"What is it, Lolly?" she asked. Concern sidetracked her from the happiness that had been humming through her all afternoon.

"Master Draco," cried Lolly. "Master Draco is not well!"

"Is it anything serious?"

Lolly wrung her wrinkled little hands. "Lolly does not know, Mistress. Master Draco is never sick, but this evening, he is not getting out of bed for dinner, and is saying he is ill." She looked at Ginny with wide eyes. "Lolly has been boiling water, and trying to give him Pepper-Up potion, and mustard plasters, but Master Draco only sends her away, every time." Her bulging eyes began to water. "What would Mistress have Lolly do?"

Ginny was irritated. She could not have cared less, at the moment, about Draco's petty health concerns. She blew out a breath. No doubt it would be the decent thing to do, to at least check on him.

"It's probably just a cold, or something, Lolly. I'll go look in on him and talk to you after that." She headed up the stairs. At Draco's doorway, she hesitated. She had never been in there before. Most likely, he would just throw her out if she knocked.

She knocked anyway. There was no answer. Cautiously, she put her hand on the polished oak door, and pushed it open. "Draco?"

The room was dim, the curtains pulled. It was a big room, bigger than hers, with dark, plush carpeting and a massive stone fireplace at one end. The bed was a high, old-fashioned affair, with curtains around it. Just now, however, the curtains were open, and she could see him, a shadowy form huddled under the covers. Hesitantly, she approached the bed.

"Draco?"

"What?" came the muffled voice.

"Lolly says you aren't feeling well."

"It's just a nasty virus."

"Well, Lolly's rather concerned. Do you think you should see someone? I could call a Healer in –"

"I just need to be let alone," he said, from under the covers. "I'll be all right in the morning."

She rolled her eyes. "Well, if you're sure..."

"I'm sure. Go away."

"If I can do anything –"

"You can shut the door on your way out," he snapped.

"All right. Good night." She stuck her tongue out at the heap of blankets, then chided herself silently. She was really going to have to stop responding in such a childish way to him. It didn't solve anything.

She closed the door firmly as she left, and by the time she reached the dining room had all but forgotten about him, dwelling instead, on the far pleasanter image of Ted holding her hand as they walked back to work together after their lunch date.