Author's Notes: There was meant to be much more D/G action in this chapter, but it got a bit long, so I had to cut out a scene and put it in the next chapter instead.

Also, I have a new fic journal, where you can find progress updates about upcoming chapters, cookies (tidbits from new chapters), and the occasional meta/extra explanation on characters and events in this story. I also post the fic there, but it doesn't really get posted any earlier or later than it does here. But, feel free to check it out: I can't post the direct link, but the LJ username is rainywinters.

Chapter One

February, 2006

Draco sighed, his gaze traveling around the walls and ceiling of Auror Headquarters. He really was becoming far too familiar with this place. At least this time he wasn't in an interrogation room, yet it irked him even more that that was because, today, he was here of his own volition.

He hated cooperating with Aurors. Most of them were bleeding idiots. Yet they had proved necessary, more than once, in the past.

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair and began drumming his fingers against the desk in front of him. He was beginning to wonder whether this was really worth it, and maybe shouldn't he just up and leave, when that idiot Auror Carmichael finally returned.

"It's about time," Draco grumbled under his breath.

Carmichael let out an annoyed sigh as he seated himself across from Draco. "What was that, Malfoy?"

"Nothing." Draco straightened in his chair. "So? Have I been approved?"

The fact that Carmichael took a second to ponder this question before answering did not bode well; Draco could see this right away. A second later, Carmichael opened his mouth and said, "Malfoy, if you could provide some more information on why you'd like to visit your aunt in Azkaban, then maybe—"

"Information? What more information do you need?" Draco snapped. This was the third time he'd come in here, after being denied a visit to his aunt Bellatrix in Azkaban, and every time, there seemed some reason why he would not be allowed to. It was utterly ridiculous, but then, when the visitor was an ex-convict himself, the damn Ministry could come up with whatever ridiculous edicts they wanted. "She's my aunt. She's family. Why should I need much more reason than that to see her?"

Carmichael sent him a skeptical glance. "Malfoy, considering that Bellatrix Lestrange was largely behind the attack on your manor two summers ago, and the kidnapping of your son—"

"My father kidnapped my son, not my aunt—"

"—and considering that you testified quite strongly against her at her hearing, it seems unlikely that there is any love lost between the two of you," Carmichael finished dryly.

Draco bit his tongue on a biting retort and merely said, "Well, then, perhaps I'd like to tell her exactly what I think of her myself, to her face. Is that enough information for you?"

Carmichael barely seemed to be listening to him. The Auror scratched his chin thoughtfully and leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk. He evaded Draco's gaze as he spoke, his words coming out slowly. "There seems to be some…concern…that a conversation between you and your aunt could result in some…unpleasantness."

Draco stared at him. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Well—"

"If you're suggesting—" Draco nearly shook at the effort to push back his rising anger "—that I would give some sort of information or aid to my aunt, to help her escape—"

"I should like to think not, Malfoy," Carmichael said, his voice cool and mild. "But I think everyone would be more reassured that you don't mean to do something like that, if you told us the real reason you want to speak with her."

Draco forced himself to sit back, though he still clutched the arms of his chair in a white-knuckled, furious grip. He shut his eyes, quickly thinking this through. He supposed it wouldn't hurt to give some information; he didn't need to get into the details. Draco was, by habit, secretive with Aurors, sometimes simply for the sake of being secretive. In this case, his reasons for secrecy were a bit more substantial, but he could probably give them just enough information to gain him approval to visit Bellatrix.

"Look." Draco opened his eyes and caught Carmichael's gaze before the Auror could glance away. "I don't want to speak with her. She's a deranged lunatic, and I would be perfectly happy to never see her again. But my aunt—as you pointed out—was largely in charge of the Death Eaters, before the raid on the Riddle House put her and a whole lot of them in prison. You know that many of their prisoners were kept in that house, don't you?"

Carmichael nodded wearily, seemingly disinterested in where this was going.

"Well—" Draco shrugged, but left his eyes intently on the Auror's face "—it stands to reason, then, that if anyone has knowledge of…some missing persons…people that might have been taken prisoner and then were killed, or maybe even managed to escape—that it would be her. That she might have such knowledge."

All disinterest had faded from Carmichael's expression. Now he eyed Draco with an air of suspicion and curiosity. "Who are you looking for, Malfoy?"

"No one I care to find," Draco groused, slumping back in his chair. He summoned a familiar scowl to lessen the blow the next words did to him. "I'm just…helping out a friend."

Carmichael stared at him a moment longer before getting to his feet rather abruptly. "Well," he said, his manner and tone all professional indifference, "that may be enough to get you in to see her. But I can tell you that you won't be getting any clearance today, so you may as well be on your way, Malfoy." He paused before turning away, long enough to add, "I dare say you've had enough of your time spent in Auror Headquarters."

Draco gritted his teeth as he came to his feet behind the Auror. "Ginny says hello," he threw after him.

Carmichael flinched. He half-turned back to Draco, but then seemed to think better of it. With a quick nod behind him, he scurried off around the corner.

Draco's annoyance was only somewhat satisfied by the prat's reaction to Ginny's name from his lips. Nearly all of the Aurors here were former coworkers of Ginny, and many of them were also, or had once been, her friends. That git Carmichael, he knew, was one of them. And tossing in a biting reminder that he and Ginny were now…connected…threw them all off-balance, either because it so disturbed them, or because they actually felt guilty for treating him like a criminal when he was…connected…to Ginny.

Of course, most people remained vague and confused as to exactly what kind of 'connection' he and Ginny shared, which was perfectly fine with Draco. He wasn't exactly clear on it himself.

Stifling a frustrated sigh, Draco stalked down the corridor, passing cubicles and curious gazes from the Aurors as he went. He wouldn't admit to himself that it was something of a relief to be past all that attention, when he stepped into the hall outside, the heavy oak doors closing behind him.

Unfortunately, his day hadn't finished screwing with him, it seemed. He was so distracted by his own annoyance, his mind working furiously to find some other way to speak to his aunt to get the information he needed from her, that he wasn't really paying attention as he stepped into the lift—that is to say, he wasn't paying attention to who else was in the lift.

"Good morning, Draco."

Draco glanced around in surprise and realized, to his horror (which he fortunately managed to conceal) that he was alone in the lift with Arthur Weasley. Ginny's father.

"Good morning—er—Mr. Weasley," Draco fumbled. It was a bit awkward speaking over one's shoulder, so Draco hastened back a step or two, so that he was level with the man. Indignation warred within Draco with discomfiture. It was difficult to feel like he needed to be respectful to a man that his father had so despised, that Draco himself had grown up seeing with only sneering contempt, yet circumstances had thus made it so. And there was a part of him—a part of himself that Draco hated—that felt genuinely nervous around Arthur Weasley.

After all, even if he was a poor, disreputable blood traitor, he was the father of the woman who slept in Draco's bed. It was hard to remain cool and composed considering that.

Without taking his eyes from the lift door, Arthur Weasley said, "What were you doing up on this level of the Ministry?" His tone was mild, but the man had to know what Draco would be doing up on Level Two. Which meant his question was not as innocent as it sounded.

Nevertheless, Draco gritted his teeth and answered, "Speaking to the Aurors."

"Oh?"

Bad enough he'd had to let some of his true intentions slip to Carmichael. He certainly wasn't going to give any real details to Ginny's father. So instead, he came up with the first thing that popped into his head—the reason he was usually pulled into Auror Headquarters. "They were just questioning me about my father's whereabouts again," he said lightly. He extrapolated no more on that. Arthur Weasley would think of Draco as he thought of him, and no amount of excuses on Draco's part would ever change that.

No point in reiterating, as he often found himself doing, that he had no idea where his father was.

"I see," Arthur murmured. Silence fell between them. Draco had the wild thought that perhaps he should try to make further small talk, and then wanted to kick himself for thinking so.

As it was, he was saved from both coming up with something to say and the awkward silence, when the lift slid down past the fifth level, heading down to the sixth. At this point, Arthur actually looked at Draco, and said with genuine surprise, "Not heading to your office?"

Draco was startled into glancing back at him, and for a quick moment, they actually made eye contact. But Draco jerked his gaze away nearly as quickly as Mr. Weasley did. Draco coughed uncomfortably. "I am," he replied. "But I've transferred out of my old department. I'm working in Magical Games and Sports now. Just started yesterday."

Draco felt, rather than saw, Arthur Weasley's response to this news, and perhaps he was imagining it, but the man actually seemed disapproving, or suspicious, or something that made Draco even more uncomfortable than he already was. He couldn't imagine why, until Mr. Weasley said, in a rather neutral tone,

"Does Remus know you've left your job in International Magical Cooperation?"

Draco jerked around in shock, and this time, he was well aware that he was staring at Arthur, yet made no move to look away. There was no telling expression on Arthur's face; he looked quite calm. Draco choked back several heated replies before saying, in a rather strained voice, "I don't suppose he does."

"I see," Arthur said quietly. "I wondered, you see, because it was through your job that you were so much help to…Remus and…our other friends."

The Order. Of course, that was what he was referring to. Again Draco shoved down another rush of annoyance, yet his words were still quite clipped when he said, "Well, judging by the events surrounding my son's kidnapping, I would say that that entire deception in France proved rather fruitless, anyway."

The lift clattered to a halt on Level Seven, and any reply Mr. Weasley might have made was cut short. The man merely said, "Your stop, Malfoy," as the grille door slid open.

"Thank you," Draco muttered, before practically darting out of the lift and around the corner, away from the man. It wasn't until he was out of sight of the lift at all that he came to a stop and forced himself to breathe.

The bleeding Order. Well, he didn't care what they thought of his leaving his job for something that was probably far less useful to their cause. He hadn't been asked to do anything for them for several months now, and doubted if they ever would again. And he'd like to see them withdraw their protection now that it encompassed Ginny, as well as himself and his two-year old son, Will.

Ginny. And her name had never come up between him and Arthur Weasley. No, and he couldn't imagine why it should. What Draco could ever say to the man about Ginny, and vice versa, he had no idea. He shuddered at the very thought of speaking her name in the man's presence.

Draco shut his eyes and let out a long sigh. When had his life become such an unrecognizable mess? Exchanging pleasantries with Arthur Weasley in a lift, voluntarily going into Auror Headquarters to get permission to speak to a mad, evil woman he had no desire to ever see again. And for what?

"What's wrong with you?" Granger had asked him, those two months gone.

"Damned if I know," Draco grumbled to himself.

"Did you say something, Malfoy?"

Draco opened his eyes and found one of his new coworkers—Summerby, he thought the man's name was—eyeing him askance. Well, he was standing in the middle of the hall, talking to himself. Still, Draco snapped, "What's it to you?" and scowled at the man. Summerby practically yelped and sped away down the corridor.

Which made Draco feel a little bit better. But only a little.

Ginny wrenched awake, torn out of vivid dreams by a pain so visceral, it couldn't be a dream. Before she could even discern the source of the pain, she bit down hard on her pillow, stifling an agonized scream.

The night around her was dark and silent. Malfoy wasn't even snoring; she was only vaguely aware of him, his body a warm reminder of him sleeping beside her. In spite of her sudden return to consciousness, he didn't even stir, which was just as well, because as Ginny shook off the last vestiges of sleep, she realized where the pain was coming from.

Her arm.

Another surge of burning pain awoke in her flesh, like liquid fire racing through her veins. Ginny swallowed another scream; she thought she was going to be sick. Malfoy was beginning to stir now, so somehow, in this agonizing haze, she forced herself to her feet, practically tripping out of the sheets, and half-ran, half-lurched into the bathroom. She tried to shut the door quietly behind her, but in her haste, she was sure she'd made more noise than she wanted to.

She didn't even have the presence of mind to turn the light on. Instead, she merely sank to the floor, the cold tile a small but welcome relief, because the pain was so great now that she couldn't contain it to her arm; her whole body felt on fire, suffused with a killing fever. Now, finally, locked in the bathroom where Malfoy couldn't see her, her right hand flew to her left, clutching her forearm tightly, as if cutting off the blood flow might dampen the agony lacing across her skin.

She allowed her head to fall back against the door, her tangled hair a mess in front of her face. She took a deep, shuddering breath and glanced down. She was afraid to look. Afraid to lift her hand, afraid to pull back her sleeve and see the ugly stain etched into her skin.

But then, Ginny had never really been the kind of person to shy away from something just because she was afraid of it, and after all this time, a sort of morbid curiosity compelled her. Sucking in a breath between clenched teeth, she carefully unfolded her fingers from their grip around her arm and reached for the edge of her sleeve, at her wrist. Bracing herself, she yanked it back in one swift motion.

Her arm was red and scarred, but that was nothing new. A bad hex had left her arm irrevocably burned after escaping from the Ministry with Will, just after he'd been born, two and a half years ago, and a Stinging Hex on top of that, courtesy of Lucius Malfoy, had only worsened the damage. Her arm would always bare the burn scars. But—

Amidst the old, pinkish wounds was a new one. Normally, it wasn't really visible; the lines so faint that they blended in untraceably with the burn scars. Even if one were to examine her arm closely, they might not realize what they were looking at.

But not anymore. Now, anyone could see what Ginny had allowed the Death Eaters to do to her, in the Riddle House, when she'd been willing to let them do anything, anything to get Will out safely. Now, it was as clear as day, even in the dark of the bathroom, because it was burning a bright, fiery red.

The Dark Mark.

Until now, she had almost been able to forget that it was there, that they had done it. After all, the Mark alone didn't make her a Death Eater or any kind of Voldemort supporter; being branded like a cow didn't mean anything, as far as she was concerned. She had never really worked out why they had done it. Lucius Malfoy had seemed to think it would give them some kind of leverage over her, some way to control her—though, really, she suspected Lucius had been stalling for time more than anything else. Not that he cared anything for what happened to Ginny, but she did believe that he was genuinely trying to save his grandson's life.

She hadn't given much thought to what they were doing to her at the time. She would've agreed to anything, and she'd been wholly concentrated on saving Will. In the weeks that followed the incident, once Will and everyone was safe, she had dwelled a little in some worry, wondering if they meant to try and force her to do something for them. Yet even this worry had passed quickly; after all, most of the Death Eaters who had not ended up in Azkaban had fled the country. Too far away to do anything to Ginny. And this had held true, for the past year and a half.

But apparently, it wasn't true anymore.

"Ginny?" Malfoy's voice, slurred with sleep, startled her from the other side of the door. "What's wrong with you?"

Ginny staggered to her feet as best she could, backing away from the bathroom door as if it, too, had suddenly burned white hot. She didn't pull her sleeve back down; it seemed to make the burning worse, intensifying the heat scourging her flesh. But she did clamp her right hand back down over it.

"Nothing," Ginny answered him, pitching her voice loud enough to carry through the door, which wasn't very loud at all, given the thin walls of their apartment. "Just go back to sleep, Malfoy."

"Are you sure? Because you—"

Huffing in annoyance, Ginny lurched forward and opened the door, just a smidge, so that she could see him through the cracked opening. She was all too aware of her burning arm, lying flat against the door. "I'm fine, Malfoy," she said irritably. "Can't I get up to use the loo if I want?"

Malfoy's white blond hair was sticking straight up in the back, and his eyes were half-closed in the darkness. Nevertheless, the scowl that passed over his face was quite clear to Ginny. "Well, you woke me up," he grumbled.

"I'm so sorry," she snapped back. "Just go back to sleep, Malfoy."

Evidently, he did not need to be told a third time. Still mumbling to himself, he turned and disappeared into the darkness. Ginny watched him go for only a second before shutting herself in the bathroom again. Then she hesitated. Her exasperation with Malfoy had seemed to overwhelm the pain, but now she realized that it seemed to be fading, the sharp sting dulling until it was no more than a ghosting agony, only alive to her memory. Ginny let out a long, slow breath, feeling a sharp tension leave her body. She glanced down at her arm. The mark was still redder than usual, but no longer glowing like a fiery beacon.

Well. She didn't know why it had begun burning in the first place, but maybe now she could go back to bed and get some sleep—

Not so. Ginny couldn't swallow a gasp as the blistering pain lanced through her arm again. The respite, it seemed, had been a brief one. Ginny practically collapsed back onto the toilet seat, and as she clutched her arm, she doubled over in pain, squeezing her eyes shut.

Apparently, whatever—or whoever—was causing this, wasn't done messing with her yet. Ginny bit back another scream and settled in for a long night.

She wasn't sure how long she remained locked in the bathroom, exhausting herself with the effort of not making a sound. She thought it must have been at least an hour, maybe longer, before she finally returned to her bed. At times, the pain had receded like the first time, but it continued to come back until, finally, Ginny started awake and realized she had actually fallen asleep on the bathroom floor. Wearily, she dragged herself to her feet and padded silently back into the bedroom. The pain did not return again, and she slept.

What seemed like a very short time later, daylight began streaming in through the window. Ginny buried herself beneath the blankets and her pillow, but even this did not last long. She thought she'd only slept like that for about ten minutes before someone ripped the pillow away from her and yanked the blankets back.

"What's wrong with you? Are you sick?"

Reluctantly, Ginny peeked an eye open. Malfoy was leaning over her, his pale face inches from her own. The concern on his face looked out of place; she thought it looked more like suspicion than anything else.

"Go away, you prat," she mumbled, closing her eyes and turning her face away from him.

Malfoy huffed. "Do you know what time it is? I have to go to work."

"It can't be that late already," Ginny said, her words half-muffled as she spoke into the mattress.

"You were sick up last night, weren't you? You jumped out of bed so fast, I knew something was wrong. And your face is white." Malfoy lay one of his hands against her forehead. One of his very cold hands. Ginny jerked away.

"Get out of my face, Malfoy," she groaned. She opened her eyes long enough to see him back away from her, frowning irritably.

"Well, if you're sick—" he began.

"Yes. I'm sick," she said. She really did feel like death, after last night, and she was desperate for more sleep.

Now, Malfoy really backed away from her. "Well, you should stay in bed, then. What do I do with Will? Pansy's on holiday until Sunday."

"Just take him to my mum's," Ginny murmured, already slipping back into sleep.

There was a pause. Then, "Do I have to?" Malfoy sounded petulant.

Ginny practically growled in frustration and half-sat up, her eyes flying open. "Malfoy!" She settled him with such a glare that he took another step back, holding one hand up in a gesture of peace.

"All right, all right," he muttered. Ginny didn't even wait to watch him stalk out of the room, but she did hear him say, "C'mon, Will, you're off to the Burrow. Your mum is in no fit state to grace us with her presence today. Not that I'm complaining."

A stab of guilt pierced Ginny; even though she knew Will would be perfectly fine with her mum, he probably didn't like to leave her. Before she could call Malfoy back so that she could say goodbye, however, she heard the front door slam and supposed they had gone.

Ginny lifted her head and sighed. They would probably have to take the Knight Bus; Will was too young to Floo, and there was no other way, if Malfoy really didn't have much time before work. Which meant that she had time to Floo her mum and let her know they were coming. Which she really should do. That way, if any of her brothers were over for breakfast, they could start composing themselves now.

Letting out another groan, Ginny rolled out of bed and headed into the living room.

When Draco knocked on the front door of the Burrow, Will in tow, he was already in a surly mood. He was annoyed with Ginny for not only being sick, but leaving it so late to let him know this, that he was going to be late for work, needing to take the time to drop Will off here. And a ride on the Knight Bus with a toddler wasn't the best way to begin one's day either.

He was, however, not quite so far gone as to not be relieved that it was Ginny's mother, Molly Weasley, who answered the front door, and not anyone else. Of all Ginny's family—perhaps with the exception of Charlie—Molly Weasley treated him with the most respect. He didn't suppose that she really cared for him all that much, or for the idea of Ginny being so close to him, but she was civil to him, sometimes more than civil—that is, she seemed to try and go out of her way to make him feel like a normal human being, rather than behaving as though he were an evil Death Eater. And she refused to allow any of her sons to treat him like an unwanted hostile in her home.

Draco couldn't really say that he liked her, but it was much easier to tolerate her than any of the other Weasleys. Still, he couldn't really ever be comfortable around her. There was something so distinctly maternal about her; she was a mother in every way, and she mothered everyone, no matter who they were. And Draco couldn't be around her without being reminded of his own mother.

Who was comatose in a hospital room in St. Mungo's.

At any rate, Mrs. Weasley did not seem surprised to see Draco, because apparently, Ginny had Floo'd to let her mother know that they were coming. Some of Draco's annoyance for Ginny lessened at this point, because dropping in unexpectedly on the Weasleys never made Draco's day any easier.

Of course, whether they expected him or not, her brothers never took very well to his being there. And, just his luck, two of them were present that morning—Bill and one of the twins.

Bill Weasley barely glanced up from his paper as Draco came into the kitchen with Will. "Malfoy," he said noncommittally.

"Weasley." Draco gave a curt nod, completing their customary greeting. Draco saw, then, that Bill's daughter, Victoire, was also there, sitting beside him on the floor. Will let out an incomprehensible squeal of delight at seeing Victoire and immediately went to join her on the floor.

"Yes, Fleur's out of the country visiting her parents," Molly said, perhaps in response to Malfoy's spotting Victoire, though he hadn't asked after her. "It's…well, it's a difficult time of year for them, I imagine."

Draco felt as though his heart had dropped straight into his gut and settled there, making him want to heave up his breakfast. Of course. Gabrielle Delacour; it was only a couple of weeks until the second anniversary of her death. Malfoy thought his face must have gone white because he spotted the Weasley twin giving him a strange look. Draco cleared his throat and mentally shook himself; he returned the twin's gaze with an even smile that probably came across more as a smirk. "Good morning…Fred," he said, pausing long enough to quite conspicuously take stock of the man's ears.

"Brilliant, Malfoy," Fred said sarcastically. "You can tell us apart by our ears. Good on you."

"Oh, Fred, even I couldn't always tell you two apart before George's…accident," Molly Weasley said absently, bustling around the kitchen. She tossed Will a nod. "Has he eaten?"

"Yes," Draco said curtly.

"Draco, is your Floo connection still having problems? Only when Ginny called on us here, she was cut off suddenly, and she never Floo'd back," Mrs. Weasley said.

Draco silently cursed himself; if that was true, Ginny was not going to be happy with him when he got home later. Never mind that she was the one who had so insisted on living in a Muggle flat and paying extra for the Floo connection; it was always his fault when it acted up. "It's possible," was the only reply he made. To his horror, he felt faintly embarrassed, and he thought for sure that that either Bill or Fred or both would say something at his expense, but he was wrong; both of them seemed totally engrossed in their breakfast.

But why not? Draco thought bitterly. They've been poor all their lives; they wouldn't see cause to tease someone over that. Which made him feel slightly uncomfortable, for some reason. Uncomfortable, and that was all; he certainly did not feel guilty.

"Was Ginny very sick?" Mrs. Weasley had finally stopped flying around the kitchen, though her thoughts still seemed to be flitting from one idea to the other. She hadn't stopped questioning Draco since he'd come in, and all he really wanted to say was 'goodbye' so he could leave. "She's never ill very often. Even as a child, once she was past five I don't think she was sick more than three times that I can remember."

"I don't think she's so bad off." Draco shrugged and went on, without thinking, "I think mostly she wasn't feeling well so she didn't get any sleep. But she was definitely sick up last night, she bolted out of bed so fast for the loo."

A heavy silence met his words. For a moment, Draco didn't realize why. He took in Bill's suddenly white-knuckled grip on his newspaper and Molly Weasley's stiff posture. He stared back blankly at Fred, whose face had gone red with anger and who seemed to be choking back strangled sounds.

Then he realized what he'd said. And to whom he'd said it. And he was sure his face went as red as Fred Weasley's.

"I mean—" Draco fumbled for words "—she…slammed the bathroom door shut so loudly…I'm surprised Will didn't wake…" He trailed off, deciding it was in his best interest to shut his mouth entirely. He was extremely glad that Arthur Weasley was not there to hear him announce that he slept in the same bed as Ginny, though perhaps it wouldn't have been much worse than this, considering that Fred looked as though he was going to kill him.

Of course, it should have been obvious to anyone who had ever been to their apartment that they slept in the same bed; there was, after all, a single bedroom in the place, with the exception of Will's closet-sized room. But Draco was fairly certain that Ginny had given all of her relatives the abbreviated tour of their place, without ever going back into the hallway, so it would not be so obvious after all.

Draco's face felt hot with embarrassment, and he thought his cheeks were probably as red as Fred's, if for a different reason. He was suddenly quite annoyed with himself, quite angry that he was even here, at the Burrow, speaking with a bunch of Weasleys. He was angry that he'd had to put himself in this position, this situation. This was not his life. Or at least, not the way his life was supposed to be.

Stifling a sigh, Draco hastily bid goodbye to his son and left as quickly as he could. He dearly hoped that Ginny would be well enough to pick up Will on her own, by the end of the day.

As it happened, Ginny was only feeling worse by the time he left work, so he picked up Will himself. Thankfully, no one was there at the Burrow except for Mrs. Weasley, and he got away relatively quickly.

Ginny had a raging headache, by her account, and Draco thought she looked a bit feverish too. He considered sleeping on the couch that night, but since sleeping on the couch was like sleeping on a bed of nails, he decided against it. By the time Draco put Will to sleep and got to bed himself, Ginny had taken a vial of sleeping potion and was out like the dead, breathing slowly and deeply.

Draco himself had had quite a long day, and began to drift asleep almost immediately. He thought he'd even begun to dream when a sharp clack! coming from the outer room jerked him awake. He lay there for a moment, eyes wide open, wondering if he'd imagined the noise—but then he heard a thud, the sound of someone knocking into a hard object, followed by a very soft, almost inaudible curse.

Immediately, Draco threw back the covers and sat up straight. He hesitated once, glancing over his shoulder at Ginny, but she was still fast asleep; she hadn't even stirred. Silently, Draco slipped out of the bed, snatching his wand from his bedside table, and padded across the room, out into the corridor. He crept along the wall the few steps to the living room and then peeked around the corner, eyes searching the open space before him. The living room and the kitchen were dark, but Draco's eyes were already adjusted to the blackness, and he had no trouble discerning the tall, dark figure from the rest of the still shadows.

Someone was in the kitchen.

Whoever they were, their back was to Draco, that much was clear. There was really no way to sneak across the room, nothing to hide behind, but then, their apartment was so small that it only took Draco a few swift steps to cross the living room and reach the kitchen. He moved silently, and he was only a few feet away when the figure spun around and saw him.

Draco leveled his wand at the intruder, but his assailant deftly knocked it out of his hands. As the wand clattered to the floor, Draco lunged for the man, but before he could bring him to the ground, the intruder grabbed him by the sleeves of his pajama top and yanked him around, shoving him up against the refrigerator. Draco shoved him back, hard, and the assailant stumbled away, sprawling back onto the kitchen floor with a muttered curse. Unfortunately, he was still holding tightly onto Draco when he fell, so Draco tumbled down with him. He righted himself as quickly as he could, holding the attacker down on the ground. The man spat another curse and hissed, "Get off me, you idiot!"

Draco froze, his grip still tight on the man's arm. The voice was familiar, but he couldn't immediately identify it. He blinked in the darkness, staring down into the man's face for the first time. What he saw made his grip go slack. "It can't be," he whispered.

His attacker kicked free of him and snatched Draco's wand up from where it had fallen on the floor. Draco automatically tensed, but the man simply said "Lumos," and a light flared up from the wand, illuminating the space between them, making it perfectly clear to Draco that his eyes had not deceived him.

Draco scrambled to his feet. "Blaise." His voice stuttered out in a hoarse croak.

Scowling, Blaise Zabini shoved himself to his feet, facing Draco. "What's the matter, Malfoy?" he asked, still sounding a little winded from their scuffle. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Which I should think is understandable," Draco retorted, also sounding a little breathless, "since you're supposed to be dead!"

Blaise ran a hand over his head as though to smooth his hair, though it was too short to have gotten mussed much. He leaned back against the small counter behind him, looking complacent. "But you've known that I'm not," he shot back, his voice vehement in spite of his casual pose. "You've known for more than a year now."

"I'll take my wand back, Zabini," Draco said coldly.

Wordlessly, Blaise tossed it back to him. Draco caught it and let his arm fall to his side, but his grip on the wand remained tense.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Draco demanded, his voice pitched low. "And keep your bloody voice down, why don't you!"

Blaise's expression was hard to see in the dim light of the wand, but when he spoke, his words were scornful and mocking. "Afraid I'll wake the baby? Or, no—it's Weasley you don't want to wake up, isn't it? Don't want her seeing that I'm alive?"

"How do you know I haven't told her?" Draco said, struggling to keep his voice even.

"You haven't told her," Blaise said confidently. "And if she hasn't woken up by now, I doubt she's going to."

Given the sleeping potion she had taken, Draco had to agree. Taking his eyes off Blaise for a moment, he turned around and flipped the light on over the sink. It was enough that he could see Blaise clearly, but not enough to light the whole kitchen. "You still haven't answered my question, Zabini. What are you doing here? And how did you even know where I live?" Another thought stopped him dead. "You're not—you're here—does this mean my father's back in the country?"

"No," Blaise said indifferently. He hadn't moved a muscle, leaning against the counter, still but tense. "Though he may be soon, if he decides I'm important enough to come after."

Draco suddenly understood. "You've escaped."

"Yes." Now Blaise straightened, his arms crossed over his chest, and looked Draco straight in the eye. "And you said you'd help me, Draco."

"I never did," Draco scoffed.

"Really? Well, I asked you to help me, and I took your silence for assent."

"I didn't answer you because my father and the others burst in to take you off with them!" Draco snapped. "And once that was done, well, they were gone and so were you, and there wasn't any chance to help you then. Don't act as though I owe you something, Blaise. I don't owe you anything."

Draco remembered that day, the day he'd found out Blaise was alive, all too well. It was the day he'd spent at the Riddle House, the few hours he'd endured, shut up there, after Ginny had escaped with Will and he'd waited for the Aurors to find a way in. His father had showed him, that Blaise was alive, that they were holding him captive, and Draco had realized that it had been Blaise who had freed Ginny, Blaise who had handed Will over to her…

But his father and some of the other Death Eaters had fled the house, before the Aurors had gotten in, and they'd taken Blaise with them. And Draco had tried very hard, from then on, not to think about Blaise Zabini.

Let alone tell anyone that he was alive.

An angry glint came into Blaise's dark eyes. "You don't owe me anything, Malfoy? When I've suffered at the hands of your family, when your father's kept me captive and your aunt's tortured me, tortured my family—"

"That doesn't have anything to do with me," Draco said quietly.

"How dare you say that, Draco," Blaise seethed, his eyes flashing. "You're one of them. Of course it has to do with you."

"I am not one of them," Draco shot back, "and I haven't been for a long time. I had no idea, what was going on with you, all right? Just like anyone else, I had no idea you were even still alive—"

"Oh, right." Blaise stepped back, slumping back against the counter again. He glanced away, studiously eyeing the floor. "That's right. You aren't one of them, you aren't a Death Eater, not anymore. You're living here. With your son. With—Ginny."

Draco flinched.

"With your happy little family," Blaise said, so quietly that Draco almost didn't hear him.

Guilt—odd, that he should feel guilty—warred with anger within Draco, and anger quickly won out. "Don't pretend as though you still care about Ginny," he burst out, unable to contain himself. "If you ever cared about her at all. She's been thinking you dead all this time, and you never—"

Blaise's words cut into his tirade, as effectively as the serrated edge of a knife. "What do you care about her, Draco?"

Draco stopped short. For a moment, he felt as though he couldn't breathe. Then, "Nothing," he said, struggling very hard to keep his voice calm and indifferent.

"Really."

"Look, she looks after my son, all right? That's the only reason she's here." Draco wasn't sure why he felt he had to defend himself so much, defend his ties to Ginny. It seemed like he was doing that a lot these days, to anyone and everyone.

"And did you know," Blaise said, "that she calls your son her son?"

Draco shrugged, glancing away. "Well, he's never known any other mum."

Silence fell between them. Reluctantly, Draco glanced around, meeting Blaise's gaze. For a moment, they stared at each other, Draco keeping his expression as unreadable as Blaise's own face was. Finally, Blaise broke the silence, looking away and clearing his throat.

"Well, none of that matters now." Blaise shrugged. "I just need your help, Malfoy. And I dare you to refuse."

Draco rubbed a hand over his forehead, frustrated. "What do you need my help for, anyway? You've escaped, haven't you? If you were smart, you'd get away and stay away, and you'll be just fine."

"I can't," Blaise argued. "I have…things…to do here, in England."

"What things?" Draco demanded.

Blaise merely looked at him, his expression scornful, as if to say 'No way I'm telling you.'

Draco sighed, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "Well, what do you want? Some kind of protection? If the Death Eaters are after you, the Ministry might help you, you know. Or did you want me to ask the Order—"

"The Ministry," Blaise spat. "The Order. The Ministry won't help me, Draco, and as for your Order—"

"Then I don't understand what you want me to do," Draco said flatly. "Anyway, why do you think my father or anyone else would come after you? What do they want with you? Why're you so worth it to them? Just because you were out with Ginny that day, in Hogsmeade? That doesn't make any sense."

Blaise stared at him, his gaze slightly incredulous. "Don't tell me you never heard," he said. "Did they hush it all up? Keep it quiet?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Malfoy, my entire family is dead," Blaise said, his words clear and deliberate, almost cruel in their bluntness. "The Death Eaters, your lot, they killed my entire family. My mum, my sisters, my uncle—they're all dead."

"Wh-what?" Draco felt as though he'd been punched in the gut, a sick feeling worming its way through him. "That can't be—when? Why?"

"They took my mum, Malfoy." Blaise turned his back on him, stepping away, nearly out of the light from over the sink. His tone was composed, but Draco was sure that if he could see his face, he wouldn't look nearly so calm. "Eight years ago, just before the attack on Hogsmeade. They tortured her, and when she wouldn't talk, they killed my youngest sister in front of her. Then Nadine, my oldest sister, and then—"

"But why?" Draco demanded. His voice shook, and he flinched at how loud his words echoed in the small kitchen. More quietly, he said, "What did they want, what information did they want from her?"

Blaise didn't answer right away. He turned around to face Draco, a dead look in his eyes. "Something she didn't know," he said finally, bitter amusement coloring his words. "Something I don't know."

"But what—"

"Anyway, that's why they tried to take me," Blaise went on, either not hearing Draco or ignoring him; it was hard to tell which. "At Hogsmeade, you know. It didn't have anything to do with Ginny, not really. But with the battle going on, everyone distracted, spread out, my mum escaped, and she got me out, too. We went into hiding. We didn't even try to go for Camille." When Draco frowned, he clarified, "My sister. The only one left alive. My mother had heard them talking before she got out, and she knew they already had her. We risked going for my uncle, in France, but he—" Blaise shook his head. "He was dead, too. We got there too late."

Draco slumped back against the sink. "I don't understand," he said numbly. "It doesn't make any sense."

"Yes, well." Blaise shrugged indifferently. "It doesn't matter anymore. They're all dead, my mum included. She was killed when they finally found us, six years after all that. I'm the only one left. And seeing as your aunt—" His voice rose, anger in his tone, "—spearheaded all of this, I think you—"

"I get it, I get it, I owe you, whatever," Draco said wearily. "What do you want, a place to stay, a place to hide? You can't stay here, Blaise, that would never work!"

"I know," Blaise said wryly. "Of course not. Can't have Ginny knowing I'm alive."

Draco ignored this. He straightened and began to pace across the kitchen, as much as the tiny space allowed him to. "You could stay at the manor," he said finally. "It's deserted. Under Ministry control now, but they don't check up on the place, not really."

"Yes, but surely they are watching it." Blaise sounded skeptical about this idea. "They'd know if someone got in."

"It's my house, Zabini," Draco snapped. "You think I can't get in without the Ministry knowing? They may have taken it, but I didn't tell them all its secrets, not by half."

"Fine." Blaise fixed him with a hard gaze. "But this better work, Malfoy."

"It will," Draco said shortly. Quite suddenly, he was exhausted; he wanted nothing more than to crawl back into his bed, to sleep soundly and forget that any of this ever happened. If only that were possible. "I'll need a few days. In the meantime, you have to get out of here—"

"All right, all right." Blaise was already heading for the door. "I'll send you an owl in two days' time. All right, Malfoy?" There was an edge to his voice, as if he didn't expect Draco to live up to his words.

"All right," Draco said in annoyance. "Get out already."

Like a shadow, Blaise slipped out into the corridor, the door closing almost soundlessly behind him. Draco stared after him a moment before burying his head in his hands. What, in the name of everything magical, was he ever going to do with this?

Author's Notes: Please anyone let me know if you're confused at all about the Blaise thing. I have a tendency to half-reveal things and then people are confused :D