Hello, readers!

I am so sorry that it took me so long to update this story, but things had gotten really busy. Adulting, pfftt! But its under control now, and I promise to keep posting the chapters as soon as I can.

I wanted to thank all of my lovely reviewers. Your feedback keeps me going! :)

Anyway, without further ado, I give you the next chapter of this story and I hope that you will enjoy it.

WILFULLY: CHAPTER 7

Though he tried his best to appear cool and composed, Draco Malfoy felt quite uneasy.

He was about to go dine at the Burrow, the home of the Weasleys – the very people whom he had once loathed with a burning passion and, if he was being honest with himself, was not quite fond of presently as well. He had only agreed to this dinner for Ginevra. His Weasley girlfriend.

Merlin.

For the umpteenth time he wondered if he had been under some sort of Imperius Curse to have pursued her. But he knew that that was not the case. He had wilfully entered this relationship, just like he had wilfully agreed to meet with her family.

In all fairness, he had still been suffering from the after-effects of all those pain potions he had taken during his sickness when he had very gallantly and stupidly asked Ginevra to arrange a meeting with her parents, but he did not wish to back out of it now, lest he appear cowardly before those damned redheads. And so, he curled his fingers around his wand and disapparated away.

Time for battle.

xx

Draco's feet landed on the grassy ground and he eyed the tall, wonky looking house before him. He had refused to arrive there by the Floo – he wasn't sure if the Weasley hovel had a large enough fireplace, and he would be damned if his entrance into their home was marked by him tumbling unceremoniously out of a tiny hearth – and had told Ginevra that he would apparate there. She had then spent a while giving him the address and describing the place to him in vivid detail so that he would have no trouble finding it.

Little did she know that he did not need any instructions.

He had visited the place years ago as one of the Death Eaters who had gate-crashed her brother's wedding to Fleur Delacour. He had only been a part of that particular mission to appease the Dark Lord, who had been incandescent towards him ever since his failure to kill Dumbledore. For the most part, he had managed to steer clear of his violent comrades and the frantic wedding guests that night, but when Dolohov had shot him a warning glare, he had had no choice but to fire a few hexes that ended up setting a table or two on fire.

It was perhaps best that Ginevra remained in the dark about that, for now at least. He doubted she would understand his side of the story. Besides, the time he had spent in his Death Eater robes wasn't something he liked to talk about anyway.

Draco pushed those horrid memories away as he made his way through the garden, pausing briefly when a rustling noise caused him to turn his attention towards the vegetable patch. A brown creature that looked like a two-legged fat potato trotted between the rows of planted carrots, gleefully snapping off the leaves. Merlin's armpit, they had gnomes! The sight of the creature was more repugnant than surprising; after all, he could hardly expect the Weasleys to take as good care of their garden as the Malfoys.

Two house-elves were especially responsible to ensure that the Manor grounds remained free of such vermin. He could recall a vague childhood memory of his grand-mère spotting a gnome near her favourite carnations and ordering the elf in charge to take a tumble in a thorny bush for the unspeakable negligence. He didn't think he would ever resort to such harsh punishments if he were faced with such a situation, but he probably would deduct some of the house-elf's salary if he found that his servant was not doing his job properly.

Draco stopped outside the front door and squared his shoulders to prepare himself for what would undoubtedly be a tedious event, but before he could raise his hand to knock, the door swung open.

Ginevra stood in the doorway, garbed in plain jeans and a navy jumper, her red hair falling freely down her shoulders and her beautiful brown eyes burning with a mixture of surprise and joy. "You came," she breathed.

"I said I would, didn't I?" he asked, wondering if he should be more offended or amused at her disbelief. Either way, it was obvious that she had expected to be stood up once again.

"You did." She smiled and stepped aside to let him enter.

He hung his coat on a hook by the door before following her into a shabby looking living room with a pair of sagging armchairs and a large couch laden with colourful cushions. The shelves on the stone walls were filled with books and odd little trinkets, and the mantle above the roaring fireplace was covered with framed photographs of the Weasley family members and a couple of framed paintings that were clearly drawn by children. Ginevra had mentioned that she had a small army of little nieces and nephews.

His observations came to a halt when Molly Weasley stepped into the living room from an archway that probably led to the kitchen, judging by the aroma of freshly baked bread wafting from the direction. "Mr. Malfoy," she greeted, her tone clipped but not impolite, and held out her hand.

"Mrs. Weasley." Draco took her hand in his and, bending over it, placed a small kiss on its back. He had been raised a gentleman and knew his manners, though it was obvious that the woman was not used to being greeted as such. "Your house is very…" The usual compliment ended with 'lovely', but he could not utter the word here without being dishonest; though the place gave off a cosy feel, he found it to be lacking entirely in class. "Quaint." He held out an intricately carved wooden box stamped with the Malfoy crest that he had been carrying. "This is for you. Wine from my family's vineyard in Tuscany."

It was one of the finest vintages they had produced and probably cost more than Arthur Weasley's three month salary, though he doubted that the Weasleys would appreciate its value. They were probably one of the few people who could not be impressed with extravagant gifts, what with their foolishly honourable beliefs that money was not everything, but he could not have showed up at their doorstep empty-handed. It was proper that he brought something and he was not going to bring a cheap, off-the-shelf bottle of wine. He was a Malfoy, after all, and had standards to uphold.

"Thank you," Mrs. Weasley accepted the box, then ushered him towards one of the armchairs before excusing herself to check up on the roast.

"You do know how to behave like a decent person," Ginevra said teasingly once they were left alone. "Who'd have thought?"

"I'm full of surprises," he said dryly.

"Where were these pleasant surprises back at Hogwarts?"

His response, which included a mild insult to the Gryffindors that would have amused her and a self-satisfied sneer that would have irked her, was cut short by the arrival of Arthur Weasley, who greeted Draco tersely, his lips set into a thin line. The small talk that followed was quite forced as well, as if it took every ounce of tolerance that the thin, balding man had to play the role of a somewhat welcoming host to a Malfoy.

Oddly enough, Draco found that he could relate. He had spent years hating the Weasleys, a feeling that he had inherited from his father, who in turn had spent a chunk of his time at the Ministry ensuring that families who did not share the Malfoy agenda never reached a pedestal of prominence where their voices could cause… inconvenience. Inconvenience, not harm, because Lucius Malfoy had been certain that his power could not be thwarted.

How wrong he had been.

It was ironic how it was the Weasleys who were now one of the most respected families in the wizarding community while the Malfoys were all but shunned. More than irony, though, it was a bitter reality that Draco was not indifferent to.

He often thought that his father had joined Voldemort's ranks not out of a petty desire to eradicate muggleborns, but to become part of a regime where the family would be at the top of the power pyramid. It was his attempt at gaining glory and greatness – a desire that Draco, too, had shared when he had taken the Dark Mark. And their attempt had backfired massively.

Still, Draco was nothing if not patient; months of planning the murder of one of the greatest wizards of his time and months of trying to get through the tyranny of one of the most terrible wizards of all times had certainly taught him patience. Gaining the trust and respect of the wizarding community would take time, and he was willing to take it slow, build the Malfoy reputation back up bit by bit.

The dinner was served in the cramped kitchen, where a table was set with rather plain looking china. He held out a chair for Ginevra and took a seat next to her, noting that his gesture did not go unnoticed by her parents. He chose to ignore them and instead eyed the dishes before him, quite impressed with the menu of mashed potatoes, roasted lamb chops, fish cakes and freshly baked bread. He did feel an unexpected tinge of guilt at the thought that Mrs. Weasley must have spent a large amount of time preparing this meal for him, but he hastily shoved it away. He had offered to host them at the Manor, but Ginevra had told him that her parents insisted on inviting him over instead. Their choice, their chores.

"Try the potatoes," Ginevra said as she held out the bowl towards him, a proud smile on her lips. "My cooking."

"Then I shall steer clear of them," Draco said lightly. "I don't want to end up back in the hospital."

She slammed her foot down on his, causing him to jump in surprise. The wench! It hadn't hurt that much, if he was being honest, but it had certainly bruised his ego a bit. "As if you can do any better," she said as she scooped up a much-too-large portion of the potatoes and dropped it onto his plate, ignoring his look of protest entirely. "Do you even know where your kitchen is?"

"Of course, I do," he retorted, wondering if he should admit that his knowledge of the culinary arts was limited to the processes of eating and digesting only. It was not his fault that he was rich enough to afford an army of house-elves who were more than willing to prepare whatever food he wanted, whenever he wanted and bring it to wherever he was. "Though the fact that I hardly ever set foot in the place is another matter entirely."

"You seem recovered now, Mr. Malfoy," Mrs. Weasley said, causing him to turn to the older couple and noting with some intrigue that they looked visibly uncomfortable seeing his somewhat playful banter with their daughter. "You were in quite a bad shape at the hospital the other day. Ginny told me it was some sort of potion accident that caused the infection."

It had been five days since he had been discharged from St. Mungo's, and the fact that he had been seen by the Weasleys in that horrid state peeved him greatly. "Ah, yes," Draco responded stiffly. Mrs. Weasley looked like she was waiting for him to elaborate, perhaps tell her more about the infection or of his recovery, but he had no wish to delve into that complicated topic; placating Ginevra's curiosity with a somewhat vague tale had been tricky enough already. He took a bite of his food to make it clear that he was not willing to speak any further on the matter.

"So, you dabble in potions then?" Mr. Weasley asked.

The question prompted Draco to wonder how big of an idiot the man was. Surely, the head of a department at the Ministry, even if said department was rather useless, would know that potioneering was the largest part of the Malfoy Corporation. "Yes," he replied with excessive politeness. "My company–"

"I know what your company does," Mr. Weasley interrupted, his eyes flashing as if he could see through his forced politeness. "I just wasn't aware that you took part in the research process yourself. I assumed your job was simply to oversee the running of your businesses."

"It is." His father had taught him early on that the secret to having a successful business was being passionately invested in it. For Lucius Malfoy, that passion had taken the shape of politics, using his position at the Ministry to often sway things in a direction from which the company would profit. For him, though, the investment had been his curiosity. "But what is the point of being one of the biggest names in potioneering if one can't play with the boundaries of the subject. I have always been fascinated with alchemy and potions–"

"Have you?"

Draco glared at him coolly; he loathed being interrupted and the ginger man had dared to do so twice in a period of thirty seconds. "I am aware that it was a particular hobby of your youngest son to complain about Professor Snape exhibiting favouritism towards me back at Hogwarts. If he had bothered to pay attention to something other than his petty complexes, he would have noticed that Snape preferred me over almost everyone else because I was actually quite good at the subject."

Though he had once hated that a witch of muggle descent had been the highest academic achiever at Hogwarts, he could now admit that Granger was indeed a gifted witch. But he also thought that it was utterly ridiculous that nobody ever bothered to look past her smarts and tried to see who had come second to her in class. It had been him. His academic performance had been exceptional for the first five years – sixth year had been a horrible downward spiral, but he tried not to think of that – and he had actually taken as many subjects as Granger, scoring eight O's and one E in his OWLs; he had failed Care of Magical Creatures, but that had entirely been the fault of that oaf Hagrid who had been a horrible, unqualified teacher.

A tense silence followed his words, then Mr. Weasley said, "There is no need to get so defensive. I was only asking." He reached for some bread nonchalantly, but as he did so, he glanced very pointedly at his daughter.

Ginevra had told Draco how much her parents had disapproved of their relationship, how they had raised concerns over his past not only as a Death Eater but also as a bully at Hogwarts, and how they had insisted that it was nigh on impossible that a Malfoy would ever be cordial towards her family. This pointed look was Arthur Weasley's way of saying 'I told you so' to his daughter.

And Draco was going to have none of it. "Please, do not mistake my blunt manner for defensiveness. I was merely stating a fact," he responded calmly, then moved his gaze to Mrs. Weasley. "The food is absolutely delicious, by the way. My compliments to you, ma'am."

"Oh," The plump woman flushed. "Thank you." She eyed him with a mixture of curiosity and wariness, as if she was not quite sure what to make of him.

He, too, found himself facing the same dilemma. He had spent a large part of his Hogwarts years passing insults about this woman; he could vividly recall his remarks that had led to that infamous Slytherin-Gryffindor brawl in the Quidditch stadium back in his fifth year. But that had been before his world had crumbled down upon him and forced him to view certain things in a light that he had not acknowledged previously.

Now, even though he would have preferred to dine with trolls in their caves rather than be a guest of the Weasley family – save for Ginevra, of course – he could not help but admit to himself that Molly Weasley had a strength about her, a strength that he had often glimpsed in his own mother. It was a peculiar comparison, he mused, for the two women were as different as day and night, and yet it could not be denied that they were also very much alike in some ways. Mrs. Weasley had killed Bellatrix Lestrange, perhaps the most notorious Death Eater to have existed, in order to protect her daughter. Narcissa Malfoy had stared the Dark Lord in the eye and lied to him for the sake of her son – for him. It was a mother's love that had saved both Ginevra and him, and he could not help but respect the two mothers who had loved so dearly.

Besides, any woman who had the talent to cook such scrumptious lamb chops deserved an extra ounce of respect any way.

"And the potatoes?" Ginevra asked, causing him to turn his head in her direction. Her expression was neutral, playful even, but he could tell that she was not pleased with the somewhat stiff direction the dinner conversation had taken. Had she really expected that they would all get along instantly, laughing over all the friendly memories that they had never shared? She was a fool if she had.

"I'm endeavouring to keep them down." As if to demonstrate, he took a bite of potatoes and winked at her, causing her to roll her eyes.

The rest of the meal went by in a similar 'slightly tense but not altogether suffocating' manner. The conversation that occurred was laden with wariness on the part of the elder Weasleys, a casual ignorance of the underlying issues on Ginevra's and a blunt arrogance on his, but they all managed to make it to pudding without brandishing their wands, which Draco felt was quite an achievement.

They were almost finished with dessert when a tapping sound turned their attention towards an impatient looking screech owl hovering outside the kitchen window. "That's Gwenog's owl," Ginevra groaned as she moved to accept the letter from the bird. "I hope she's not scheduling another early practice."

"I never thought I'd hear you complain about your job, seeing that how much you love it," Mrs. Weasley said lightly.

"I love sleeping too, mum," Ginevra said as she skimmed the contents of the missive. Her brows drew into a frown. "Bloody hell!" She looked at them incredulously. "The Prophet plans on doing weekly in-depth features on each of the teams in the League next month. The interview with the Harpies is scheduled to take place next week and Gwenog wants me to be a tour guide of sorts for the sports correspondent."

"What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing," Ginevra bit her lip thoughtfully. "I had hoped to keep my contribution to a minimum. I've been in the news enough already."

"Since when do you care what the press says about you?" Mr. Weasley asked. "You're one of the best players Holyhead Harpies has, and you deserve to be an integral part of that feature."

"Besides, I highly doubt that your absence from this particular interview will discourage Rita Skeeter from publishing more of her manure," Draco felt the need to add. If anything, the red-lipped cow would probably spin her absence into a tall tale involving heartbreak and drugs and elopement or something bizarre of that sorts. Not to mention that avoiding the press would be a cowardly move on Ginevra's part, and if there was one thing he was certain that she was not, it was a coward.

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley seemed surprised that he had agreed with them, and he resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the sheer stupidity they exhibited. The fact that he had just sort of backed Arthur Weasley was as significant as a random agreement he would have with a distant acquaintance; he had only done so to do right by his girlfriend.

"You're right." Ginevra smiled gratefully at the two men, then excused herself so she could go and send a reply to her team captain.

Her temporary departure, however, meant that Draco was left alone with her parents. He noticed them share a subtle glance, and then Mrs. Weasley started clearing the table while Mr. Weasley fixed his gaze upon him. A tiny urge to get up and leave entered his mind, but he was quick to dismiss it. A confrontation was inevitable, and he had known that since the day he had gotten involved with Ginevra. To run away from it now would be a cowardice that was beneath even him. So, he leaned back in his chair and raised an eyebrow challengingly, waiting for one of them to speak.

It was Mr. Weasley who did. "Ginny is my heart," he said, "And she has the biggest heart. She has always seen the best in others, always believed that everyone deserves a second chance. Even you, Mr. Malfoy. She seems to think that you've changed, that you're worthy enough of an important place in her life." He paused for moment and when he continued, his voice was filled with steel. "I'm not as optimistic. You are your father's son, and you are capable of the same manipulative, prejudiced, self-serving and heartless ways that he was. I don't trust you, and I sure as hell do not trust your intentions towards my daughter. So, I am obliged to tell you that if you try anything with my Ginny, I will–"

"Oh, spare me with your threats, Arthur!" Draco sneered. The man had dropped his mask of politeness and it was only right that he dropped his own. "They do not scare me in the slightest." He had survived being threatened by the Dark Lord himself, after all, and this honourable, balding man came nowhere near the vicinity of that. "Might I point out that your love for your daughter is pointless if you don't trust her enough to make the right decisions for herself?"

"Now, wait a minute–"

"Ginevra is one of the strongest witches I've ever met, and she is more than capable of taking care of herself. She doesn't need you or her useless brothers to protect her."

"I know." Mr. Weasley looked him in the eye. "But we are all here to protect her nonetheless."

Draco could not help but be impressed with the man's dedication towards his children. It was an admirable quality. "Noted," he said in the same tone he used whenever he sealed a business deal. Setting aside his napkin, he turned to look at Mrs. Weasley, who had been silently listening to their conversation. He noted that she did not appear to be as suspicious of him as before; perhaps he had managed to satisfy her to an extent, if not her husband. "May I use your bathroom?" he asked her.

"Upstairs," she replied. "On the third floor."

The bathroom turned out to be small, as expected, though he did think it was an atrocity that one had to climb all those flights of stairs just to empty a bladder. He resisted the urge to splash some water on his face; the dinner had turned out to be more testing than he had originally imagined, and his mind was now a whirlwind of thoughts that he did not want to examine. At least not now.

As he turned off the tap, his eyes came to rest on the hand towel hanging by the sink. Though it was clean, he could tell that it had already been put to use by the members of the family. Salazar's blood, did they expect him to dry his hands with that? The thought alone filled him with revulsion. He was wondering whether to use the toilet paper or to pull out his wand and cast a drying spell when there was a knock on the door.

"It's me," Ginevra called out. "I brought you a fresh towel." It was ridiculous that he should feel such immense relief over something so silly, but he did, and he was quick to step outside. Her eyes were shining with an odd knowledge as she handed him the cloth. "I know how particular you can be about these."

He had the decency to look sheepish at that. It was true, and Blaise had been quick to blame it on his OCD, though Draco personally thought that it was simply a good sense of hygiene. "I knew I kept you around for a reason, Weasley," he stated.

"I wish I could say the same about you, Malfoy," she sighed wistfully as she wrapped her arms around his neck. "But I suppose I will have to make do with what I've got."

Her lips curved into a suggestive smile as they met his, and he allowed himself to drown in the kiss for a few moments before pulling away. It was very likely that their absence would be noticed, and though he was not afraid of exhibiting a public display of affection – had they not kissed in that stadium in front of the entire world? – he did think that getting caught in the midst of a snog would do his precariously maintained truce with her parents no good.

Ginevra let out a sound of protest at the loss of contact, her hands tugging at the lapels of his jacket, a silent plea for more. Her lips were so soft and inviting that there was no choice but to give in. He pulled her in for a hot, passionate kiss, his fingers buried in her red hair. She moaned softly, and the sound travelled straight to his groin. Sweet Salazar, the woman would be the death of him.

He had once taken an illegal potion called Deluge back at Hogwarts – Marcus Flint had somehow managed to sneak it past Filch and the Slytherin Quidditch team had decided to celebrate their victory against Ravenclaw in a more wild fashion than usual – and he remembered its effects clearly. An insane euphoria had flooded his veins, igniting every inch of his mind and body, and he had floated in the highest of skies and danced among the brightest of stars. Kissing Ginevra felt like that. He had never dabbled in those sorts of substance again, but Merlin help him, he would very much like to spend the rest of his life getting high on her essence.

A hard thump caused them to jump apart and, dazed as he was by the rather magnificent snogging, it took Draco a moment to recognise the bearded man with round glasses and a lightning shaped scar on his forehead standing on the staircase. It took him another moment to realise that the newcomer was injured, with one side of his head caked in blood and his left hand nearly mangled.

"Harry!" Ginevra's voice was filled with horror. "What's happened to you?"

Something flashed in Potter's eyes as he looked between the two of them, but it was gone a moment later. "I'm fine," he said curtly. "I just… need the medicine kit."

Ginevra disappeared into the bathroom without a word and returned a few seconds later with a small box. She reached out and placed a hand on Potter's arm. "Let me help you downstairs and then I can–"

"I said I'm fine!" Potter all but growled as he snatched the box from her hands and stormed back downstairs.

Though Ginevra seemed taken aback, it was obvious that her main concern lay with the welfare of her ex. Draco held no such concern, so he found himself trying to decipher the cold behaviour that his old nemesis had just exhibited.

It was entirely possible that Potter had been short-tempered due to the pain of his wounds, but it felt more like a reaction to the snogging he had just witnessed. The real question that then arose was what sort of a reaction it was. It could have been mere shock or disapproval, but it also could have been jealousy. Could it be true, Draco wondered, could Rita Skeeter's sensational love triangle actually be real? Merlin, he hoped not – not because he was afraid of competition, but because he wasn't sure if he wanted to live in a world where Rita Skeeter was right.

He dismissed the speculation for now and placed an arm around Ginevra's waist, leading her down the stairs. By the time they entered the living room, Potter's hand was already wrapped in a bandage and Mrs. Weasley was gently applying dittany to the wound on his head.

"Here," Mr. Weasley said as he handed Potter a glass of firewhiskey. "You look like you need it."

Potter snorted and took a healthy sip. "Thanks."

"What happened?" Ginevra asked.

Potter sent an ugly glare in their direction, which only caused Draco's suspicions to grow stronger; though the Harry-Ginny relationship had ended over a year ago, there was evidently some unfinished business between them, more prominently on Scarhead's part.

"We were chasing a lead about an escaped Death Eater. There was a skirmish." Potter glanced at Mrs. Weasley and went on in a softer tone. "Ron's fine. He went off on his date night with Hermione after I promised him that I'd spend the night here, under your supervision."

"Good." Mrs. Weasley smiled as she waved her wand and cleaned the blood from his head, leaving behind no trace of the deep gash that had been there only moments ago. "What happened to the Death Eater?"

"He escaped," Potter replied, clearly displeased with the outcome of his mission. He once again looked in their direction. "You remember Antonin Dolohov, Draco? I believe he was an old colleague of yours."

Draco stiffened, both at the mention of the notorious Death Eater and at the fact that the thrice damned hero of the wizarding world had managed to remind everyone of his old affiliations with Voldemort with such a casual sentence, thus rendering any progress he had made with Ginevra's parents during dinner nearly useless. "I remember him."

"You wouldn't happen to know where he might be hiding, would you?"

"Harry," Ginevra warned in a low voice, though she was ignored entirely.

"I am sure you would tell us if you had any information about your old mates," Potter went on, his smile more taunting than courteous. "Law-abiding citizen that you are now."

The sheer hypocrisy of these honourable Gryffindors was astounding, it had always been so. Potter had once made a rousing speech about the importance of forgiveness to get Draco pardoned, and here he was now, ridiculing him for the very past that he had claimed needed to be put behind course, there was a major difference between the two instances: there had been a huge audience at the Death Eater trials, praising Potter for his nobility and hailing him as their hero. Now, though, in the confines of this small living room filled with people who already danced to his tunes, the great hero could afford to show his true face. It was pathetic, really.

Draco wanted nothing more than to hex the spectacled git but knew that it would only make matters worse. Still, just because it was unwise to initiate a fight did not mean that he had to stand here and listen to this shit. "I should go," he said.

"Are you sure?" Ginevra glanced at him. "I was thinking of making some tea and–"

"Perhaps some other time, darling," he said, and noted that the others had stilled in surprise. It wasn't hard to figure out why. The first time he had addressed Ginevra as 'darling', it had been out of a sense of mockery, but somehow over time it had become completely natural for him to use the term of endearment for her. And if Potter had a problem with that – which he did, if the look in his eyes was anything to go by – then he could go fuck himself. "I have an important meeting tomorrow that I have to prepare for."

He thanked Mrs. Weasley for a lovely dinner, shook Mr. Weasley's hand, ignored the Git Who Lived Twice and then walked over to the front door. He was slipping on his coat when he noticed that Ginevra had followed him. "You don't have to see me out," he told her.

"And you don't have to run away," she pointed out.

Her words gave him pause. "Is that what you think is happening?"

"What's the meeting about?" she asked him as they both stepped out the front door. It was a cloudy night, with barely any stars in the sky, but the air was pleasantly cool.

"I have mentioned to you before that there is a deal that I've been trying to close for a couple of weeks now. It's about that." he replied. "I'm afraid I can't tell you more than that, except that if it works out, there might be a pleasant little surprise in it for you."

She narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. "You're not… buying the Harpies, are you?"

"Merlin, no!" Draco said with a laugh. "Why would I buy such a failure of a team?"

"Prat!" Ginevra slapped his arm lightly, then glanced back at her house. "The dinner went alright, don't you think?" It was no secret that this meant a great deal to her, and she was obviously very concerned about it.

"As well as it could have gone," he assured her gravely, then leaned forward to place a soft kiss on her forehead. "Go inside before you catch a cold. I'll see you soon."

"Not if I see you first." She winked at him playfully before returning inside.

Draco started making his way down the gardens so that he could disapparate; like most wizarding families after the war, the Weasleys had left up a few protective shields around their house. It had been an unusual night, and he found his usual impression of Arthur and Molly Weasley quite challenged by what he had witnessed. They followed a set of morals that he could not understand, which made sense since their way of life had differed greatly from his own, but he no longer found them to be entirely despicable.

Still, his thoughts about the Weasley family were not causing his stomach to turn. It was a single name that was troubling him: Antonin Dolohov.

xx

Though he tried his best to appear cool and composed, Draco Malfoy felt quite uneasy.

How ironic was it that he had been thinking of Dolohov – something that he refrained from doing most of the time – when he had arrived at the Burrow, only to find out that the man was being hunted by the Aurors, had managed to elude them and was currently in the wind?

They do say something about thinking of the devil, he mused.

He remembered Dolohov well; it would be hard to forget the look of ferocious joy on that long, twisted face every time he tortured an enemy of the Dark Lord, to whom he was devoted beyond imagining.

The mention of his name had unsettled Draco, though he could not imagine why. Perhaps it was because he usually tended to avoid any news or gossip related to the Death Eaters, or perhaps it was something else. But the way Potter had glared at him, the thinly veiled accusation and the open suspicion in his words filled him with an odd sense of doom...

Well, fuck Potter. And while he was at it, fuck Dolohov as well.

Draco had sacrificed a lot in the six years following the war to build a life for himself, and now that he was content, he could not bring himself to give a damn about the games that the Aurors and the Death Eaters were playing. He had nothing to do with either of them.

I was very particular about the way I wrote the dinner: I did not want it to be an outright success. Realistically speaking, it would be almost impossible for Draco (who was raised with certain beliefs) to not only see Weasleys as the wonderful people they are but to also realise his own past mistakes over the course of a single dinner. Similarly, I doubt that it would be so easy for the Weasleys to forgive and forget the deeds of the Malfoys and see that Draco is no longer the person he was back at Hogwarts.

Understanding comes with time. Whether our beloved characters will reach that point or not... well, that is something that you'll have to wait and see!

Please let me know what you thought of this chapter. Your reviews mean the world to me!

Until next time. Cheers x