A/N: So very appreciative of everyone who took the time to review the story so far—encouragement always helps me write faster. Here's a chapter that took a life of it's own! Hope you enjoy. Let me know your thoughts, darlings. xo

Disclaimer: Harry Potter, its universe, and all of its various components belong to J.K. Rowling and Warner Brothers Inc. No profit is being made from this work of fan fiction, and no copyright infringement is ever intended.


Of Jackets & Gentlemen

Part IV


She had awoken this particularly wet March morning from a hazy, troubling dream; he had been there, at the library in the manor, speaking in a voice that was not his and staring blankly at her with eyes that were not his own.

"It's not as it seems, Ginevra—the antidote was buried in the history books centuries ago— the union is shrouded in darkness, doomed to toil in obscurity—the old ways are gone, you see—"

The dream shifted; she was outside the Burrow now. She knelt by the small lake behind the house and peered at her reflection. She was a little girl again, big dark, determined eyes, freckles stark against her pale skin, her small mouth a thin line. A little boy appeared in the reflection, looming behind her, as pale as a ghost. He smiled once, like a light going out, and she screamed.

The sound of her own gasp woke her. As she gained consciousness she realized, with a pang of fear in her throat, that it had been Tom Riddle's cold voice speaking in the dream. And the little boy with the promise of pain in his eyes—who had he been?

She reached for her journal on the nightstand and quickly scribbled down what she could remember from the dream. She had always documented the visions she saw whilst she slept, ever since her first year at Hogwarts. There was comfort there, and fear; comfort that she could access her unconscious mind in the pages of a book— and fear that the words might one day come alive.

She threw the covers off and reached for her fluffy house robe, which had been enchanted to stay warm overnight. Padding over to the window, she saw the faint white sunlight struggling to break through the early morning clouds; it must have been just after daybreak. She could see London was painted in shades of grey, dull and lifeless save for the sound of muggle cars splashing through puddles and the staccato drumming of rain on the copper roof. How dreary, she thought, pulling her robe closed around her.

The weeks had passed like water through her fingers; uneventful and half-hearted. She did not know how long it had been since the ball, and all the confusing events that transpired at the end of it. Perhaps four, five, six weeks? She had made it the last several days without thinking of the incident, but her dreams this morning made sure the memory was now fresh and raw.

A few days after the ball, she had been shocked to receive communication from Draco, at a very late hour—she had just been getting ready for bed. She accepted a letter from his sleek, black owl as it sat with great dignity at her windowsill. It perched and watched her for a long time, a clear indication that it had been instructed to wait for a response. Ginny read the letter three times before glaring at the owl and gently shooing it off the sill and into the night.

The penmanship was as sharp and drawling as its owner. The letter read:

Ginny—

My behaviour last weekend was abhorrent. I know I acted in a most ungentlemanly and undignified way. I understand if you do not wish to see me, but I hope you'll agree to a meeting soon so that I may explain what happened. It's not as cut and dry as it may seem to you.

Please consider.

Draco Malfoy

Ungentlemanly was putting it mildly; Ginny ached at the memory of his hands and his words, his hoarsely whispered implication that he had thought of her since that night at Oliver's party (thought of her how, she wondered, biting her lip), and how he had hissed in her ear, those fucking freckles, as though they had tortured him.

But she had flung the letter across the room. She found his missive cold, and without feeling. He didn't even actually apologize. Maybe, she thought, maybe if he had tried some honey, tried to woo her with flowery words about how beautiful she was and how he was possessed with the thought of her—

Ginny had been on that train of thought for several minutes before she grew disgusted with herself. Hollow flattery wouldn't have made what happened any less acceptable.

A part of her felt some guilt for not responding to his letter, as it had been several weeks since she received it. But another part of her, the stronger part, was still furious. Furious at his indecency, at how he played on her emotions and her ego, causing her to dare to hope that their connection held depth and, possibly, even real affection. The moments he'd laughed with her, real laughter, and all his handsome mannerisms and moods that chipped away at her prejudice and her heart.

And more than anything, she was ashamed of herself for getting carried away by his advances. She still did not understand the heavy haze of lust that engulfed her every time he was near to her; the heat from his body, which may as well have set her on fire when he pulled her against him. She had never in her life experienced that level of physical chemistry. She grimaced. Maybe I am a prude. If that's what it's supposed to feel like, I've never felt that.

After making herself a cup of strong coffee, she began to prepare for the day ahead. She was meeting Dean Thomas in Diagon Alley for lunch, then headed to a meeting that was the precursor to the first practice of the season for the Holyhead Harpies.

She showered and washed her hair— it was in desperate need of cutting— and dried it using a specific spell that Hermione had created, which made her unruly locks rest in heavy, smooth waves around her face. Her sister-in-law had apparently invented the spell for the Yule Ball; she remembered the shocking difference in Hermione's hair and the older witch smugly telling her of the spell she had crafted to tame it. Ginny smiled to herself at the memory.

She picked out a pair of thick denim jeans and a black turtleneck, slipped on some gold hoop earrings (a gift from Luna) and applied some light muggle mascara— no matter how hard the magical world tried, their makeup charms never worked as well as the simple muggle enhancements. She made herself another cup of coffee and sat down at her desk to answer the letters that had arrived the night before. One from her mother, reminding her she was long overdue for a visit, another from a friend working in Canada, and a third from Hermione.

She felt a guilty pang. She had basically only seen Hermione twice since the ball, and both times Ginny had made sure they were so surrounded by Weasleys that Hermione wouldn't have a moment alone to ask her about Draco.

She finished her letters and sent them off with her owl, Persephone. Looking at the time, she thought she would head down to Diagon Alley a bit early to do some window shopping. Reaching for her spring cloak (and firmly ignoring the suede jacket hanging in the closet), she apparated.


The weather was no less dreary down in the streets than it was from her window above the city, but one could always count on Diagon Alley to be full of colourful umbrellas. Ginny couldn't help but smile as she walked through the wet cobblestone passages of the wizarding village, ducking away from the oversized, bright and patterned umbrellas that wizarding folk tended to carry and fling around carelessly.

She wandered into Ollivanders to inquire about refinishing the wood on her wand, a task she had been meaning to do. After a pleasant and helpful conversation, she purchased some special treats for her owl at the Menagerie, and then spent a few more sickles at the Quidditch supply store on new grip tape for her broom.

She had been feeling uncharacteristically nervous for the start of Quidditch season. Unbeknownst to anyone in her life, she had been toying with the idea of retiring this year and finding a low-profile job behind the scenes at the National Quidditch association; she was crowding thirty years old, and as much as she loathed to admit it, she was not as agile and ferocious in the air as she once was. It was true, much like in any sport, that young blood was always being scouted—she would much rather retire on a high note after two consecutive years as female MVP, than to be pushed out in a few years for a younger player.

She noticed a sign outside the small, shabby flower shop touting that fresh, in-season peony bouquets were available. Ginny had a weakness for the heavy bloom of this flower, so she made a beeline for the door. As soon as she entered, she was greeted with a sudden and familiar voice from beside her.

"You gorgeous hag! Where have you been?"

She turned, surprised, to see the elegant Blaise Zabini clutching at least six dozen peonies in front of him. He was immaculately dressed, as usual, with his sleek black hair pulled into a short bun behind his head, and a large, old-cut diamond glinting from his ear. She could barely see him over the huge bouquet he carried.

"Blaise," she laughed. "Please don't tell me you bought all the peonies! I was hoping to secure myself at least one bouquet!" She came towards him and stood on her tip toes to press a kiss to his cheek. He bent to allow for it.

"Darling," he drawled, smiling beautifully. "I had intended to keep all of these for the table setting of a clients party I'm designing tonight, but I'm feeling gracious—I'll give you a dozen, my treat."

"No, no," she began, reaching for her coin purse, but his tutting interrupted her.

"Don't be ridiculous you silly bint," he sing-songed, adjusting the load in his arms. "I'm not even paying for these myself—company credit card, darling. My clients will never know the wiser!" He cackled.

Ginny grinned. "At least let me help you carry them wherever you're going."

"Yes, yes," he said, distracted, allowing her to grab almost half the flowers. "Follow me, my assistant is outside."

She followed him out and down the street, around the corner where a young, terrified-looking intern hurried to meet them. She had with her a side-along apparation container, which was often used to transport large goods while apparating.

"This is the last of the errands, correct, Mr. Zabini?" she squeaked, arranging the bouquets into the vessel as he handed them to her.

"Yes darling, yes," he said, quickly counting twelve lush, wine-red peonies and handing them to Ginny.

"Blaise, are you sure," she started, smelling the flowers. "This is too much—"

"What is it with you Weasley's and your inability to let anyone do something nice for you?" he groaned. "Can't I give beautiful flowers to a beautiful woman?"

"I suppose you can," Ginny laughed, smiling coyly. "Thank you, Blaise. I see you're in a rush, I won't keep you—but tell me, everything is well?"

He cocked his head to the side and studied her with his olive-green eyes.

"Becky," he called, not looking at his assistant. "I'll be back in five minutes."

Blaise gently grabbed Ginny's arm and pulled her around a corner. She barely had time to blink before he had ushered her into a dark, private alcove.

"Oh okay," she muttered, eyes wide. "This was unexpected. The password is—"

"Shhhh," he said, grinning at her. He poked a long, bejeweled finger into her shoulder. "I need to talk to you about something."

Ginny's heart sank. She knew what he was going to say before he even spoke.

"Blaise—"

"Listen. You need to talk to Draco," he said quietly, his playful eyes uncharacteristically serious. He took a long breath. "He told me what happened."

Ginny snorted, crossing her arms. "He couldn't have told you the truth about what happened, otherwise you wouldn't be encouraging me to talk to him," she snapped, glaring at Blaise. "He—"

"Ginny, I know what he did. Draco doesn't lie to me. He didn't paint himself in a pretty light. But there's something you need to understand," he gently put a hand on each shoulder, forcing her to look up into his imploring eyes. "The man has lived a dark, hard life; you know so, so little about him. If I explained to you why he behaved the way he did—well, you wouldn't believe me. And more than this, it's not my secret to tell."

Ginny was confused. "Secret?" she echoed. "What kind of secret?"

"I can't say," he replied firmly. "You have to talk to him. He has to tell you himself."

Ginny was annoyed. "Don't tell me he has these crazy feelings for me and he—"

"No, no, definitely not," Blaise interrupted quickly. Too quickly, Ginny thought, annoyed. His eyes looked sad. "I'm afraid it's nothing so romantic or lighthearted, petal."

"Blaise, you're scaring me," she whispered. "I don't understand."

"Please," he urged, reaching for her hand. "Please just write him and tell him you want to meet. You need to hear his explanation. He's been miserable since the ball. He thinks you hate him."

"Did he tell you that?" she asked, raising her chin and narrowing her eyes.

"Well, no," Blaise admitted, smiling. "But it's Draco. He'll never admit when he's troubled. I just know him better than anyone else and he's been…" he trailed off, gesturing uselessly with his hands, then sighed. "Look, I can't make you do anything you don't want to do. But I think you would find it in your heart to forgive him if you let him unburden his secret. I can't say for sure how he feels about you Gin," he reached towards her and tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear in a brotherly fashion. "—but I can tell you that he's worried he's lost your good opinion."

Ginny's heart was racing. "Okay," she said slowly. "I'll write him tonight."

Blaise beamed at her with perfect white teeth and clapped his hands. "You're a saint, Ginny Weasley."

"A saint or a fool?" she asked wryly, lowering her head to smell the flowers again. "Blaise, I shouldn't be getting mixed up with a man like Draco. I don't have the constitution for it."

"Oh Ginevra," he drawled, leading them back out onto the main street where his assistant was waiting. "You're the sun, darling. You're the one who'll burn him up. Don't forget that." He reached his assistant and paused, looking Ginny up and down briefly. "You're the dancing flame," he finished, with a dramatic flourish of his glittering hand.

She grinned at him and he blew her a kiss; with a pop, he was gone.

Ginny's confusion floated around her and settled like a blanket for the rest of the day. The fog of her thoughts stayed with her through her quick catch-up lunch with Dean (she didn't mention seeing his ex, Blaise) and then throughout the strategy meeting with the Harpies.

You would find it in your heart to forgive him if you let him unburden his secret.

More for her burning curiosity than for anything else, Ginny resolved to write him as soon as she was home.


It was almost midnight when Ginny leant back in her chair, satisfied with the letter she had written. She was embarrassed to see how many crumpled-up attempts lay scattered at her feet; why was she so self-conscious of what he thought of her?

Rubbing her tired eyes, she gave the letter one last read over.

Draco,

I hope this letter finds you well. I ran into Blaise today at the shops and he convinced me it would be a good idea to write to you. So, if you still feel a need to meet in person to talk, I would be open to it. Quidditch season starts shortly for both of us, so I would say the sooner the better.

Regards,

Ginny Weasley.

She nodded at the parchment. It read aloof enough, she hoped. She folded it into a square and tucked it into an envelope, sealed with her letter fob pressed into hot wax. Persephone hooted softly when Ginny gave her an affectionate scratch and a treat. She clamped the letter into her beak and gently swooped into the night. If Draco was still in London, as she assumed he was, the owl wouldn't have very far to go at all.

She stretched and walked over to her kitchen. Opening her cupboards, she searched for something she could snack on to distract herself from the anxiety knotting in her chest. It was moments like this that she soberly wished she had a pack of cigarettes.

She settled, begrudgingly, on a container of old almonds that she had found. She walked to her overstuffed couch and picked up her book, hoping to focus on her reading. Absent-mindedly and methodically eating her salty snack, she had gotten through less than two chapters when there was a gentle tapping at her window. It was Persephone, wings outstretched, steeling herself on the wind.

Ginny scrambled from the couch to let her in, surprised to see a different envelope clutched in her beak. Draco must have replied within minutes of receiving the letter.

She tried to calm her shaking fingers as she gingerly opened the note, squashing the strange giddiness that was blooming in her chest. Her eyes widened as she read:

I leave to Paris tomorrow morning. I'll be by your flat in 10 minutes.

Draco

Ginny swayed on the spot. No. No no no no—

She looked around her apartment, which for the most part, was tidy and clean. She quickly stuffed old take out containers into the garbage and scrambled to hide the evidence of the attempted letters around her desk.

Looking down at herself in horror, she saw she was wearing only her lounging shorts (thick red cotton trimmed with gold, reaching only the tops of her thighs, " S" emblazoned across the bum) and her oversized, heavy white sweatshirt. Her hair was up in a messy bun on top of her head.

She had just darted into the bedroom to frantically look for something decent to wear when there was a sharp knock at her door.

"You have got to be kidding," she muttered aloud, for the first time pausing to be incredulous at the audacity of this man.

Drawing a deep breath, heart hammering against her ribcage, she walked to the door.

Leaving the useless muggle security chain on the latch, she opened it only a fraction and spoke to him through the gap, taking care to hide herself.

"You realize it's almost one in the morning," she hissed. "I most certainly am not ready for guests."

There was a moment of amused silence on his end before he spoke. "You said 'the sooner the better' in your letter, did you not?" His voice was like a caress. An infuriating caress.

"Malfoy," she groaned, still hiding behind the door. "I give an inch and you take a mile. You can't show up with no warning like this. I'm in my pajamas. I haven't showered. I don't have anything to serve you." Her voice sounded whiny even to her own ears.

"Good Merlin, Weasley," he drawled, and she could hear the smile in his voice. "It sounds like you're awfully concerned with my opinion of you. How confusing."

Ginny seethed and slammed the door shut, but only so she yank the chain off the door. She threw it open and glared at him.

He was, of course, not in his pajamas; rather, he was wearing an olive-green cashmere sweater and black, fitted jeans. His leather ankle boots gleamed pristinely. He had a black wool cloak over one arm, and a bottle of wine hung lazily from his other hand. There was a shadow of a smirk on his otherwise expressionless face.

"Give me this," she snapped, snatching the cold bottle from his grip. She turned and walked towards the kitchen, looking for appropriate glasses.

"Nice shorts," he said mildly.

"Shut up," she said, not looking at him as she rummaged for a corkscrew. "You came into the lion's den uninvited, don't complain about what you see."

She heard him chuckle. "Who's complaining," he said, casually.

She looked up to see him throw his cloak on the velvet settee by her door. He walked towards the large, antique windows of her living room and ran his hand along one of the frames. Some paint chipped off. The floors creaked beneath his boots.

"Not a bad view," he murmured. She saw his reflection in the glass and glimmering lights of the city, like a double-exposed photograph.

"Indeed," she replied, pulling the cork out with a pop. She felt desperate to get to the wine, or rather, her nerves did.

He was still walking around her flat; it really was a remarkably large space, and she knew he was probably surprised. He paused in front of a few of the framed paintings on her walls, and looked at the shelves covered in books, photographs, and various sentimental knick-knacks.

"Good lord," he said, pausing to pick up a particular picture frame, his voice aghast. "There's… so many of you."

"I can only assume you're looking at the Weasley family photo," she replied, trying not to laugh. "You can imagine what Christmas is like."

"I'd really rather not," he said, dryly.

Taking a long sip of her wine, she studied him over the rim of the glass. How out of place he looked, in his tailored clothes with his aristocratic air, amid the eclectic colour and clutter of her home. He turned to face her, their eyes locking.

"Cozy," he said, face unreadable.

"Thanks," she said dubiously. She walked around the island in the kitchen and handed him a glass. "And thanks for the wine," she added.

"I didn't think you would let me in without it," he said, his smile not quite reaching his eyes.

"Sit," she said, nodding at the couch as she lowered herself onto it and curled up in the corner. She pulled her sleeves over her knuckles, worrying at the fraying edges.

Draco came around to sit near her but made an indignant noise when he immediately sank into the overstuffed cushions. Ginny bit back a giggle. Not so easy to look dignified now, is it?

But when he stretched his long legs out in front of him, head tilted back to look at her with lazy eyes, he really was the picture of cocky confidence.

She saw his gaze move, oh so briefly, to the exposed skin of the underside of her thighs, where they were pulled up to her chin. She pretended not to notice.

"Your bird bites, you know," he said, looking at the ceiling.

"Good girl," Ginny said, taking a sip of her wine.

"Weasley," be began, his voice almost a tired sigh. He ran a hand over his face. "I know it's late. It's not my style to impose a visit unannounced on a woman—" he glared at her when she snorted with laughter—"but I knew I couldn't leave tomorrow without coming to talk to you."

"For the record," she interjected quickly, her voice hard, "the only reason I even wrote to you was because I was led to believe that your behavior that night was not just about you being an entitled lech."

Draco was quiet, his fey eyes searching her face. "Blaise didn't tell you anything, then?"

"No," she said, tracing the wine glass absent-mindedly. "He said that I should let you explain to me. He said there was a secret."

Draco exhaled a long breath and took a large sip of wine. He reached for his cloak and pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes.

"Can I smoke in here?"

She motioned towards the back of the apartment. "The balcony is off of my bedroom, we can smoke there."

"We?" he asked, standing up and looking amused.

"Hope you brought enough to share," she said sweetly, looking up at him and holding out her hand.

He grinned and dropped a cigarette into her palm. She curled her fingers around it and, as it were, led him to her bedroom.

As she entered, she tried to see the room for the first time through his eyes. A modest space, all white; tall ceilings, a large, unmade bed with white blankets, linens and duvet. A few plants on her teak dresser and near the window. A glass of water and a notebook on her nightstand, a white lacy bra thrown over a chair—

"Fuck," she said under her breath, and snatched it away, throwing it in the closet. She had hoped he hadn't seen it, but his next comment implied he did.

"You realize I'm making real big boy strides by keeping all my thoughts to myself right now?" His voice was even, as if he were making a serious statement.

She sighed as she unlocked the French doors that led to her juliette balcony.

"My goodness Malfoy, how you suffer," she replied dryly, pushing the creaking old windows open.

She heard him chuckle close behind her as she leaned against the balcony railing; the cool night air spilled into her room, smelling as it always does, after the rain.

"I love that smell," she murmured.

He leaned on the railing with her and lit his cigarette with a silver muggle lighter. He held up the flame, cupping his hand around it to shield it from the wind, and lit her cigarette as well.

There was a moment of thoughtful inhaling.

"The after-rain smell," he said, quietly. "Yeah, I like it too."

She looked up at him; he was clearly being careful to stand as far away from her as he could, while still leaning out the window to blow smoke. It was tight quarters.

Ginny imagined how they might look—the darkness of her spartan bedroom, their two figures silhouetted against moonlight and smoke and all of London. The street was quiet until a glass bottle shattered somewhere in the distance, setting off a car alarm.

"First a Rolex, now a lighter," she said, running her thumbnail across her bottom lip. "I must admit I'm curious how someone like you comes to possess muggle technology."

He exhaled smoke through his nose and looked at her with mild surprise.

"You know muggle timepieces then," he said, impressed, looking down at the handsome watch on his wrist. "It's a long story. There's only time for one long story tonight, I think." He sounded almost regretful.

"So," she said, noticing that she could faintly smell his telltale cologne again. She readjusted so that more of her body was leaning out the window, away from his dizzying presence and beguiling eyes. "Talk."

He did. And this is what he told her, in a monotonous, low voice; like the whisper of a veil falling to the ground, like ink into water. As he spoke, his platinum hair bright with moonlight, she resisted the urge to cry.

Did you know that when Voldemort inducted you into his circle, when he branded you with the Dark Mark, he asked you to sacrifice to him one part of your soul? A part of you that makes you human? No? Well, he did. Every one of those death eaters gave Voldemort a small part of their soul. I had been told by my father what some men had given—their ambition; their ability to procreate; their sadness, their joy.

What did my father give, you ask? That's a good question. Lucius never did tell me, but I have my suspicions. A man as cold and calculating and without morality as Lucius— he seemed deprived of many elements of humanity. How I wanted to be like him, once; unfeeling, Machiavellian.

What was I saying? Yes. A few months after I turned sixteen, I was initiated into the Dark Lords circle, in the dingy dustiness of Borgin and Burkes. It was a hot day, I remember the sweat running down my back. My father had warned me what the Dark Lord would request of me, and so my answer was ready. I didn't want to trade my ambition, my intellect, my skills on a broom, no—I willingly gave up what seemed to be the most pitiful part of human nature. Can you guess what it was? No?

Love, Ginny Weasley. I gave Voldemort my ability to feel romantic love.

You look shocked. Is it really that surprising? I hadn't ever been in love. You can't miss what you never had. I'll give you a moment to process this. Yes. I have another cigarette for you.

Are you crying? Weasley. I'm touched. But don't cry. I'm not telling you this so you can feel sorry for me.

Then why am I telling you this? I would have thought the answer was obvious, but now that I think of it, perhaps it's not. I've been living like this for so long, you see.

I wanted to tell you this because it has everything to do with how I behaved towards you at the end of the ball. My romantic emotions, not having a home in my soul to which they can go, can only manifest themselves carnally. Love becomes lust. When I should be feeling what I imagine are the stirrings of affection, I only feel a sexual desire that I need satisfied.

I have never loved a woman, even as I've lain with her; no matter how sweet and kind and beautiful—I have felt nothing but the dull ache of sexual desire, and afterwards, an explicit need to be alone. And I've been told it's not supposed to feel that way.

I wasn't lying to you, Ginny, when I said that you affected me during our fight at Wood's party. That night was the first time I felt something unfamiliar—yes, a pure animal carnality without a doubt—don't blush, Weasley, you know you're a beautiful woman, and the dress you were wearing that night, good goddess—but there was something else. I felt—respect? Admiration? A shared history? Empathy? Guilt? Whatever it was—a combination of things I imagine— I remember it as a need to know more than just what was beneath your dress.

You're as red as a tomato. I'm making you uncomfortable. I'm sorry. I'm trying to be honest. I want you to know I wasn't trying to mislead you when I told you that you inspired me to build that Quidditch pitch. I wasn't saying those things because I had designs to ravish you on the front steps of my ancestral home—though that's a really hot image—ow, hey, okay, okay I'll stop. But do you see what I mean? Am I making sense?

I had been vulnerable with you that evening. And I've learned how this curse works, in those moments of vulnerability; they don't turn into a real depth of emotion or affection— the black pit where my heart should be fills instead with salacity. Love and lust are two sides of the same coin, I hear, and a working hand overcompensates for a missing one.

You're so quiet. You're wondering what this means, my vulnerability around you. Don't think too deeply on it, Weasley. Don't. Don't look at me like that. You would think, wouldn't you, that I should want to take you into my arms and kiss you, tell you that you'll change me, you'll save me. But I don't want to do that at all. I feel nothing right now beyond a powerfully building desire to rip off those ridiculous little shorts and bend you over this balcony and fuck you senseless.

That's not very romantic, is it? Does that scare you? That I could be so heartless? It's okay. It scares me too.

No. There's no counterspell. I thought maybe something would change when Harry killed Voldemort, but it didn't; I think he took all of the little shards of our souls into hell with him. Isn't that poetic?

Who else knows? Blaise Zabini. My cousin Damien. My mother. Lucius, in all of his madness, probably remembers. And now you. That's it. Potter knows that I had to make a sacrifice to the Dark Lord during my initiation, but I've never told him what exactly. I'd like to keep it that way if you don't mind. You sure you can keep a secret? If you want I can obliviate you right now and make you forget you even know my name. Relax, I was joking.

Now you know me, Ginny Weasley. And hopefully, now you understand.


Ginny was reeling. She was beginning to shiver, but not from the cold night air coming in from the balcony, against which she was still leaning.

Her third cigarette of the evening was trembling between her fingers. Draco was sitting on the edge of her bed, smoking his fourth cigarette, looking like he just fought a war. And in many ways, he had.

The bottle of wine sat empty on the floor between them. At some point he had taken off his sweater and now sat in just his white t-shirt and jeans. Ordinarily, Ginny would have been hiding a blush at the way his lean Seekers arms flexed with sinewy muscle every time he raised the cigarette to his lips. But tonight, she didn't know where to go with all of his beauty.

It appeared that he was a dead-end—a black hole for her affection. If she let herself fall for him, she would never have her feelings reciprocated. And at the thought of this, she felt very subdued. She felt—mournful. Sadness for something that could have been.

Ginny wasn't sure how long they had sat in silence. It must have been well past two in the morning. She finally spoke.

"What time are you going to Paris tomorrow?" she asked. "Or rather, today?"

He blinked at her, then looked down at his watch. "In four hours."

"Well that's no good," she attempted to smile. "You're taking your broom?"

"Yes, I hate to Floo internationally, makes me nauseous." He stood up and stretched, filling her room with his presence. He dropped his cigarette butt in the empty wine bottle.

"Don't worry, I'll have two espressos when I get home and the adrenaline will kick in when I'm somewhere over the English Channel." He smiled blandly at her.

"That's terrifying," she murmured. "Will you write me to let me know you've arrived safely?"

He paused to look at her with a furrowed brow before he pulled his jumper over his head. His hair emerged in a static halo. She fought the urge to smooth it down for him.

"You still want to hear from me," he said slowly. It wasn't a question.

She paused before blurting out the words that she'd been turning over in her head for the last few minutes.

"I think we could be friends," she said firmly.

He laughed, sincerely, for the first time that evening. "Friends," he echoed. "Are you sure? I don't have any female friends. I don't think I'd be very good at it."

"We can practice," she said. She walked up to him and did the thing she'd been wanting to do all night. She wrapped her arms around his middle, buried her head against his chest, and squeezed. More than anything, she wanted to hug him. Her heart was hurting for this man who had never known love.

Draco was awkward for a few moments before he wrapped his arms around her shoulders.

"I'm not sure I've ever let anyone hug me before," he murmured into her hair. "What does this mean? Because if you wanted to have some fun before I left, I think I have the energy—"

"Draco," she whispered, hugging him tighter. "I'm sorry."

He was quiet for a few moments. When he spoke, his voice was strained. "Thank you, Weasley, I do appreciate that. But I would like to remind you that while you think this hug is a tender expression of friendship, my emotional vacuum is turning this into something distinctly less wholesome."

She couldn't help it; she giggled. "It's just a hug, Malfoy."

She felt him clasp her upper arms with great strength and push her, not unkindly, off him.

"Let me make this more clear Weasley," he drawled, looking directly into her eyes with his crystalline grey ones. "Don't press yourself against me unless you're asking me to finish what I started on the steps of the manor."

"When you look at me," she said, matching his gaze boldly, "you see me as something you want to possess. Something you want to dominate."

He looked surprised. "Yes," he whispered hoarsely, eventually. His eyes were so dark. His tongue darted out to wet his lips.

She swallowed, closing her eyes and steeling herself against the electric energy that filled the room.

"And that's what you see when you look at Mathilde," she continued.

His brow furrowed. He paused for a long time. "Yes and no," he said slowly, cocking his head to study her.

She raised her chin defiantly. "What's the difference then?" she asked, more bravely than she felt.

His eyes searched her face. "It's not so urgent with her," he murmured. "Or with anyone. I have never felt this sense of urgency or compulsion toward any other woman."

Ginny knew, instinctively, that he was not lying. Her heart started to beat faster in her chest. She crossed her arms and fought the desire to smile smugly. "Don't you think that could possibly mean that-"

"No, I don't," he snarled coldly, cutting off her words and drawing his cloak around him with a flourish. "I don't think it means what you want it to mean. The most powerful dark wizard who ever lived took away my ability to feel those feelings, Weasley—your bright-eyed optimism won't restore my soul."

"But—" she began, feeling fragile and small and scolded, like she was a stupid child. She hated herself like this. She glared at him and spat, "what does it mean then, Draco?"

He looked at her for a long time, a small frown pulling at the corner of his mouth. "I don't know," he said, more helplessly than he had said anything else that night. "It's something—but it's not love."

Ginny felt tears well up in her eyes. She leaned her head back against the wall and looked at him as steadily as she could. She said nothing.

"I've overstayed my welcome," he said quickly, tearing his eyes away from her over-bright stare. His face was vacant of expression, but his gaze was troubled as he looked at the floor. "I'll write to you, Ginny," was all he said before he apparated away.


Ginny stared at the spot where he had been standing for a long time, before she shed her clothes and crawled under her covers. Her room smelled faintly of his cologne.

Whatever explanation she had been expecting from Draco, a confession that Voldemort had turned him into a sex-addicted black hole for emotion was not it.

She pitied him, and selfishly, she pitied herself. In the past months, through her various interactions with the tall blonde, she had found herself more and more compulsively drawn to him; daydreaming about what it would be like to kiss him, date him, bear his children. She had not shared these terrifying thoughts with anyone for fear of ridicule; even before tonight's shocking revelation, she knew the infatuation was childish. One did not a dream a future into an imposing, empty house like Draco Malfoy.

Her eyes began to drift closed. As she drifted into a sleeping state, only half awake, she imagined Draco now; what he was thinking, what he was feeling. She imagined him packing a small rucksack, readying his broom for the long journey. She saw him flying like an arrow over the English Channel, face impassive and his profile sharp against the rising dawn.

Could he have loved me, in a different life, she wondered.

In another life, Draco would not be Draco and you would not want him like you do. These thoughts do you no good, Ginny.

She wasn't sure if it was her own voice or Draco's that answered echoingly in her head.


A/N: I have big plans for chapter 5—stay tuned, and as always, reviews are so encouraged! xo