Author's Notes: So, I feel compelled by reviews to let everyone know that this fic will have a happy ending lol. It may seem bleak now, but this is not dark!fic. I always put a warning when I'm writing dark!fic.

There will be 2 more chapters and a short epilogue after this one, so we're winding to a close!

Chapter Nine

November 2007

Ginny started awake, her head snapping up from its uncomfortable position against the hard wooden desk. She blinked blearily, her eyes stung by the bright light shining in through the window. She lifted her head, which felt heavy, and was disgusted to find a bit of drool left on the desk.

Wiping her lip, she forced herself to sit up straight. She'd fallen asleep at her writing desk again, at Merlin knew what time. The last she remembered, it had been six in the morning, yet she'd still been writing furiously, determined to finish and make her deadline.

With a huge yawn, Ginny stood, her stiff body unfolding from the uncomfortable chair. At least she was dressed comfortably, in her warm sweat pants and a long-sleeved shirt. She went out into the corridor, her feet, covered in warm socks, padding along the wooden floor. "Nuly?" she called, out in the corridor. Although she was on the top floor of the townhouse, she knew Nuly would be near, waiting for her to wake.

As predicted, the house-elf came running from down the hall. "Yes, Miss Ginny? Would Miss Ginny like some breakfast?"

Ginny frowned. "What time is it?" Likely too late for a real breakfast.

"It's just past one o'clock, Miss Ginny. In the afternoon."

Ginny pulled a face. "How about just a bacon sandwich, then?" she asked. Half breakfast, half-lunch.

Nuly scurried off to take this order to Tasher, who did most of the cooking. Shrugging back her shoulders, trying to work out the kinks in her back, Ginny went back into her room to quickly finish her article. Her room was the very same room Hermione had stayed in, for the short time she'd been with them. It was one of the smallest rooms in the house, though it suited Ginny just fine. As it was on the top floor, near the attic, it had a rustic feel, with its boarded floor and simple, unpolished wood furniture. The window faced the back of the house, the west, so the light that filtered through in the morning wasn't overly bright. She had a full-sized bed—a small bed, compared to most in the house—with a red quilt coverlet. The walls were painted a light blue, and when direct sunlight shone in through the window in the late afternoon, the walls gleamed like the ocean, sparkling beneath the sun's rays.

It was a quiet, peaceful room; it both reminded her of home, but also was entirely her own. She had moved up here in the days following Will's departure. At the time, she had just wanted to feel closer to Will, whose old rooms were just down the hall. But she had come to really like the room in her own right. Most especially because it was the perfect place to get her writing done for the Daily Prophet; the room was so removed from the rest of the house.

By the time Tasher brought up her bacon sandwich, she was just finishing the last lines of her article. "Did Draco say anything about when he'd be home?" she asked, an odd lump forming in her throat. She coughed and said, "Or just the usual time?"

"Master Malfoy said he would probably be home late, Miss Ginny," Tasher squeaked. "Is there anything else you is needing, Miss Ginny?"

Ginny sighed and shook her head. As Tasher left the room, she rubbed a hand over her temple. She was beginning to feel a dull ache form there, probably from sleeping in such an awkward position at her desk. She quickly jotted down the last few lines of her article, then folded it into an envelope.

She continued to sit at her desk as she ate her bacon sandwich, trying to ignore the growing pounding in her head. She closed her eyes, remembering dinner last night. She had so wanted to say something to Draco—anything—but every time she'd looked over at him, and seen that stony expression on his face, she'd either lost her nerve or grown annoyed with him. So in the end, she'd said nothing, just like every other night.

It was bloody awful. Ginny had never imagined living like this. True, when Will had first left, she had wanted it like this. She didn't want to talk to Draco, or even see him.

But then…things had changed. She knew things now that she hadn't known then. She had accepted, now, that Will was gone. She wasn't okay with it, by any stretch, but she had stopped blaming Draco for it. She wanted to talk to him, she needed to talk to him, but he flatly wouldn't allow it.

And so it went on. This silent cohabitation. It had gone on for near a year and a half now.

Ginny was fed up with it.

She finished her sandwich and took her envelope all the way downstairs, out to the conservatory, where their eagle owl stayed. Once she'd sent her article off to the Daily Prophet office with him, she returned inside, gratefully, for the bright sunlight was no help to her aching head.

She wandered upstairs. She bypassed the parlor and went up to the second floor. There, she paused on the landing, looking all the way down the corridor on her right. At the end of the corridor was the master suite. Draco's bedroom. Her old bedroom.

Unthinkingly, she ambled down the corridor and into the rooms. She paused for a moment, looking around the cold, empty sitting room. She peeked into the large bathroom, and then bypassed it, drifting into the bedroom.

She hadn't been in here in months. It looked just like she remembered it, minus all her possessions, for they had all been moved into her room upstairs. Sadly, Ginny drifted through the room, her eyes traveling over the books piled on the floor, the framed photo of Hogwarts on the dresser, the ridiculously ornate lamp on the bedside table. She ran her hands along the wall, over the window panes, shut firmly against the cold outside.

She went over to the wardrobe. It wasn't quite shut all the way, and one of Draco's shirts was peeking out through it, as though he'd been in a hurry getting dressed this morning. Ginny opened the wardrobe. She started to tuck the shirt back in its proper place, hanging neatly inside, but she paused. The shirt wrinkled beneath her fingers as she closed her hand tightly around the starched material.

Then she let go, shut the wardrobe firmly, and turned away. An overwhelming sadness enveloped her. Ginny was so used to sadness by now, but accompanying it, this time, was a horrible, aching loneliness.

She drifted over to the bed and smoothed her hand over the dark blue duvet.

Ginny remembered, with a pang, the first time she'd slept in a bed with Draco, which was before she'd actually slept with him, before they had ever had sex. It had been in the manor, after Nott had pushed her down the stairs in the middle of the night. She remembered curling up in that massive bed, and even though she had not touched Draco or even come near him that whole night, it had been such a comfort, his presence there.

Swallowing, she sat down on the bed now, alone in the bedroom. With another pang, she thought of the first times she had kissed Draco. Once, in her feverish, delusional state, when she'd mistakenly thought he was Blaise, only to kiss him and realize at once that he was definitely not Blaise.

And then again, a year later, when she'd made herself let go of Blaise, when she'd realized it was Malfoy now, Malfoy who was her family and her comfort and her life. She remembered the force of his lips on hers, the warmth of his hands on her skin, the scent that was so distinctly him, a spicy, cinnamon-like scent…

She sighed and lay back, rolling over on to her side until she lay, squarely, in the middle of the bed. She curled up in a ball—her head really was hurting—and buried her face against the duvet. It smelled like him, like Draco, and it was comforting and familiar, and eased the ache of her loneliness, just a bit.

She lay there several minutes longer. She kept telling herself she needed to get up now, but the duvet was warm against her cheek, and even the thought of moving made her head hurt even more. Her breathing grew quiet, deep and even…

She slept.

When she woke again, it was immediately clear that hours had passed, even though Ginny was not immediately certain where she was. But it was utterly—blissfully—dark in the room, and Ginny noticed the difference instantly. The sun had gone down.

The only light in the room, keeping it from being pitch-black, was a sliver of light peeking in through the doorway she was facing. The door stood halfway open.

The next thing Ginny realized was that someone was in the room with her.

Ginny tensed automatically. Her hand, now numb, sandwiched between her chest and the bed, twitched, as though to go for her wand. But she didn't have her wand. Ginny frowned in the darkness. Why didn't she have her wand? Where…?

Then she remembered. And then she realized. She had fallen asleep in Draco's bed. She was in Draco's room.

And if it was so late that it was dark outside, and there was someone in the room, then it was probably Draco.

Slowly, trying not to move too much, Ginny eased her head up and around. It was Draco. He stood with his back to her, and he was shirtless, by the wardrobe. She watched as he crossed the room to the dresser, and pulled out a plain black t-shirt from one of the drawers. He pulled it on over his head. Then he turned and, in the pale of the light coming in from the adjoining room, saw her watching him.

Ginny suddenly felt terribly awkward, as his gaze froze on her, as though he had been caught off-guard. Ginny sat up quickly, intending to make her excuses and leave, but she immediately regretted the sudden motion. The ache in her head had turned into an all-out throbbing. Wincing, Ginny shut her eyes, a hand going to the side of her head to clutch it.

"What's wrong?"

Ginny opened her eyes in surprise. The words seemed to have left Draco's lips before he could stop them. Blinking painfully, Ginny said, "I have a horrible headache."

"So take a potion." He was already moving past her, out into the sitting room. "I'll get you one."

"But…" Ginny breathed deeply, her hand moving down to the side of her head. She hadn't had a headache this bad in ages.

Draco returned a moment later, a small vial in his hand.

"What about dinner?" Ginny asked hoarsely. "If I take that, it'll put me to sleep." Which was the best thing, obviously, but for some reason, Ginny clung to this, having dinner with him. It was the one thing they still did together, almost every night, even if they never spoke.

Draco made a disparaging noise. "Take the damn potion. If you wake up later and you're hungry, the house-elves can get you something."

Reluctantly, Ginny took the vial from him. He was gone before she had finished downing the contents. Shuffling up to the head of the bed, Ginny placed the empty vial on the bedside table. She lay on her side, and before she could drift off, she shifted over a little, leaving room for Draco when he came to bed. A moment later, she was asleep again, her throbbing head resting against a soft pillow.

She had no idea how much time had passed when she woke again, but given that her head was no longer hurting, she thought it must have been several hours. There wasn't any light coming in from the adjoining room anymore, and there was such a stillness, a quiet, in the house, that she thought it must have been very late. Draco had probably come to bed already.

But when Ginny rolled over to look at him, he wasn't there.

A flat disappointment filled Ginny. She stared at the empty spot beside her. Where was he? Had he not gone to bed yet, after all? She hadn't planned this—she hadn't come to his bed with the intention of falling asleep—but she had to admit that, since it hadhappened, the thought of sleeping beside Draco again had cheered her a little.

Only, he wasn't here.

Moving quietly, Ginny slipped out of the bed. Someone had placed a small throw blanket over her as she'd slept, and she brought it with her, wrapping it around her shoulders.

He wasn't out in the adjoining sitting room. Frowning, Ginny wandered out, down to the end of the corridor. She peered down the short staircase, which led down to the parlor on the first floor. It was completely dark down there. In fact, as far as she could tell, there wasn't a light on anywhere. Where was Draco? Maybe shut up in his study?

She crept down the stairs and groped her way across to the grand staircase, holding on to the banister to guide her. She had nearly reached the staircase when she glanced aside. Then she stopped.

Draco was sleeping in the dark parlor. On the divan.

Ginny gaped at him for a moment. He was sleeping down here? He so couldn't stand the idea of sleeping with her, he was so horridly stubborn about it, that he was sleeping on the divan? It wasn't even comfortable!

But there he was, in his black t-shirt and trousers. He obviously hadn't even come into the bedroom to change into his silk pajamas. And it was bloody cold in the parlor, yet he was only half-covered by a large, thick quilt. Most of it lay on the floor, hanging off him.

Ginny tip-toed forward. He lay on his stomach, but his head was turned aside, so she could see his profile. It was hard to see in the dark, but Ginny thought he looked disgruntled in his sleep. Well, served him right, sleeping on the bloody divan.

Ginny sighed. She looked at him, for a moment, and then found herself settling down on the floor beside him, still watching him. Even with the disgruntled expression marring his face, there was something calm and peaceful about him in sleep. It was very unlike the Draco she had become used to seeing every day, the one whose very shoulders seemed to weigh him down, the one with the dark eyes and the grey, unsmiling face.

Ginny blinked sleepily. Her eyelids were becoming heavy, but she didn't want to get up, didn't want to leave him. Her head began slumping over, as sleep overtook her, and she didn't even remember lying down upon the floor, curled up in her blanket, as she drifted off.

The next time she woke—the fourth time, in fact, that she had woken in that twenty-four hour period—it was because of a sudden weight, a sharp pain, crushing into her middle. Gasping awake, Ginny half-sat up, clutching her stomach. She looked up and found Draco looming over her, cursing. That's when she realized why she'd woken up—he had stepped on her.

"Merlin, Weasley!" Draco snarled. "What the bloody hell are you doing, sleeping on the floor?"

Still rubbing her middle in pain, Ginny glared up at him in the darkness. "Stalking you," she muttered. She ran a hand through her hair, smoothing it and pushing it back from her face. When she looked up at Draco again, he was staring at her with the most peculiar expression on his face.

A memory suddenly hit Ginny, a memory from several years ago. She had been in St. Mungo's, after being hit with a bad curse during the attack on Diagon Alley. During the same attack that had, for all it mattered, claimed the life of Draco's mother. Draco had found her, Ginny, asleep on the hospital floor the next morning, and he had looked down at her then much like he was doing now.

The memory broke as a scowl came over his face. "Stalking me?" he echoed. "Stalking me? Bloody hell…" He ran a hand over his face.

"What are you doing up, anyway?" Ginny glanced out the windows. It was still very dark outside.

"I'm thirsty," Draco snapped. "Aren't I allowed to get up and get a glass of water in my own house?"

"Only if you get me one, too."

Draco rolled his eyes at her and stalked downstairs, muttering to himself as he went.

Ginny shivered. It was freezing in the parlor, especially on the floor. She pulled herself onto the divan, pulling the heavy quilt Draco had been using over her lap.

When Draco returned, he had only one glass of water with him, but he surprised Ginny when he handed it out to her. She supposed he had had his downstairs. He looked extremely grumpy. "Well, if you're sleeping out here on the floor," he said nastily, "then I can go sleep in my bed—"

"Your bed?" Ginny snapped, glaring at him.

"Well, you made it very clear it wasn't you rbed anymore, when you moved upstairs," Draco growled.

Ginny put her glass of water down on the low table at the end of the divan. Her frustration with him was reaching a peak, but at the same time, something inside her was thrilled, to be speaking this frankly with him, to be speaking with him at all. It had been so long since they'd spoken to each other. She wasn't sure why this was happening now. Perhaps it was the late hour, the darkness enclosing them. It breached their defenses, thinned the walls between them. Ginny had experienced this once before with Draco, the night he'd returned from France. She'd nearly kissed him that night, because everything was blurrier at such a late hour, the clear lines between them indistinct and fuzzy…

"That was more than a year ago," Ginny said in a low voice, her eyes narrowed at him.

"Oh, so you're saying you've changed your mind, then? Decided you could stand the sight of me after all?"

"You're the one who came down here to sleep on this bloody uncomfortable divan just to get away from me!"

"Merlin." Draco rubbed a hand over his eyes. He leaned over and made as though to grab the quilt. "I don't want to have this conversation with you right now, Weasley—"

Ginny's hand closed around his wrist. "So don't have it."

She'd meant those words to come out harsher, angrier, but they left her lips quietly and calmly. Draco froze, his eyes snapping up to her face. Ginny felt an odd sensation, low in her stomach, a fluttering feeling. It wasn't entirely unfamiliar, but it was something she hadn't felt in a long, long time.

She was suddenly aware of his skin beneath her grip, warm, burning. And she stared back at Draco, stared into his eyes. They were dark, but for once, dark with something other than pain and self-loathing. They were dark like a storm, dark with a deep, unspoken craving.

Ginny's heart was hammering in her chest. She kept waiting for him to break away, to turn his back on her. But the seconds ticked by, and he didn't move. He swallowed visibly, his gaze latched onto hers.

Then he shifted, but instead of moving away, he inched towards her. His free hand came forward, and he placed it on her knee. "Ginny…" he whispered. There was a pleading note in that single word, in her name, and she thought, maybe, he was half-asking her to let him go.

But he could feel it too, she was sure he could. It had been so long, since they'd spoken like this, and it had been so long, since they'd even kissed, since they'd touched…

She didn't know who moved first, or maybe they moved at the same time, her surging up towards him, he leaning down over her. But their lips met, and it was like fireworks exploding within Ginny, that finally, finally, he was hers again, if only for this moment.

With his wrist still locked in her grasp, he reached around and gripped he rwrist. He yanked her off the divan, bringing her onto her feet, and she stood on her tip-toes to kiss him, her hands wrapping around his neck. His lips moved against hers with such pleasurable force, teasing her lips open, thrusting his tongue within her mouth. The fluttering in the pit of Ginny's stomach was expanding, spreading a trembling throughout her body. She didn't think her legs would hold her up much longer, and she pressed herself as close to Draco as she could, one leg wrapping around behind his, inching up his calf…

Draco lifted her suddenly, hoisting her up, as though she were no heavier than a feather. Ginny's legs locked around his hips. One of his hands grazed the bare skin on her lower back, where her shirt had ridden up, and a shiver racked her whole body, her toes curling in pleasure.

Draco took several hasty steps back—maybe heading towards the stairs—but he backed right into a low coffee table and stumbled. Neither of them tried to steady themselves—neither was willing to let go of the other—so instead they just went down, allowing themselves to tumble to the floor in a tangle of limbs. Draco ended up sitting upright on the floor, and Ginny had half-slid out of his grasp. But she was quick to crawl back over him, and she pushed him onto his back, her hands going beneath his black t-shirt, raking over his bare chest.

Draco groaned, and Ginny tugged his shirt over his head, tossing it aside. She trailed hot, biting kisses down his bare chest, his skin burning beneath her lips as she moved further down, her hands at his waist. Before she could reach for the zipper on his trousers, though, he grabbed her by the shoulders and yanked her up towards him, rolling them over.

As Ginny lay on her back, against the parlor floor, she suddenly realized she was still wearing far too much clothing. Draco seemed to agree, for, as she reached for the hem of her shirt and pulled it off, he went for the waistline of her sweats and swiftly pulled them down, and then tossed them aside, as negligently as she had done with his shirt.

Ginny wanted him back over her, kissing her, but he lingered at her ankle, pressing a scorching kiss into her skin there. He moved up her leg slowly, kissing her smooth calf, and then the back of her knee. She moaned as his tongue flickered out, running over the hollow of her skin there. Meanwhile, his hand traced up her other leg, mirroring the movements of his lips, tickling her behind her knee.

Ginny had to restrain herself from seizing him by the hair as he continued to move up. He placed a hand just above her knee, holding her buckling leg down, so his lips could travel up her inner thigh. He paused when he reached the base of her hip, and Ginny wanted to scream in frustration, but he pulled himself up and leaned over her now, his face level with hers. Ginny grabbed him by the head and pulled him down to her, kissing him with all the pent-up passion, rage, and sadness she'd harbored for the past year.

"Gin—" Draco's breath hitched in his throat as he broke free of her lips long enough to speak. Ginny didn't pause; she lifted her head a little and continued to trace kisses along his jaw. Meanwhile, her hands were busy below his waist, undoing the button and zippers of his trousers. "Ginny—I think—this might be…a bad idea…"

"No," Ginny breathed. She tugged at his trousers, pulling them down, and in spite of his own words, Draco was more than obliging as he helped her, kicking them off. "No, it can't be."

Apparently, Draco decided to agree. He bent his head down, his lips touching down on the spot just below her ear, and sucked on the skin there. Ginny let a sound that was half-gasp, half-moan. She couldn't take this much longer. Ignoring the tangled mess of her emotions—the gaping loneliness, the endless sadness, the burning anger—she lost herself in the feel of the two of them. They melded perfectly together, a fit that was just meant to be. She didn't care what he felt about her, what she felt towards him. She wanted him, needed him, and for now, that was enough.

Draco woke lazily as the pale morning light spilled in through the huge parlor windows. For a moment, he wasn't sure why he felt so warm, so content and at ease. Especially given that he was lying on something hard.

Then he remembered. He was lying on the floor. And Ginny was pressed into his side beneath a warm, heavy quilt.

For several minutes, he lay there, softly stroking her hair. She had let it grow very long over the past year, and it was thick and tangled and bright and beautiful, like rose petals scattered across his chest.

He managed to lie there for close to ten minutes, he thought, absorbing the peace and solace of being with her. But then the war within him stirred, the war that had been raging through him for the past year and a half. He never let Ginny see it—he liked to think she couldn't see it—through his mask of icy indifference. But inside, he was a war, of guilt and rage and pain and desire.

Moving carefully, he disentangled himself from her arms and her hair. She stirred a little—mumbling, her eyelids fluttering. She half-reached a hand out to him as he drew away.

"Shhh," he murmured. Crouching beside her, he made sure the quilt was drawn all the way over her. He tucked a strand of that beautiful hair behind her ear. "Shh, Ginny. Sleep."

She mumbled again, but almost immediately, she went still again, her breathing going soft and even. He watched her for a moment, making sure that she wasn't going to wake. Then he rose to his full height, gathered his clothes, and went up to his room to shower and change.

When he snuck through the parlor half an hour later, she was still asleep. It was still early for her—not half past eight—and he wagered she would sleep a good while longer. He hoped so, anyway.

He left the townhouse and Apparated to Diagon Alley.

The street was quiet this early in the morning, most of the shops not open yet. It was also very cold. Draco stuffed his hands in the pockets of his coat, idly wandering down the street. He eventually stopped for a cup of coffee and a breakfast scone in a little out of the way café, the same one he had once met a Polyjuiced Granger in. That seemed a very long time ago, much longer than the year and a half it had been.

He ran a hand over his face as he finished his coffee. He should not have slept with Ginny last night. He should not have even spoken to her as much as he had. But it had all felt so good—it had been so wonderful, for that brief time, to forget about all the pain he had caused, to drive it away. But she would expect more from him, she would want them to start to move past it. And Draco wasn't sure that he could.

As he stood to leave the café, he paused, remembering, again, the discussion he'd had here with Granger—not only about that blasted cup that she wanted from his aunt's vault, but about him, and about Ginny. A fragment of their conversation suddenly came to him, here, in this place.

"I'm talking about what happened sixth year. You owe me for that."

"Am I to be paying for that for the rest of my life?"

"Yes. And if you can't understand why, then that only proves you can't be done paying for it, yet."

"Really? And when will I be, then?"

"When you reach a point where you yourself don't feel like you could ever be done paying for it."

Draco had flinched, then, and he shuddered now, a dark chill overtaking his whole body. He felt that, now. That he could never be done paying for it all, for everything he had ever done. He wasn't sure when it had happened—when he had let Will go, maybe. It was as though letting his guilt over Will and Ginny in had opened the floodgates. Everything he had ever shut away, all his guilt and regret for every terrible thing, sprang at him. And it was so huge and heavy now that he couldn't shut it away anymore. It all haunted him, every minute of every day.

But none of it, none of it weighed on him so heavily as what he had done to Ginny, and to Will. He had put his son in danger. He had let his son go. He had hurt Ginny in the process, and continued to hurt her every day since then. And it killed him.

Draco left the café quickly. By now, it was past nine, and given that the holidays were upon them, the street was bustling, if not quite crowded. Draco bypassed Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes and continued back up the street.

He intended to head on back home, but he stopped just short of Flourish and Blotts. A little girl was wandering around outside the bookshop, looking lost and scared. She couldn't have been more than three years old. She had tangled black hair, and her eyes were filled with tears.

Draco stepped up to her and bent down to her level. "Hello," he said pleasantly. "Are you lost?"

Her brown eyes were wide as she looked at Draco. She nodded silently.

"Are you with someone? Your mum? Dad?"

She nodded fervently. "Daddy," she said, so quietly Draco almost couldn't hear her.

Draco looked around, but he didn't see anyone that looked like they might be the little girl's dad. "Were you in a shop?" he asked her. "Maybe the bookshop?"

The little girl didn't say anything; she didn't seem to know. Considering they were right outside Flourish and Blotts, Draco decided that that was his best bet. Taking the little girl by the hand, he took her inside the shop. They hadn't been in the shop more than a minute—Draco was just looking for a shop assistant who might help them—when someone called in a relieved voice, "Melanie!"

Relieved that that hadn't taken very long, Draco turned, the little girl—Melanie—in hand. Then he froze.

Because the man hurrying towards them—the man that little Melanie was now running towards, crying "Daddy!"—was someone Draco knew. Someone he hadn't seen in ten years.

It was Potter.

St. Harry bloody Chosen Boy-Who-Lived Potter.

It was a small mercy, perhaps, that Potter didn't see him right away. His stupid green toad eyes were all for the little girl—his daughter?—as she launched herself at him. "Mel! Are you all right? Where did—"

At that precise moment, Potter looked up. He saw Draco. And he went still, just as frozen as Draco was.

For one incredibly tense, horrible, shocked moment, they stared at each other. For his part, Draco thought he must be hallucinating. Having some horrible dream. Because Potter had been gone for years, Potter was in hiding, Potter could not possibly be standing right in front of him, in a bloody bookshop in the middle of Diagon Alley—

Then Potter recovered himself, and he stood, drawing his daughter close to him. He seemed fairly composed—which was surprising—but his eyes were angry. "Malfoy," he said, his voice shaking, "what on earth were you doing with my daughter?"

"Potter," Draco spat, overcome by a desire to strangle the stupid prat. He cursed whatever god had brought the specky git back into his life. "What on earth are you doing here?"

Potter took a step towards him. "I mean it, Malfoy, what were you doing with—"

"I found her wandering around outside by herself," Draco snapped. "Maybe you should keep a better eye on her. She'd have been halfway down Knockturn Alley if it weren't for me."

Potter opened his mouth but then shut it, swallowing whatever hot retort he'd meant to say. He glanced down, smoothing a hand over his daughter's black hair.

Draco didn't wait for Potter to thank him; he knew he wouldn't, and even if he managed to, he didn't want to hear it anyway. So instead he repeated himself. "What are you doing here, Potter? I thought you were in hiding."

Potter snorted. "Worried about me, Malfoy?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "Oh, yes, very concerned here. But what did—"

"I guess Ginny didn't tell you, then," Potter said coolly.

Draco shut his mouth and went still. He paused a moment before saying, "Tell me what?" What could Ginny know about Potter? Or was the git just messing with him? But then, how did Potter even know Draco had anything to do with Ginny? What did he know?

"I paid her a visit not five months ago," Potter said, still in that damnably calm voice. "At your house. I was trying to figure out if it was safe for me to come back, see. I eventually decided it was. So now I'm here."

Draco stared at him, his blood boiling with fury. His face felt hot; his cheeks were flushed, he was sure, betraying his own anger. He tried to come up with something to say, something to wipe that self-satisfied expression off Potter's stupid face, but he couldn't get anything out, he was so angry.

"C'mon, Melanie," Potter said quietly, glancing down at his little girl. He started to steer her out of the shop, past Draco, but Draco shot a hand out and grabbed Potter by the arm.

"You—don't—" Draco started, still not sure what he was trying to say. His grip tightened around Potter's arm; he wanted to punch the stupid prat.

"Let go of me, Malfoy," Potter said. His voice was low and even, but something fierce lurked in his green eyes, something dangerous. Draco sneered at him; he wasn't just going to let Potter walk away like that—

"Daddy?" Draco and Potter both looked down. Little Melanie Potter was looking between her father and Draco, looking uncertain, even scared. Swallowing, Draco let go of Potter, pushing himself away, putting some distance between them. Potter shot him one last glare and then they were gone, out onto the street.

Draco was left standing there, alone, shaking with fury.

Somehow—at some point—he made it back down the street, out through the Leaky Cauldron. Somehow, he Apparated back home. He stormed inside the townhouse, slamming the door shut behind him. A quivering Tasher stood in the entrance hall to greet him, but the wise little house-elf took one look at his master, the master he'd known since boyhood, and fled the room.

"Ginny!" Draco yelled. "Where are you?"

When she did not answer straight away, he pounded up the stairs. He swept a quick glance around the parlor, but she wasn't there anymore. The house-elves had already tidied up after them, or maybe Ginny had, but the room was neat and pristine as usual. Draco set up the next set of stairs, pausing on the second floor landing.

"Malfoy?" Ginny's voice came floating out of the master suite at the end of the corridor. "Is that you? Did you say something?"

Draco stalked down the hall and into the master suite. As he slammed the sitting room door shut behind him, Ginny stepped out from the bathroom, wrapped in a short robe. Draco forced his gaze away from her damp, shapely legs and looked up into her face. She looked puzzled as she toweled off her wet hair.

"What is it?" she asked. "What's wrong?"

Draco tried several times to speak, but it took him a few moments before he could without shouting incomprehensibly. "What," he finally managed, his voice shaking with barely-suppressed anger, "was Potter doing at my house?"

Ginny blinked. Then she went quite pale. The expression on her face was enough to send Draco over the edge, confirmation that Potter hadn't just been spouting off nonsense. Furious, he turned away from her and slammed a fist into the wall.

"Draco—Draco," she said. She sounded quite unlike her usual self; her words were tentative and apologetic. "I'm sorry—I should've told you—"

"You think? You think you should have told me that Potter was in my bloody house?"

"But I knew you'd react this way," she said, and now he could tell her own temper was flaring, "and, if you'll recall, we weren't exactly speaking at the time—"

"I don't know why we're bloody speaking now," he growled.

"But how did—Draco, did you see him? Has he come back?" she demanded.

Draco spun around to face her. He had to study her expression for several long seconds, assure himself that there was nothing eager or excited or happy in her expression as she asked after Potter. But there was nothing but a slight frown creasing her forehead as she stood there, waiting for his response.

Feeling slightly—very slightly—mollified, Draco nodded. "I just saw him in Diagon Alley," he said stiffly. "With his daughter," he added bitterly.

"With his what?" Draco was surprised to see that this was news to Ginny; she gaped at him soundlessly for a moment before saying, "You're joking! But—that's—really? How old is she? Whose is she? Why didn't he tell me, he didn't say a word!"

Draco sighed. The anger was beginning to drain out of him; it was too exhausting to keep it up. He slumped down onto the small loveseat in the room, stretching his legs out in front of him. "She looked about three, I've no idea who her mother is, if that's what you mean, and I don't know why—what did he say to you?" he demanded, glaring up at her. "What was he doing here?"

Ginny blinked, apparently still getting over the shock of Potter having a daughter. "I—what? Oh." She shook herself slightly. "Well, he wanted to know how things were here…not here, in the house, but back among the wizarding world. Apparently, he's been on the move for the past few years, so he had no idea what's been going on. He just wanted to know if it was safe for him to come back."

Draco rubbed a hand over his forehead. "And you couldn't have told him it wasn't?"

"I really didn't tell him anything of the sort, either way," she said coolly. She flicked her long, damp hair back over her shoulder, spraying him with a few water droplets. "He decided for himself, I suppose."

Draco grunted. Now that the tide of his anger was ebbing away, all those other problems—the problems that had driven him from Ginny's side that morning—were coming back to the forefront of his mind. It suddenly struck him how easy this was, being in the same room with her, talking with her, arguing with her, just like they had so many times in the past. He swallowed, looking anywhere but at her. They couldn't go on like this, like nothing had happened. He couldn't do it, he couldn't.

Ginny, however, had other ideas, or so he thought when she seated herself opposite him on the loveseat. She took a deep breath. "The thing is," she said evenly, fixing him with a square gaze, "I don't know how you can lecture me for not telling you about Harry, when you never told me about Blaise being alive and well at your old manor."

Tha twas probably the last thing Draco had expected her to say. It was like she had punched him in the gut. For a moment, he was sure he hadn't heard her right, because she said it so matter-of-factly, and how could she be so blasé about this? Draco felt dazed.

"I—you—what?" he said weakly.

The look she spared him was derisive. "Yes, Draco, I know that Blaise is alive, or at least, that he was. I know that you found out at the Riddle House, and I know that you helped hide him at your manor." She took a deep breath. "And I know I must seem a horrible bitch springing this on you now, but, well, really I should have said something a long time ago."

"Why—" Draco shut his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose "—the hell didn't you? How long have you known?"

"Since we got married," she said simply. In spite of her casual tone, Draco opened his eyes and saw that her jaw was set firmly, her eyes blazing as she looked at him. "There was a breach at the manor—you didn't hear? Blaise—or maybe it was Hermione, that actually seems more likely—had done a spell in the kitchen there. I heard about it, and I went to investigate. And I found Blaise there."

"You found Blaise there," he repeated flatly. His pulse quickened. For he remembered, in an instant, why he had been so terrified to have Ginny discover Blaise alive, even if he hadn't really wanted to admit it to himself at the time. "And did you have a nice little reunion with Blaise?"

"Don't you take that tone!" Ginny snapped. She leapt to her feet, and yes, she was angry. That mild tone had been a ruse. "How dare you take the high ground on this? Why wouldn't you tell me that he was alive, Draco? You know what I had done to myself, to my life, looking for him—"

"Yeah, and you were finally past it!" Draco shouted, getting to his feet as well. "Maybe I didn't want to bring it all up again, did you ever think of that? Maybe I wanted to spare you that—"

Ginny laughed scornfully. "Oh, please. Like you were thinking at all about me, about what was best for me when you decided to keep it all a big secret."

"I was, actually," Draco seethed. He stared down at her, anger boiling his blood. "I was thinking of nothing except you when I decided to keep it a secret, I was thinking of how I couldn't face losing you over that stupid prat Zabini! And you're a bloody stupid idiot if you didn't realize that!"

Ginny's mouth was open, a half-formed retort on her tongue. But as his words seemed to hit her, she stopped short, falling silent. She stared at him wordlessly for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then—

"That's what Blaise said." Her voice was impassive. "About why you didn't tell me."

"Well, at least he wasn't as stupid as you," Draco snarled. He sat back on the loveseat. He was breathing heavily, and part of him was reeling from what he'd just said. Considering how he'd been thinking he needed to go back to not speaking with Ginny, he was not doing a very good job of it now, blurting out things like that.

"Isn't," Ginny corrected. Her cheeks were pink. "You don't know that he's dead now."

"Oh, and you're just hoping he's still alive, aren't you? Hoping you'll get a chance at another reunion with him?"

"Of course I hope he's alive," Ginny said, and her voice was quiet, but still angry. "Of course. Am I supposed to hope that he's dead? Do youhope that he's dead?"

Draco bit his tongue, forcing himself silent for a moment. Then he said, "No. I don't. But, Ginny—"

"Look, in the end, he turned out to be an even bigger prat than you, all right?" She sighed, and she seemed to deflate, as she collapsed onto the loveseat beside him. She was sitting much closer to him than he would have liked, leaning in towards him. "But, Draco, I just wished you'd told me. I was over him, just like you said. You should've known that," she said reproachfully.

Draco struggled with his response for a moment. Finally, he said abruptly, "I'm sorry. I should've told you." He frowned. "What do you mean, he turned out to be a big prat?"

"It doesn't matter." She suddenly sounded very tired, and she leaned forward, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her palms. "Merlin help him, but he probably is dead now. I don't suppose they have any reason to keep him alive anymore. Unless…" She trailed off, biting her lip.

"Unless what?" Draco prompted. He couldn't help himself; he leaned towards her, just a bit.

She sighed. "Nothing. Never mind. It doesn't matter." She shook her head. "God, but it all seems like a lifetime ago, anyway."

Draco nodded absently. "Yeah," he said quietly, "it does."

She looked up at him, and as their eyes met, Draco knew, in that instant, that she was thinking of Will, just like he was. For a moment, a look of such anguish passed through her eyes, and then it was gone. But he had seen it, and he had felt it, like his own, reflected within himself.

So in spite of everything he'd told himself—everything he'd resolved—when Ginny leaned over, and rested her head against his chest, Draco didn't push her away. And when she turned her head, and buried her face in his shirt, he dropped his arm and locked it around her, tightening his grip around her shoulders. Afraid to let go. Afraid that, if he did, he would lose her, too.

"Draco," she said, so quietly he almost couldn't hear her.

"Yes?"

"Please—" Her breath caught for a moment, and then she said, "Please—let's not go back to not speaking to each other. Please." Her voice dropped, until she spoke in no more than a whisper. "I can't stand it."

Draco nodded slowly. He ignored the guilt worming through him, eating away at the remains of his soul, and rested his cheek against the top of her head. "Okay," he agreed.

December 2007

Two weeks had passed since Draco had first run into Potter in Diagon Alley, and though he had not seen the prat since, he had to stand hearing about him wherever he went. His return was in the papers, everyone was talking about him at the Ministry. Draco didn't see the Weasleys as much without Will, but when he did, they were all over talking about him too, not only because he was like a bloody adopted son to them, but because he had brought them news of Ron Weasley, who had apparently been with Potter this whole time, just as Ginny had claimed. He hadn't returned with Potter though—which was a small mercy—because he had gone off months ago looking for Granger.

"Bloody idiot," Draco had muttered, when Ginny had told him this. "And didn't he realize that if he came back here, it would be all over everywhere and Granger would know where he was? Merlin."

Ginny had only looked at him, amused, and said nothing.

In fact, the only person Draco didn't hear talking about Potter was Ginny, at home. He was sure that she had seen him, and spoken to him; they had probably had a bloody dinner at the Burrow, for all Draco knew. But she wisely remained silent on the issue at home. And so, for the first time in a year and a half, Draco's home became a refuge for him. The only place he could relax, the only place he could stop scowling.

Unfortunately, his life would not remain Potter-less for long.

Three weeks before Christmas, Draco received a Floo call from Tonks, who informed him that he was wanted at the Auror Office for questioning, straight away. Given that it was nine o'clock in the evening and Draco was about to dress for bed, he couldn't believe the gall.

"Do you know what time it is?" he demanded of Tonks, whose head was floating in the fireplace in the parlor. Her hair was an extremely normal blonde today, which Draco found disconcerting. "What can they want me for questioning for, at this hour?"

Ginny, who was curled up on the divan, flipped a page in her magazine. "It's probably something important," she said, without looking up, "considering how late it is." She didn't sound worried, but there was a faint line creasing her forehead.

"I'm not sure what it's about exactly, but I suspect…" Tonks paused. "Well. I'm fairly certain you're not in any trouble. I think they're just looking for some information."

"About what?" Draco groused.

"Come in and you'll see," Tonks quipped. Then she was gone before Draco could complain any further.

"Bloody infuriating," Draco muttered. Nevertheless, he tossed some Floo powder into the fire and was off to the Ministry, leaving Ginny alone with the house-elves at the townhouse.

He arrived in the Atrium, which was practically deserted at this hour, though there was a wizard at the security desk. Draco took the lift up to Level Two and entered Auror Headquarters.

Inside, he was met with a flurry of activity. Aurors were writing memos furiously at their desks, consulting with each other over the tops of their cubicles, dashing back and forth along the corridor. Draco took a step in and narrowly dodged a memo zooming by his head.

Tonks' cubicle was way at the back of the room, but Draco was in luck, for no sooner had he arrived than Tonks came hurrying up the corridor, speaking rapidly to Carmichael about something. When she spotted Draco, she took him by the shoulder and ushered him down the way.

"What the bloody hell is going on?" Draco demanded. "You'd think Azkaban has split in half or something."

"Well, approximately, that is what's happened." Tonks rubbed a hand over her eyes as she nodded for Draco to seat himself at her desk.

"I thought I was here for questioning?" Draco frowned as he seated himself. "Why am I not in an interrogation room?"

"Well, I told you, it's not really about you. In fact, I think you're here more for consulting than questioning, per se." Tonks bent down and busily began writing a memo with a quill from her desk. "I don't know all the details. Just wait here, he'll be with you in a moment."

"Hang on," Draco objected, as Tonks prepared to charge off. "I'm not talking with you? Who is it, then?"

Tonks hesitated. "Well—" She glanced around, and then pointed and nodded. "Him."

Draco followed her line of sight, to a man who was speaking with two Aurors as they looked over a file. His jaw dropped.

She was pointing straight at Potter.

"Potter!" Draco hissed. "What is he doing here? He's not an Auror!"

"No, but he is Harry Potter, which I think ranks him over the Minister of Magic," Tonks said humorously. "Look, I'm sorry I didn't tell you, but you wouldn't have come if I had, you know you wouldn't."

"Too right I wouldn't! And I won't—Tonks! Tonks!"

But she had run off, knocking into several other people as she went. Draco was just about to get to his feet and leave when Potter finished with the two Aurors and glanced over. And spotted him.

Cursing under his breath, Draco lowered himself back into his seat. He glared at Potter with as much truculence as he could muster, as the bloody Chosen One hero came towards him, sighed, and seated himself opposite Draco.

"Hullo, Malfoy," he said.

Draco didn't say anything. He merely crossed his arms over his chest and glared even more fiercely. He thought he was going to go cross-eyed.

Potter sighed again. "Look, I know it's late and you don't want to be here—"

"No, really?" Draco snapped.

"—but the thing is," Potter said mildly, "I thought it would be a good idea if you could come in and help us out."

"Help us out?" Draco sneered. "You're no Auror, Potter. In fact, you've spent the past nine years in a hidey-hole looking after your own arse. So where does this us come in?"

If Draco had gotten to him with his "hiding" comment, Potter didn't show it. He merely looked resigned. "I've been asked to consult. And that's all I'm asking of you, really. You see, there's been a mass breakout of Death Eaters at Azkaban."

Draco blinked. His first feeling was one of panic—what Death Eaters, and who would they hit first? His annoyance, however, returned almost immediately. "Another mass breakout? I know that we don't have Dementors anymore, but maybe the Ministry should bloody dosomething about Azkaban, if we keep having all these mass breakouts!"

"I'm sure Kingsley is looking into it," Potter said. He looked faintly amused. "Maybe you could consult on that too, Malfoy. After all, you spent a few years in Azkaban. You could give an insider's perspective."

Draco closed his eyes and willed himself not to hex the specky git.

"Anyway," Potter went on, "since you know a lot of the Death Eaters better than most of us, I thought you could be of some help."

Draco stared at him for a moment, trying to come up with some reasonable excuse to get himself out of this. The last thing he wanted to do was spend the night talking with Potter. On the other hand, if Death Eaters really had broken out of Azkaban, then he wanted them dead or back behind bars as soon as possible. Especially given—

"Hang on," Draco said suddenly. "Who all escaped? Was my aunt Bellatrix one of them?"

Potter nodded wearily.

Draco swallowed. He tried to keep himself still, not wanting to betray the surge of alarm rushing through him. "All right, Potter," he said. "I'll help you, but on one condition."

Potter raised an eyebrow. "And what would that be?"

"You get some bloody protection over to my townhouse," Draco growled, "and to Lillian's Moon's place. I don't care if it's Aurors or Order people. But the last time I spoke to my aunt, she threatened Ginny and my son, and I want them protected before I tell you anything."

Author's Notes: Thank you for reviewing!