Chapter Two: Private Words

Bill Weasley loved the Burrow. He loved the messy tumbledown cottage full of memories of family and growing-up; loved the practically-wild apple orchard blooming a pretty pink and white like a blushing maid; loved the vast variegated vegetable garden bursting full of potatoes, leeks, artichokes, cabbage and rhubarb; loved the cosy bedrooms all jumbled together higgledy-piggledy like family gathered shoulder to shoulder round a sumptously-laid dinner table. He knew he would be missing all of it to not-insignificant degree, even as he was looking forward to moving out and setting up his own home with Fleur.

But sometimes, he admitted, it was a nice change to not be living arse to elbow with one's parents and siblings. Which was why he was spending most of his time recently in Fleur's chic apartment in Hibis Close, Battersea, only Flooing back to the Burrow late at night. It was not quite his address of choice – the magical neighbours comprised a family of Fawleys, some American and Continental expats, and a couple of very senior goblins; hardly any blokes of Bill's stripe – but Fleur had gravitated to the European connection while finding her feet in England, and Bill could hardly begrudge her that.

There were also other advantages to having one's own apartment, such as the convenience of one's very own private Floo-connected fireplace. Bill and Fleur looked up from the remains of their supper as the fire flashed green, and Percy Weasley's head appeared in the fireplace.

"Mm," said Fleur tactfully, "excusez moi, I will be in my bedroom."

Bill sat back, sipped his tea, and said nothing as he impassively regarded the head of Percy Weasley for what seemed like long minutes.

Finally Percy spoke. "The brothers had the usual meeting, then?"

"Yes," said Bill dryly. He answered the unasked question: "Everyone is well, or as well as can be expected, under the circumstances."

Percy nodded slowly. "That's good. I'm... I'm glad."

Bill let the prodigal Weasley stew for a few moments more before he spoke again. "Dad's working too hard. Mum's worried sick, as always. I'm just peachy, as you can see. Charlie still drinks more than he should, and still thinks big bloody-minded fire-breathing lizards are a laugh a minute. Your name was mentioned a few times, along with a couple of other epithets I won't repeat," Percy winced, "though I'm sure you can guess. The joke shop is still raking in the Galleons and putting the rest of us desk-jockeys and dragon-nutters to shame. Fred's still in love with his own genius, George still has horrible taste in clothes and women both. Ron is still a pants Keeper, Gryffindor only won the championship four-fifty to one-forty. Our Ginny caught the Snitch by the way, Potter mislaid himself somewhere again."

Percy tried to smile, but didn't seem to remember how. "I see. That's good," he repeated.

"Oh, and Ginny has a new boytoy, but Ron won't blow who."

Percy coughed loudly a few times. "Ahem... ash in my throat, I think." He frowned. "Ginny was supposed to be with Thomas. This is fast turnover, even for her. And who is this person, why wouldn't Ron divulge his identity? That's not a good sign."

"That's what I said. We're taking steps to find out."

"You are?"

"Fred and George are."

Percy reddened, so it seemed almost as if the Floo fire was really burning him up. Of all of his family, he was on the worst of terms with the twins. Despite the estrangement Percy had varying levels of regard for the Weasleys. The parents had after all been The Parents; Bill and Charlie he still to some extent looked up to; Ron and Ginny were still in school and dismissed as children, even though both had expostulated loudly as well. With Fred and George however, it had come very close to duelling. They had not disguised their contempt for him one jot, and that rankled deeply. So Percy only said, again: "I... see."

"I trust them to find out, at least," said Bill.

"You will update me when you do? I," Percy hesitated, "I'm sure we're all concerned for Ginevra's well-being."

Bill's steady gaze was stony. "Our family is. Are you? You made your position with regards to the family quite clear last year, Weatherby. And that includes me as well, in case you haven't forgotten."

Percy flushed redder. "I... I'm very appreciative of our, uh, arrangement, Bill."

"Yeah? Well I'm not," snapped Bill. "I don't see what I get out of it. It's all for your benefit."

Percy only said quietly, "I need more time."

"You know you're wrong, Perce. You just haven't found the bollocks to say you're sorry, yet. Well, I certainly can't speak for everyone else in the family, but for now my door's still open, although," Bill stabbed a finger at Percy's head, "my patience isn't infinite. Find the humility to get over your big head before it's too late, and none of the family cares any more if you're sorry or not. I don't think Fred could give a wooden Sickle as it is. Don't come crying to me then when you're shut out and you want back in. Cause let me tell you, brother, when it's lock-out time, the bars are up for life."

Percy nodded shortly, said nothing, and closed the Floo connection after a jerky gesture of farewell.

Which was perhaps just as well. Bill had had enough of him for a while.

Fleur slid softly out of the bedroom. Bill didn't need to ask if she'd heard, he knew she would have eavesdropped. "He will come back," she said, as she opened a cabinet, extracted a half-full bottle of red wine, and poured.

Bill grunted. "Prick."

"As you Anglais say, zere is one in every family." Fleur sipped, rested her chin in one hand, and smiled thoughtfully. "I wonder who eez Ginny's mysterious beau."

"You and me both, chéri."

It was late at night in the Gryffindor common room. Everyone else had gone to bed. Everyone, that is, other than Hermione Granger, who was putting the finishing touches on her foot-long essay on Corporeation Charms by the quiet glow of the banked fire. The essay was already half a foot longer than Professor Flitwick had called for, but Hermione thought she simply must add a four-inch footnote on the contrasts between Corporeation and Transfiguration, it was so key to understanding the essential difference between...

Hermione looked up at the sound of someone padding over the carpet. A red-haired figure in faded periwinkle pyjamas slouched out of the dark, and flopped into a squashy armchair. "Ginny? Is something wrong? Why aren't you in bed?"

" 's nothing," said Ginny. She drew her knees up to her chin and hugged them, her eyes peeping over the tops at the fire. "Couldn't sleep."

Being around the Weasleys for the last five and a bit years had taught Hermione a few things. One of those was that stubbornness ran deep in the family; you could never get them to do or say anything if they were at all reticent about it. On the other hand, she had also learned that there were certain ways to handle any Weasley that, in Hermione's experience, never failed. She rummaged around in her book-bag, and found what she was looking for. "Here you go, Ginny, have a Chocolate Frog. You can keep me company while I finish up this essay."

Hermione patiently added a few more neatly-printed lines to her essay before Ginny spoke up again, somewhat muffled around a mouthful of Frog. "It's Hogsmeade weekend, next."

Hermione's mind raced ahead. "That's nice. Are you going down to the village?"

"...maybe."

Ah, I see. "Would you like to go down to the village?"

Ginny shrugged. "I don't know."

Hermione continued writing. "Why don't you know?"

"Because… I don't know if Harry would like us to go out to Hogsmeade."

"Why do you think Harry wouldn't like it? And what does it matter what he thinks, if you would like you both to go?"

Ginny fiddled with the Chocolate Frog card, not looking at Hermione. "Well, I think I'd like to take a walk around Hogsmeade. But I'd also like us to do something we'd both like to do, together. And I don't know if he'd like to. I don't know if he's even noticed the weekend… he didn't say anything when I mentioned it, offhand."

Hermione laid down her quill and turned to face the redhead in the armchair. "Ginny, this is Harry we're talking about. He sneaked out of the castle under the Invisibility Cloak to go to Hogsmeade, remember? He's like me, he grew up the first ten years of his life not knowing anything at all about magic. He likes the village as much as he likes anything magical. Also, he's completely loopy over you," as much as you are over him, she didn't say out loud, "and he'd love to do whatever you'd love to do."

"D'you think so?" said Ginny doubtfully. "But… it's the first Hogsmeade weekend since we've been, y'know, together. And the last time he went to Hogsmeade on a date, it was that absolute disaster at Puddifoot's with Cho Chang. You know, the day we met at the Hog's Head the first time with the D.A. and all. And when I said a Hogsmeade weekend was coming up, he didn't say anything, not a word!" Ginny threw up her hands in exasperation.

Hermione sighed. "Ginny, it's Harry," she repeated. "He's not the sharpest quill in the drawer when it comes to girls, and you're his first real girlfriend. He's all heart, but he's completely clueless what to do. The thought of Hogsmeade probably won't occur to him until three days before the weekend itself, and then he'll spend the next two days working up the courage to ask you, and then he'll ask you if you'd like to go spend a day together in Hogsmeade. On Friday night. Remember the Yule Ball?"

Hermione noted with satisfaction the effect her words had on Ginny; the tension drained out of her face at once. Ginny even managed a giggle. "Vividly."

"Well then."

"Thanks, Hermione. You're the best." Ginny got up, then gave Hermione a sisterly hug. "I'm sorry my brother's such a complete prat," she said quietly. "He'll come round."

"Don't worry, I know," said Hermione. "Night."

Ginny went up the stairs to the girls' dorms. Hermione rubbed at her eyes. She must be really tired, she was tearing a little.

Late the next night, Hermione was going over her Transfiguration notes by the fire in the Gryffindor common-room. Everyone else had gone to bed. Hermione had taken lots of notes in class, but she thought she simply had to re-read them regularly, or else what was the point? Merely swotting for exams, and then forgetting them all afterward? No, Hermione wanted to properly remember, properly learn everything Professor McGonagall had taught, and this was the best way to do that. Besides, every time she read she seemed to derive new insights, which she would jot down, such as here in Gamp's…

Hermione looked up at the sound of someone padding over the carpet. A tousle-haired figure in faded blue pyjamas slouched out of the dark, and sank heavily into an armchair. "Harry? Is something the matter?"

"I, uh, couldn't sleep, Hermione," muttered Harry. He sat back in the armchair and said nothing more, staring at the fire.

Being around Harry for the last five and a bit extremely eventful years had taught Hermione a few things. One of those was that for all his bravery and intelligence in terms of, say, fighting the most powerful Dark wizard to terrorise Magical Britain, Harry could be very shy and need a little cluing-in when it came to more mundane matters, like social relationships. Fortunately, Hermione had dealt with just this situation before, and she knew just what Harry needed and would appreciate most: a firm, no-nonsense, and detailed explanation of What Was Going On.

"Is it Ginny? Are you two getting along well?" she asked casually.

Harry nodded, and gave her a somewhat uncertain smile. "Yes. I mean, yes, it's Ginny. And yes, I think we're alright. I mean, I'm happy. And I think she is, too… I mean, I hope so. I want her to, y'know. Be happy, I mean. With me."

By Harry's standards, thought Hermione, this was a veritable outpouring of emotion. "Well, that's alright then. So what's the problem?"

Harry struggled visibly to find the words for a moment, then said, "I don't know how I can make her happy. I've never had a proper girlfriend, I don't know what I'm supposed to do. What if I'm doing something I shouldn't be? What if I'm not doing something I ought to be? What does she expect?"

"Well, you two have been spending a lot of time together. What doyou do?"

"I dunno. Eat, do our homework, talk, practise spells, play Quidditch..." Harry faltered, and the colour rose in his cheeks.

Hermione smirked. "Snog?"

"Er, yeah. That. A bit."

"Did she mention anything else she'd like you to do for her?"

"Not really. Well… I wondered if she'd like to go to Hogsmeade, this weekend. Because… because that's what she used to do, with, y'know," Harry picked at the worn upholstery of the armchair, "Dean and Michael. But then I wondered, what would we do anyway, she isn't Cho Chang, she'd hardly like tea and cakes at Madam Puddifoot's… and what if she wanted to stay in, and I couldn't really ask her, in case she thought I wanted to go, and went along with me just… because… I… did…" Harry trailed off, and looked desperately at Hermione with what she privately termed the 'help-me-with-my-homework-Hermione-please' expression.

Hermione marked her page carefully, and closed her notebook. "Harry, think. It's Ginny. She's never taken anything lying down, she knows what she wants and then she goes straight for it, and nothing can stop her. If you're doing anything she doesn't like, she'll speak up. And if there's anything she'd like you to do for her, she'll mention that too. However, if you want to pleasantly surprise her, you'll have to anticipate her just a little, because that's what all girls like their boyfriends to do, even Ginny. She's not at all difficult to please, oh no, but you're going to have to think ahead, and act."

Harry looked worried. "Well, I do think she'd like to get out of the castle for a bit. But what are we going to do? Have a pint at the Hog's Head, I don't think."

Hermione sighed. "Oh, Harry. Just go spend some time together, doing whatever it is you'd normally do in Hogsmeade. It's Ginny," she repeated. "She likes flying, showing up her brothers, and you," Harry blushed, "so just think along those lines, will you?"

The half-grin on Harry's face was growing goofier by the second; Hermione judged that it meant her job was done. "Thanks, Hermione, how could I possibly do without you?" He put one arm around her and gave her an affectionate squeeze. "You're right, me and Ginny have been sloping off together a lot lately, and we haven't seen much of you. Are you alright? You shouldn't stay up revising so late all the time. Why don't you come with us to Hogsmeade?"

Hermione smiled and shook her head. "No, it's yours and Ginny's big day. You two enjoy yourselves."

"Okay, well, maybe I'll have a word with Ron and he can go down the village with you, keep you company. Otherwise the lazy prat would just spend all Saturday in the castle. And you need some fresh air yourself."

Hermione blinked. Then searched Harry's face for any hint of double meaning, but he appeared as innocent and guileless and artless and clueless as ever. "I… I, uh… yeah, maybe Ron a-and I could go for a walk in the village too..."

"Great," said Harry. "And maybe we can meet up at the Broomsticks for Butterbeer. Well, I'm off to bed. And you ought to be as well. Thanks again for the, y'know, Ginny and everything."

As she packed away her notebooks and climbed the stairs to the girls' dormitory, Hermione allowed herself a self-satisfied smile, and mentally patted herself on the back for a job well done. It didn't exactly take much to be an éminence grise in Harry and Ginny's relationship, just a little time and trouble, but it was a job that needed doing, and someone had to do it.

As for herself and Ron... well, she would just have to be patient.

But at least – and here her cheeks suddenly warmed, as Hermione changed into her nightgown, and climbed into bed – at least she too now had a Hogsmeade weekend to look forward to.

Tucked away in a corner, Draco Malfoy rifled quickly through Advanced Theory of Magical Transportation, found nothing of practical use, put it aside and opened Household Hocus-Pocus for the Hands-On Homemaker. The soft buzz of the Slytherin common-room in the evening flowed around him; fifth- and seventh-years revising or procrastinating from revising; firsties playing some kind of made-up game with Exploding Snap cards; and by the fireplace a merry gathering of the more influential Slytherins – Parkinson and her gaggle of girls, holding court amongst a group of admiring fourth-years.

Ordinarily Draco would be in the thick of the group, circulating, building connections, forming relationships with his like-minded, right-minded peers. Because the Malfoys understood that, whatever society thought, knowing the right people was just as important as being clever, bold, and industrious. You never knew how a good network of school friends could ease your way through the rest of your life.

But this year was different. This year, Draco was playing for higher stakes, with far more powerful people than a set of schoolboys and schoolgirls. The stress was incredible, and he could not afford to be distracted, even by his other Slytherin House friends, even for a moment...

"Dra-co Malfoy," said the breathy, giggly voice nearly at his ear; Draco jerked his head away in irritation and looked up. Pansy Parkinson, Tracey Davis, and Daphne Greengrass stood over his study table, each wearing mischievous smiles and striking poses calculated to show off their best profiles. Oh, brilliant. Just what he needed.

"Go away, Parkinson. I'm busy."

"What are you do-oing," said Pansy, craning her head to read the title off a book. "Theory and Practice of Technomancy… oh, just leave that for the workmen, Draco, you've more important matters to take care of."

"I said, go away, Pansy, this is important."

"Come away from those dusty old books and talk to me. You've become a terrible swot recently, Draco dear, it's so boring," pouted Pansy. "We could share a chair by the fire, like we used to. Tracey has the most exciting news about the Gryffindors, you won't believe it. And did you know, there's a Hogsmeade weekend this week?"

"I couldn't give half a pile of dead Doxies for Hogsmeade," snapped Draco. "Now go away, you interfering busybody!"

Draco expected Pansy to snap back with some sort of retort and flounce off. To his surprise, he saw her eyes go wide and glossy, and she retreated with far less than wounded dignity. Tracey shot him a nasty glare, and it was Daphne who shot back on Pansy's behalf: "Keep yourself to your books if you like, but you needn't be such a yob about it!"

Draco dismissed the incident and went back to his books. True, Pansy did fancy herself and Draco something of an 'item', as the girls called it, and he did not find her attentions unwelcome. But that was all in the past. Draco was playing for far higher stakes now: the continued survival and growth of the Malfoy family, the future of Wizarding Britain, and the assurance of a place within the inner circle of the inevitable New Order to come.

If he sensed the short, slender girl sitting at the neighbouring study table getting up and packing away her books and quills, he did not give any outward indication.

"Even if you are working on some sort of secret personal project, you could go about it more discreetly. It doesn't pay to advertise."

Draco looked up in annoyance. Who was it this time? "Oh. Astoria Greengrass."

"Draco Malfoy," said the girl primly, her arms crossed and holding a couple of Herbology books to her chest. Her manner was that of a friendly queen acknowledging a subject.

Astoria was Daphne's younger sister, a fourth-year who could be found frequently holed up in the Library or fooling about with plants in the Greenhouses. The latter was about as physical as she ever got; she was not one for long walks on the school grounds, or apparently the least interested in Quidditch, in fact she always seemed a little like a neglected house-plant herself; sickly, pale, and underfed. Not for the first time however Draco was struck by the observation that Astoria was not wholly unpleasant to look upon. She had large hazel eyes, a pixie-ish face, a sharply-pointed chin and thick dark hair, which added to an air of resolution that amply made up for what she lacked in constitution. Astoria was reputed to hold her own ably in the vicious cut-and-thrust of girls'-dorm society; at any rate, no one seemed to dare pick on an otherwise obvious target.

Nonetheless, Draco would not let himself be cowed by a mere fourth-year. "Who says I'm working on anything?"

Astoria rolled her eyes. "Please. The whole House is talking about how you've been skiving off classes and quitting the Quidditch team, and here you are doing your best Ravenclaw impression." She gestured at the books. "If it's not schoolwork, then what else are you killing yourself over?"

Ordinarily Draco would have just replied 'none of your business' and turned away, but something – perhaps the strain of keeping his big secret, perhaps something in the manner of the young witch standing beside him – made him blurt out, "There's more to it, you know. More to my life than exams and Quidditch."

Astoria shrugged. "Well, of course. But education – and even Quidditch, if you like that sort of thing – is important."

"This is different. It's," Draco hesitated, "it's family. The future of the Malfoys, and our place in society." Yes. Perhaps even survival. Because if things went wrong… if He was sufficiently displeased...

"Are you trying to get your father out of Azkaban?"

"Something like that," he admitted.

Unaccountably, Astoria looked sad. "Oh, Draco," she said softly, "don't do anything rash. Your father made his mistakes. Let him pay for them, don't let him drag you down with him."

"Mistakes? Drag me down? My father tried to do what was best for the family. The Malfoy family!" snarled Draco. "It's a war out there, he fought, he lost, they put him away because he was on the losing side. He can't do anything where he is, so if it falls to me to restore the family, well, that's a duty I bear gladly!"

A few heads turned around; Draco shot them a furious glare and they hastily looked away.

"What about yourself, Draco?" said Astoria quietly. "Surely you have aspirations, dreams, a life of your own. What about doing what you want, for yourself?"

"I have no time to think for myself! I have to save my father. He did everything to help me when he could, and now's my turn to help him. That's what family does. But what would you Greengrasses know about that?"

Astoria's look turned frosty. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Are you sure you and your sister are proper Slytherins?" sneered Draco. He glanced at the group by the fire, where Daphne Greengrass was listening raptly to something Tracey was saying. "That you have pure blood I'll allow, but pride, ambition... the Greengrass family doesn't seem to want a place anywhere in proper wizarding society."

Astoria lifted an eyebrow. "Oh? Whereas the Malfoys do?"

Draco dismissed the question with the tiniest shrug. Obvious questions didn't deserve answers.

"Which society would that be? Azkabanian?" Astoria tilted her head to one side, as if considering. "Thieves and thugs and hooligans. Well, if the Malfoys think that's the proper wizarding society for them, who am I to contradict?"

"Don't you dare imply..."

"Or what?" snapped Astoria. "Right now a threat from you, Draco Malfoy, is barely worth contemplating. You're clever, or at least not stupid, but you're rash, you're a loudmouth, your bark is far worse than your bite, and you're too obviously making yourself a big target for everyone... and where has that gotten you thus far? Everyone either despises you or pities you, except for your crew of mindless minions and giggly groupies. That's where all your efforts to follow your father have taken you. You want to keep making the mistakes he made? You want to associate yourself with toadies and hooligans and psychopaths? Go on then. Keep at it, sooner or later you can join him in Azkaban!"

The look she gave him was not just scornful, it was dismissive, as if she thought Malfoy truly was beneath her – far beneath her. It made Draco's blood boil. He wanted to slap that look off her face... he wanted to... wanted to...

"Don't you dare!" hissed Astoria, and to his shock Draco looked down and saw her wand out from under her books, its tip pressed against his stomach.

Draco was even more stunned to find himself standing up, even with his average height towering over the small girl. He could not remember either rising. Slowly, he sat down with as much nonchalance as he could muster.

Astoria nodded. "Good. You sit down and have a jolly good think about how you really want your life to go. You might have more brains than your father does, I suggest you use them. And, Malfoy, if you doubt the strength of my family, I leave you to consider this. We have a saying: the snake out in the open is crushed, while the snake in soft green grass is hidden from its enemies, until it is time to strike."

Astoria pocketed her wand, hitched her books up, turned on her heel and left. Draco watched her go; in his imagination she seemed to cut a swathe through the Slytherin common-room much wider than her small figure warranted. He snorted; it was probably that thick mass of sleek dark hair. Perhaps she cultivated it just for that attention-grabbing effect. Girls and their manipulation of aesthetics. Well, it certainly hadn't worked on him.

Hadn't it?

(A/N: Thanks for the reviews! As always, I love to hear what you liked, what you hated, what worked, what didn't; don't be shy, say hi! :D )