CHAPTER TWO

Draco waited at the kitchen table with Ginny, Bill and Fleur, the Delacours, and Mrs. Weasley as Fred, George, and Mr. Weasley scoured the living room later that night. The party around the table was silent and occasionally a muttered word would reach their ears.

"—want to burn that chair almost."

"But—your favorite—"

"—something here."

"Magic."

Mr. Weasley appeared a moment later with the twins in tow. "He's left a spell over the house," he announced.

Draco started. Mrs. Weasley gasped. Ginny swore. Her mother cried, "Ginny!"

Mr. Weasley did not seem to disapprove of his daughter's language. "He's watching us, I think," he said.

Mr. Weasley left the house not long afterward, against the protests of Mrs. Weasley.

"I have to get a message to them, Molly. They saw what was happening. They must be thinking there's a chance we're all..."

There was no need for him to finish the sentence, Draco thought, clutching his mug with the last few swallows of tea a dark, murky brown at the bottom. They were all of them surprised to be sitting around this table, alive tonight.

Mr. Weasley brushed his wife away. "I'll be right back, Molly. I can't message them inside the house. He'll know if I do. I just have to get outside the wards."

Mrs. Weasley waited at the back door, watched her husband cross the lawn. The rest of them watched her silently, knowing her face would betray even the merest hint of harm to her husband. They knew from her sigh, the tension disappearing from her shoulders when he was coming back toward the house.

He was beaming as his wife wrapped herself around him. "The message went through," he announced.

Their released breaths were like a breeze through the kitchen. For now at least Ron, Harry, and Hermione were all right. They were alive at least. The Patronus would not have gone otherwise.

xxx

The Delacours left early the following day, waiting only for a light breakfast, which Mrs. Weasley with tired, red eyes prepared with goodwill. Gabrielle clung to her mother's hand, stayed close to her side as they said their goodbyes, until they came at last to Fleur. It was with only much wheedling and many assurances that they prised the little girl off her sister.

"Pas inquiéte, mon couer. Mon mari est fort, et me protégera," Fleur whispered sweetly as the little girl was drawn away. "Toujours je t'adore, ma sœur," she added, straightening and trying a brave smile for the girl.

The older Weasley children and Fleur with Bill left not long afterward, each needing to get to their various workplaces. Mr. Weasley did not dare skive or even be late for work with this new regime so lately installed.

This left only Mrs. Weasley, Ginny, and Draco at the Burrow.

Draco did not think he had ever passed a less pleasant day in the house. The strain and unfading red eyes and tightly drawn expression of Mrs. Weasley weighed heavily on him. Though Ginny tried to keep her face stony, determined, Draco often caught a frown pulling on her lips when her mother wasn't looking. Her fingers tied themselves in knots when they weren't otherwise occupied. Draco didn't know whether he should stay to try and support the other two or whether he forced his company upon them, too tightly wound in the whole mess as he was, and should retreat to his room. He settled for bringing a book with him to the sitting room, where Mrs. Weasley folded by hand a pile of clothes that was considerably smaller than it had been of late, eschewing her usual magic in favor of manual labor, and Ginny flitted from one activity to another. With the book open on his lap, Draco could easily disappear from their company when he felt himself unwanted. But mostly, he sat with the book open on his lap and fell to wondering—wondering what was going on outside the Burrow. What new laws were being implemented even now? He wondered where the Dark Lord was now—surely not at the Ministry? He wondered where Harry, Ron, and Hermione were, what they had set out to do, and whether Dolohov and Rowle had indeed already apprehended them. Unfortunately there was no need to wonder what would—or had happened to them if Death Eaters had.

Mrs. Weasley served them a late lunch of cold sandwiches. Draco thought she had probably forgotten about the meal entirely. He had, and Ginny started when she saw the tray her mother carried in. Draco ate one, but it tasted like cardboard, and his stomach only churned it over uncomfortably, more fuel for his disturbed musings, which had faded into different cut scenes of Harry, Ron, and Hermione before the Dark Lord, each coming to a worse ending than the last.

The sun crept into the back window. Draco forced himself to watch the light steal along the hardwood of the living room floor, the shaft forcing its way to them through the kitchen. He had just witnessed the worst scene yet, in which he entered, dragged there by the Dark Lord's odd connection to and control over him, and was forced to take part in the torture of his friends. The Dark Lord had been demanding that Draco now kill Ron. The sunbeam was not bright enough to overwhelm those shadows entirely.

He looked up. What time was it? Mrs. Weasley had disappeared into the kitchen again. Ginny, sitting across from him, was fiddling with a pair of knitting needles and trying to get them to behave as her mother did. The yarn hung off both ends in loose tangles.

xxx

The Weasleys all bore news when they returned to the Burrow that night—or all that were gathered there. Eyes were drawn away from papers, away from the faces of one another and to the empty chairs, the spaces between. Harry, Ron, and Hermione should have been there—and no one had any inkling yet of where they were or what they might be doing. The absences of Bill and Fleur, though they were excused with the blessing of them all, were felt as well. When they could not know where they all were, they all fell to wondering whether the other was all right.

Fred and George at least returned to their childhood home, unwilling to remain away now.

Mr. Weasley brought a copy of the Daily Prophet, which Draco scoured from cover to cover, though the banner headline set a bad tone: 'Wanted for Questioning by the Ministry of Magic' was blared above a picture of Harry; though, as George pointed out without much enthusiasm, this at least seemed to indicate that the Dark Lord had not yet captured him. The article cited several supposed crimes of Harry's from slander to illegal use of magic on and in the sight of Muggles to warmongering. The article even went so far as to suggest that he might have murdered Cedric Diggory during the final Task of the Triwizard Tournament, an old rumor conveniently brought up again now, and Dumbledore on the top of that tower. Ginny leant toward Draco to read the paper in his hands, but seemed to be having a difficult time tearing her eyes from Harry's. Mr. Weasley meanwhile explained some of the changes that were beginning to take place at the Ministry and answered questions about the character of the newly appointed Minister, Pius Thicknesse. The story was given out that Scrimgeour had resigned. Mr. Weasley had not yet been able to figure out the details of Scrimgeour's murder. Employees—particularly higher up officials—wandered about with haggard faces and nervous looks. At least, Fred said, this suggested that they were suspicious of the regime changes.

Fred and George brought back news of Aurors in Diagon Alley. They had burst into shops, demanding information about Harry Potter, which, so far as Fred and George could glean, no one had been able to give them. There had been no arrests; from what they could tell no one had even received serious threats. The purple Ministry safety bulletins were gone and replaced with blinking pictures of Harry, bearing the same header as the newspaper.

The shopkeepers and shoppers had been too much on edge already for them to notice much difference. The posters, though, caused whispers, and today, at least, the twins had not dared to rebuke the gossipers, not with the Aurors there.

"People can't really believe it though?" Ginny asked. "Of Harry?"

George shrugged. "If they don't want to think it's him." There was no need for George to name the "him" that he meant.

Massaging his temple and pushing his glasses askew, Mr. Weasley said, "He's not broadcasting his takeover. It's been almost silent. I can't say I think it's a good thing for us."

"But they'll figure it out," Ginny said, eyes wide. "People will have to figure it out."

Draco looked up to catch Mr. Weasley's eye, saw that he looked as hopeless as Draco felt. The Dark Lord had always operated by stealth. And it worked for him.

"Maybe," Mr. Weasley said with more confidence in his voice than on his face, than behind his horn-rimmed glasses. "The changes have been sudden. But Thicknesse wasn't a well-known official. We don't know what his views were. If he can convince people this really is all Thicknesse's doing, then..."

"Bed." Mrs. Weasley's voice rang out across the table, suddenly sharp. "All of you."

"But Mum, you can't expect us to sleep with—"

"We'll be dealing with all this for some time, Fred Weasley. We'll have to sleep anyway." Mrs. Weasley cast a look back at the family clock. All nine hands still pointed to "mortal peril"; Draco frowned deeply. It had been stuck like that since he had returned to the Burrow on school holiday. If the Weasleys had been in mortal peril in June, Draco couldn't help thinking as he with the rest of the Weasley children got up from the table and began to stalk up the stairs, there needed to be a stronger sentiment to describe this.

In the dark stairwell, Ginny who was in front of Draco, paused.

"—not a child anymore, Molly," they heard Mr. Weasley say. "She's got a right to know as much as the others."

"You tell her, Dad," Ginny muttered, before beginning to climb again.

"—fifteen!"

"Sixteen in nine days."

Nine days... How were they supposed to celebrate a birthday in all this?

xxx

More news poured in over the coming days so that reading the Prophet became both the highlight of Draco's day and his greatest dread. His stomach turned reading about the new theory that Muggle-borns' magic had to be stolen or forced from a true wizard. It was the sort of thing that he would have accepted at one point, and he knew that there were too many who would accept it now, some who wouldn't even question the announcement, some who would laud it and claim that they'd always thought so. The paper blared stories of arrested officials, of famous witches and wizards who suddenly found their right to magic questioned. They were hauled before the Muggle-born Registration Commission headed by Dolores Umbridge—a very toad-like woman who smirked too broadly in her photograph—and Denis Yaxley, whom Draco knew to be a Death Eater, though he failed to mention this to any of the Weasleys. The Muggle-borns were stripped of their wands and wealth and left on the streets.

Stories of death and torture were significantly absent.

At Monday's news, Ginny leapt from her seat, horror over her face. "No!"

"Gin—" Mrs. Weasley tried.

"No! I'm not going! I'm not going to Hogwarts. Not if he's—not if it'll be—"

"We don't know that, Ginny. We don't know."

Mr. Weasley reasoned, "Minerva McGonagall has always protected the students of that sch—"

"But look! You need Blood Status! You have to be a pureblood to attend."

"Or at least not a Muggle-born," Draco put in.

"McGonagall would never agree to—"

Neither side gave way, and by Tuesday night, Mrs. Weasley was saying shortly, "It's mandatory now, Ginny. I can't let you stay here. Do you think they won't come after you if you don't show up? They'll know."

"They're coming after us anyway. We're the biggest bunch of blood-traitors there is. And besides that, they know we're close to Harry."

"Yes, but—"

"What was that?"

They all looked around.

The knock came again.

"Someone at the door," Fred muttered.

"Get into the living room, all of you," Mr. Weasley said, suddenly brisk. He was pulling out his wand as he rose from the table. "Go."

They all got up, looking at him nervously.

"Arthur—"

"Molly, if—" He pulled her in for a fierce kiss, and the children all hurried past. Draco lingered, not wanting Mrs. Weasley left behind, wondering if he should be the one to open the door.

As the two Weasleys parted, Mr. Weasley looked around and saw him in the doorway. "Look after them," he said as Mrs. Weasley hurried past Draco, her face in her hands, muttering to herself, "Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no."

Draco nodded, glad to have a task, and shut the door between the rooms. He stayed nearby, looking at the Weasleys across the room. Fred was patting his sobbing mother on the back. George had his arms around Ginny, who had collapsed onto the couch. Both twins were looking at the door. And Draco listened.

"Who's there?" Mr. Weasley called.

"It is I, Arthur. Remus John Lupin," came a familiar voice. "Werewolf, husband of Nymphadora Tonks, member of the Order of Phoenix. When I was here last Christmas we discussed my transformation into a wolf after being attacked by Fenrir Greyback while we listened to Celestina Warbeck on the Wizarding Wireless Network and my friends, Sirius, James—"

"Remus! All right, all right. Thank God." Draco heard the bolt being drawn back from the door. "Molly! Kids!" Mr. Weasley called.

Draco stepped away from the door and opened it onto the kitchen. Professor Lupin stood near the threshold, Mr. Weasley locking the door again behind him. He looked worse than Draco had ever seen him, pale, haggard, with leaves and twigs tangled with the wool of his tattered cloak.

Mrs. Weasley hurried toward him. "Remus! Is everything all right? Is Tonks—"

"Dora is fine," he said tightly, and for a second the darkest shadow passed over his usually soft features. His eyes traveled around the room, to each of them.

"I've seen him," he said.

Mrs. Weasley gasped.

"Who? Not—him?" Mr. Weasley demanded.

Lupin shook his head. "Harry. Ron. Hermione."

Mrs. Weasley sank down into a seat at the table with a soft cry. Ginny's face burst into the first grin Draco had seen her wear since the wedding.

"Where? Are they—"

"They're all right," Lupin confirmed, still looking grim.

Mr. Weasley turned his eyes up. "God," he murmured.

"Where?" Fred took up the cry.

"Headquarters."

"Not—"

Sharply, Mr. Weasley reminded, "We're being watched. He left a spell over the house," he told Lupin.

"But they're all right?" Ginny asked.

"Yes."

"Tea," Mrs. Weasley said, rising shakily. "You must be— I'll make tea."

xxx

Although the news that Harry, Ron, and Hermione were all right, that they had not been captured lifted the mood of the Burrow somewhat, their fears still lingered in dark corners, came slinking out to wrap around the ankles of anyone who sat alone or in silence too long. As the week crept on, doubts set in again. Lupin had seen them Monday. That didn't mean that they were still okay on Friday or Saturday. Faces fell and paled; Draco wondered if the others were realizing too that Harry, Ron, and Hermione couldn't stay in any one place. Soon they'd move, and they'd all know as little as they had before Lupin's visit. And the day that they would be finally captured would be nearer, was always nearer.

Saturday, Draco caught Ginny looking thoughtfully at the jar of Floo powder that sat on the mantelpiece. Mrs. Weasley had left them to search for laundry. She had decided that since this was what life was going to be like for some time, the chores wouldn't wait for the storm to clear. She went to her work with such energy that Draco hardly dared appear downstairs with a spot of dirt on his trainers and was in constant fear of being mistaken for a dust bunny by the over-enthused broom.

"Don't," he said over the covers of the book that he wasn't really reading.

Ginny looked at him, her expression hardening with resolve.

"What do you think will happen if they do see you?" Draco asked.

"You think they won't be glad to see me?"

"That's exactly what I think. Now if any of the Death Eaters ask, you can tell them honestly that you haven't seen them. Maybe you can keep them from asking if you know where they are. The Dark Lord knows if you lie to him. He always knows. Best to know nothing and tell him all you know than know and lie."

"And you'd know," Ginny spat. She flew from the room with such speed that Draco only saw a blaze of fire sweep past and then that she was not there.

Draco ducked his head. The tea on the low table beside him was suddenly too like blood. He pushed it away, his stomach turning, knotting. Of course she was right.

xxx

Draco pushed open the door on the last landing and nearly retched. The smell was awful—like sewer drains. Immediately, the ghoul took up a chorus of moans and groans.

"No need for a show," Draco muttered to it ill-temperedly. He had fled upstairs when he could no longer stand Ginny avoiding his gaze and fiddling with everything within reach and Mrs. Weasley's frenzy.

For six days now he had racked his mind for something that might cheer Ginny up. He had drawn a blank and decided to settle for easing her loss in the best way that he might manage. The argument that they had earlier that afternoon confirmed his best idea. For that reason he had ascended the flights of steps to Ron's room, where no one dared go anymore.

He was turning over books, lifting up clothes—whether soiled or not, he didn't know, but he tried to dampen the cringe at the thought that they might be—shifting aside piles of newspaper that he thought had been Harry's subscription. "How they live in here—" he couldn't help muttering to himself.

The ghoul grunted, and Draco turned toward it. The red hair and purple blisters couldn't disguise him as Ron, but the sight of his tousled head above the disgustingly orange Cannons bedspread, poor imitation that it was, was still like a fist to his stomach. Where was the real Ron now? What was happening to him? The Death Eaters and the Ministry were still looking for Harry. If there'd been any sign of the three of them, Draco would know it.

"I'm looking for a photo album," he told the ghoul, keeping his voice even. "Something that would have a picture of Ron and Harry and Hermione."

The ghoul grunted again and pointed a long, hairy finger toward a cluttered table beneath the window, on which were piled books, comics, and a stack of playing cards beside an empty glass tank. A History of Magic and Magical Drafts and Potions were at the bottom below a stack of Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle comics. On top were Flying with the Cannons and Quidditch Through the Ages. And in between—

Draco pulled out the battered album, hurried past all the pictures of Ron and his siblings when they had been younger, feeling he couldn't invade there. After a few pages, he flipped the book over and began again from the back. It took Draco longer than he had expected to find one with all three of them. From the background of canvas tents and vibrantly dressed wizards, the first that Draco came across he guessed had been taken at the World Cup the summer before their fourth year. Was that really the last time they'd all been together and had had something to celebrate? With a twist in his stomach, he realized that it probably was. The Death Eaters had marched that night—his father and mother among them. By the end of the year, the Dark Lord was back. He slipped the photo carefully from its corners.

"Thank you," he said, turning back to the ghoul.

The ghoul grunted and lay back down beneath Ron's sheets.

"Do you need anything?"

The ghoul groaned and shook his head.

Draco wondered if it was considered offensive to offer help to a ghoul.

xxx

Draco was up early as usual the next morning. As soon as he had changed out of his pajamas, he went to the door and opened it just a little. He wanted to catch Ginny before she made it downstairs. He didn't want the others to know. The gesture felt too personal, too sentimental. He crossed back to the bed, scooped the photo from his bedside table, and let himself collapse back onto the mattress.

The three of them grinned up at him, waving, happy. They couldn't, he thought, be happy now. They weren't grinning. And how much of that was his fault? How much could he have prevented—ought he to have prevented? Was there anything he could have done? He kept running over the attack at the wedding in his mind, trying to decide what he might have done differently. Ought he to have stood and fought instead of searching for the Weasleys, for Harry, for Hermione, fought instead of looking for specific people to protect? If he had been able to take down more Death Eaters and Aurors before being captured— And was there more he could have done?

Never have been born, Draco thought bitterly. That might have prevented some of this. I don't know what part I played in keeping him alive. The Dark Lord's son, his shield, precious as a wand. That's what Snape had said, what Draco tried not to think about.

The room brightened by degrees, but Draco didn't move except to claw his hands into the feathered hair. How had this happened? How had everything broken down?

He almost missed Ginny. If she hadn't forgotten to jump the third step down from the landing, he would have. Her stupor made her less careful than usual. He bolted to the door and threw it open. She spun around, her hand plunging for her wand, but they were all jumpy these days; Draco thought nothing of it.

"Ginny," he breathed.

"There's was no need to—"

"I want to talk to you. Alone. In here." This was already going poorly.

But all the anger, all the ferocity went out of her. Ginny looked down the stairs, nodded once, and climbed back to him.

"Thank you," he said, moving out of the doorway.

Ginny only made a noncommittal grunt as she passed him.

Draco left the door mostly open behind himself. He didn't think Ginny's nerves could take being closed in just now. "I have something for you. A birthday present."

"But—"

"I wanted to give it to you alone."

Ginny's eyebrows rose.

Draco held out the photograph, and she accepted it mutely. Draco watched her; she stared at it.

"Where did you get this?" she said at last.

"It's not important, is it? Ron's room," he relented.

"Why—"

"Because, Ginny, I think you need it more than he does right now. Gin—" He reached out and put a hand on her shoulder. It was tight as a compressed spring. "I know I'm not your brother."

Ginny made a noise, but Draco didn't let her complain. He knew that he never would be.

"But I know Harry. And I know Ron and Hermione. Wherever they are, they're wishing they were here today—with you. If I can't bring them to you—or let you go to them, then the least I can do—" He gestured at the photo.

Ginny's head dropped. "Oh, Draco. It's not the same..."

With sudden inspiration, quietly, he continued, "They wouldn't want you to—to wait—for them."

Ginny pushed a loose curl behind her ear, looked up at him from behind her long eyelashes. "What do you mea—"

"They'd want you," Draco explained, "to be out there. Living. And fighting. Not cooped up in here, wondering and worrying. It won't do us any good, Ginny—either of us," he added. He realized that he must sound hypocritical, and he wished that he could stop himself from brooding over what had happened, what was coming next. "We've both been forgetting that lately."

"Fight," Ginny scoffed. "Him? How? Especially you?"

Draco hesitated. Hadn't he asked himself the same thing over and over again? "However we can, I guess. And by sticking together, by not letting him tear us apart—tear us up."

Ginny gave a great sniff and suddenly pressed herself against him, her arms holding him tightly to her. She smelled of lavender and chamomile. She was taller than Alana. Draco's head did not fit, as it did with her, just above Ginny's shoulder. She felt awkward in his arms as he returned the embrace, trying to act as a brother—or at the very least, a friend—would. They were friends. And who else did they have now? Who else would they have at Hogwarts? He found the words slipping from his lips, "I won't let him hurt you, Ginny. Whatever I can do to prevent him..."

Her lips twitched ever so slightly, despite the tear that he saw slide down her cheek.

Draco hoped that it was a promise that he could keep.

xxx

Mrs. Weasley protested strongly that she would go alone to Diagon Alley to buy all of their things when their booklists came on Thursday of the following week. Draco, looking down the list, knew what had happened. He tipped his envelope and watched as a badge fell into his outstretched hand. Ginny looked over at it while he stared, his heart sinking.

"That's the Head Boy's badge. It looks just like Percy's—and Bill's."

"Arthur, I couldn't live with myself if any of you— What?" Mrs. Weasley yelped.

Draco held it out to her. "He's done it," he whispered. "He must have."

"Nonsense," Mr. Weasley argued, staring too, but he didn't sound too confident, and his face was worried. "McGonagall could just as easily have—"

But Draco reached into the envelope. There was a small piece of parchment wedged behind the packet of other pages. As he pulled it out, it tingled with magic. Slowly, he read:

Congratulate me, my Draco. And congratulate yourself. I will expect you to wear this when you arrive at my school, and I will expect you to use the power I have given you. My Death Eaters will listen to you, and they will be there. One of my Death Eaters will meet you in the first cabin of the Hogwarts Express on 1 September to instruct you on the changes I have made to the school so that you can inform the prefects. Do not disappoint me, my Draco.

As he read the final sentence, the parchment grew warm, and as he finished, it burst into flames. Draco dropped it and watched it curl into ashes at his feet.

"What—"

"He's done it," Draco repeated. He looked up. "That was from him, telling me what he expects of me."

Ginny groaned and threw herself back into her seat at the table. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley exchanged a glance. Draco looked away. Suddenly, he wondered if the Dark Lord had had his own motives for leaving Draco with the Weasleys.

xxx

The news that the Dark Lord had conquered Hogwarts settled the question of Diagon Alley. It was agreed, after a quick Floo conversation, that Fred and George should buy all of their things. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were now hesitant to let either Draco or Ginny out of their sight any earlier than was necessary, convinced that the world was that much more dangerous. Even Draco, who couldn't help feeling as though their cautiousness also reflected on their trust of him, could not blame their wanting to keep them both close. Particularly as more bad news followed that.

The next day Hermione's name appeared in the Daily Prophet with other Muggle-borns who had failed to submit themselves to the new Muggle-born Registration Commission. There was a price on her head and the head of any other Muggle-born on the list: five Galleons. Not a very big reward, Draco couldn't help thinking, but it would be enough for too many in the wizarding world. None of the Weasleys said much about this latest bit of news. They didn't have to. The newspaper simply traveled from one hand to another.

Ginny's mouth was set in a firm line, but she was pale. Draco moved a hand to her arm, and she acknowledged the gesture with the pale shadow of a forced smile.

The night afterward, despite Mrs. Weasley's vehement protests, Mr. Weasley went to an Order of the Phoenix meeting, the first in several weeks. Kingsley Shacklebolt, with his connections to the Muggle government, secured them a location that the Death Eaters would not likely be watching.

"I told the professors that you'd been elected Head Boy, Draco." Mr. Weasley sipped a cup of tea with a dollop of firewhiskey; one look at his face told them all that he needed it. The five of them—Draco, Ginny, the twins, and Mrs. Weasley—huddled around him at the kitchen table. "McGonagall said she'd support it if she can. They were there, all of them, the professors—Minerva, Filius, Pomona... all of them but Sibyll, Slughorn, and—and poor Charity Burbage..." The teacup shook in his hand and rattled against the dish as he put it down. He looked to Mrs. Weasley and confided, the lines at his mouth and across his forehead very heavy, "She's dead. The Death Eaters, when they came for the school, they," Mr. Weasley gulped and grimaced, "they had her wand. Eaten, they said, by You-Know-Who's snake."

"Blaugh!" Ginny said quietly.

Draco agreed, his stomach uncomfortably churning over his own cup of tea sans firewhiskey.

"And Minerva—I mean, she can't be sure it's hers, can she?"

Mr. Weasley greened. "No one's seen or heard from her. It's— It would explain—"

"Oh Arthur," Mrs. Weasley moaned, and she went to wrap her arms around his slumped figure.

"Professor Burbage taught Dad," Ginny explained to Draco in an undertone, when she had put her tongue back into her mouth. "Muggle Studies, you know. I think they were still writing..."

xxx

Even with the heaviness in the air of the Burrow, the blackness of the brightest corners of rooms, Draco didn't want September the first to come, and it was with a heavy heart that he set about collecting his things on the last day of August. They seemed this summer to have spread farther than they ever had.

Ginny wandered into his room around ten just as he was locking his trunk.

She sat down on the bed without being invited, and Draco after a moment's pause went to join her.

"It doesn't feel like we're going to Hogwarts," she muttered, her eyes on the floor so that her bright curls fell forward and hid her face.

"We're not—not to the Hogwarts we know."

"Do you think..." Ginny looked up at him. "Do you think they'll let you see us—us blood-traitors? I mean, me... Alana…."

Draco's hands closed into fists. "I'll make them," he assured her.

Ginny tried for a smile. "That's all I wanted to know." She reached out and pulled Draco into a quick hug. "Goodnight," she said, sliding off the bed, a little more red in the face.

"Goodnight," Draco called, still sitting on the bed, feeling awkward. He was not used to such affection from Ginny. He was not used to being a brother.