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Chapter Text

The Trick is to Keep Breathing

Prologue

What do you do with yourself, after a war?

You first engage in a lot of logistics. In the immediate aftermath of Voldemort’s defeat, Ginny Weasley felt in constant motion. If she stopped moving, it felt like the world would tilt and then fall off its axis. If her family stopped moving, stopped pulling together for each other, for Molly, for George, it felt like they would simply fall apart. There was a funeral to arrange. There was George to be there for, to sit with. There was Molly to hold, to help with in the kitchen, to greet mourners for. There was barely any time to grieve, even though Ginny felt like she was always crying.

And then there were the other funerals to attend. Other people to mourn and remember, food to be prepared and delivered in person to other families so that they could also have something in their pantry in the middle of the night, having forgotten to eat for most of the day.

It was five weeks before Ginny had some time to herself.

It was 7 June 1998, a Sunday morning. The Burrow was quiet when Ginny blinked awake at 5.05 am. The red lit numbers were still glaring in her digital clock on her bedside table, which was an old Christmas present from Arthur, while the pale early dawn rays spilled gently into her room. Ginny’s room was in a corner of the Burrow and had the largest windows relative to room size. Ginny never liked drawing her curtains.   

There were no funerals, memorials, gatherings, or hearings to attend that day.

Ginny slipped past a still-sleeping Hermione who was sharing her room and washed up quickly. Then, quietly so as to not wake anyone else, she slipped out of the front door with her broom.

The morning air was crisp as Ginny kicked off, and she felt the initial slap of cold air as she took flight. It was good to be flying again; it felt like she was finally breathing after having held her breath for what had felt like an eternity. She could not remember when she last was on a broom.

More importantly, it felt like her hands were humming against the wood grain of her broom, as if her bones were coming alive again. Just being by herself, moving in the air.

She did low, large circles overhead of the Burrow, still tethering herself to some extent, knowing that it would cause too much concern if she were not within sight of her family, and Harry and Hermione, once they woke up.

Harry. Since the Battle of Hogwarts, they had held hands and each other but hadn’t talked much in substance. Ginny was not yet sure what to hope for if they did.

***

It was 7 June 1998 when Draco Malfoy felt like his life could be his own again.

Immediately after the Battle of Hogwarts, time seemed to stand still for the Malfoys. Where previously Draco had felt like he was scrambling desperately, on the precipice of death and destruction at any moment, suddenly the Malfoys were unable to move in any which direction of their own accord. They stayed as close as they could together and simply reacted to what the victors required of them. Things happened, Aurors and lawyers appeared, summonses were answered.

Consequences were still imminent but also felt entirely outside of his control in a curiously different manner to when he was living in fear of Lord Voldemort. As he watched Harry Potter take the stand to vouch for him and Narcissa, Draco was detached to the point of calm. He felt each breath in and out of his lungs: long, slow, and measured, easy in the low-ceilinged court room. His enmity towards Potter felt like a distant dying howl through a long tunnel. He remembered that he had been shaking violently when he brought Death Eaters through the Vanishing Cabinet – so violently that he thought he would not be able to hold onto his wand.

On 6 June 1998, Lucius Malfoy started serving his ten-year sentence in Azkaban.

After Draco returned to Malfoy Manor with Narcissa that night – finally, in the quiet of his own room, the tears came. Then, hours after, feeling like his bones had turned to water from the day and from the exertion of grief, Draco fell into the deepest sleep that he ever remembered having.

Waking up on the morning of 7 June, Draco realised, as if for the first time, that there was no one else’s agenda for him to fulfil.

Everything he was to do that day would be entirely of his own volition.

***

If Harry were the kind of person who thought about such things, he would have realised that, at least for him, 7 June 1998 was the start of the rest of his life.

He had had some time to adjust to the realisation that there was no more Voldemort. No more fighting to stay alive, to stay ahead of destruction. But when Harry woke up that morning, he woke up with the singular notion that he was going to be happy.

It wasn’t that there was no more mourning to do, or no more Hogwarts to rebuild. But Harry had, after a series of expedited hearings, no more obligation (at least legally) to the survival or integrity of wizarding Britain. There were no more funerals to attend. There was only him, and the Weasleys, and Hermione, and weeks before the new school term – if Hogwarts could start on time, if he wanted to return to Hogwarts – ahead of him.

He and Ginny could have a new beginning, without any shadow cast over their relationship.

The word “relationship” didn’t feel enough for what Harry hoped for what he and Ginny could have, would have. Holding her felt like home. Holding her felt like the ability to breathe deeply and slowly, luxuriously. Holding her felt like being awash in enveloping sunshine.

He knew that being with her, he would be complete.

Harry just had to make sure that Ginny knew it too.

***

Chapter Text

The Trick is to Keep Breathing

Chapter 1

“Are you quite sure that you’re prepared to do this, Minerva?”

Minerva McGonagall sighed inwardly, finding herself almost wishing for the days where Horace Slughorn was not quite so sombre, then almost immediately reminding herself that there was kindness in his question. It was just that she had faced so much of the same question in the past months that she was exhausted of all iterations of and contexts to it.

“I’m quite alright, Horace, thank you,” McGonagall answered, schooling her expression to be neutral as she glanced at her colleague. “Although if you don’t mind, I would appreciate going about this task on my own.”

“Would it be safe for you to go through their things on your own, though?” countered Slughorn, as he rounded about the further end of Albus Dumbledore’s desk. “You don’t know what Severus brought in with him when he took over Albus’ office, and Albus always had a different threshold for what was perhaps a good idea.”

This time, McGonagall fixed him with a stern look. “Whatever he was facing, Horace, I highly doubt that Severus would have permitted anything actually dangerous to be brought into his office, within possible reach of children.”

Slughorn looked slightly chastened at this, but then he raised his chin, and a stubborn cast came over his face. “I wasn’t necessarily thinking just of Severus’ things, Minerva. Like I was saying – you know how Albus was – things amused him, or he may not have fully thought of the implications…”

“If you are quite done, sir!” piped up Armando Dippet from his portrait. “Albus was a bit of a maverick, but he always had his students’ best interests at heart!”

“With due respect, in light of all that’s happened and all that we’ve found out from Harry Potter and his friends about what they were facing in the past year, I think Albus put an unconscionable burden on very young people…”

“Horace,” broke in McGonagall. She was suddenly very tired, and thankful that Dumbledore’s portrait seemed to have taken leave of his portrait ahead of this conversation. Impatiently, she pushed her glasses further up her long nose. “I am hardly in the mood to unpack Albus’ legacy or his plans with Potter and how right it was for Potter to have been made to do what he did at this point. I’m just about able to thank Merlin that Potter did not die doing so. Right now, I need the room while I look through the things of two friends who have passed trying to do what they thought was right, however they went about it. I appreciate that you care, but please – if you would leave me to it.” Her tone took on an air of finality, and she hoped sincerely that it would force the end of the conversation.

“Very well, Minerva,” Horace replied. Abruptly, years seemed to catch up to him and McGonagall could see the age in his face. Exhaustion was still making easy prey of all of them, and she did not know when they would outrun the effects of the past years. And they would have to pull together by the start of the school year, if only for the sake of the First Years, who had not witnessed the Battle, or lived through the war, and did not deserve to be touched by either of them.

“If you need me, I’m in my office,” continued Horace, already turning and leaving the room. “Do try to take breaks when you need to.”

McGonagall nodded after him. She knew it would be a long afternoon.

***

Roughly two hours later, McGonagall found herself thinking that perhaps Slughorn was right.

In her hands was a slim volume, tucked tightly between two large leather-bound books on advanced alchemy, their spines so stiff and dusty that they had very likely not been touched for a while. She had missed the smaller book between the other two at first glance on this particular shelf and now that it slipped out after she had pulled the books out, she wished fervently that it could disappear altogether.

It was a simple blank diary, save that it had a flayed hole right in the centre of it.

McGonagall almost imagined that she felt a shiver ripple under the surface of the leather cover of the diary as she ran her hand over the cover, but surely it must have been her imagination, her mind playing tricks on her because of how dangerous this book once was.

Why had Albus kept it? Severus could not have realised it was there – McGonagall didn’t know what he would have done with it, but he would surely not have kept it close by his person.

Briefly, she cursed silently that Slughorn was right and Albus had an inability to properly gauge danger and propriety.

And what ought she to do with it now?

Her first thought was to burn the book – if the Basilisk fang truly had destroyed the magic held within it, it would simply be paper, leather and what cloth binding remained igniting and curling, blackening into a fire. But some kind of fear took hold of her heart even as she thought of this solution. She could not be sure that it would be enough, or what could happen if she were to burn such a thing. Would anything be released from it? Would it be safe?

She knew that she did not want it to remain in this room. Already her hands were starting to tremble as her body caught up with the gravity of the situation, of the danger that could still lurk in the book, of what the book represented even if it held no more power. Quickly, she turned and placed it on Dumbledore’s desk.

Did McGonagall want to surrender this to aurors, or to the Unspeakables, though? There was bureaucracy to that, and there had been enough questions about the propriety – again, propriety – of what Albus had done with the school ahead of the war. There had been moments where she kept herself up at night, worrying about whether students would even return to Hogwarts, after everything. There had been moments where she thought the aurors and the magical trace teams were never going to leave the grounds. And although months had passed, McGonagall was not confident that the Ministry was rid of Voldemort sympathisers. She did not know that she could trust every auror, or every Unspeakable who could encounter this book.

No - she needed it away from her, but also in the school, somewhere she could summon it, knowing where it was if required, but also somewhere students would not be in danger of encountering it. Hardly anyone, after all, knew of this diary; the only students who knew were certainly not looking to encounter it, and only one of those students was returning this year.

At this, McGonagall realised with a start that she had her answer. The Room of Requirement – the Room of Hidden Things, as the children called it. If she hid it there, and with none of the children using the room requiring it, surely it would be safe.

***

“Do you think she’s going to be alright?” Harry Potter asked Ron Weasley, watching as Ginny Weasley boarded the Hogwarts Express. Already he missed her and wished he had held onto her just a bit longer.

“Mate, you’re acting like it’s the first time Gin’s actually gotten on the Express,” Ron chortled, rolling his eyes. “And it’s Gin. It’s been a hard one, but she’s always been able to chug right on. She was like that after her first year, too.”

Harry winced inwardly at this, realising not for the first time that he often forgot that Ginny had gone through enough trauma aged eleven, same as him. It was just that Ginny had such light and warmth to her, since he had been able to properly see her, that he couldn’t always reconcile that Ginny with his Ginny.

“I’m rather thinking that I’m scared for us,” continued Ron. “I can’t believe after all we’ve been through, that you talked me into joining auror training in less than a week. You would’ve thought we’d seen enough of all that, but no, now we must go through the works formally. As if we’ve not seen more actual combat than some aurors will see in their lifetimes.”

“I told you – maybe we have a knack for it. And maybe it’s just the right thing to do,” replied Harry, his eyes still on the train although Ginny had disappeared. She hadn’t turned back to wave at him again. “Voldemort wasn’t the only villain doing bad things in this world.”

“It’s your saving people thing,” grumbled Ron. “I’m just there to make sure you have someone with you…” his voice trailed off.

Harry knew what he was thinking of, knew how Ron still felt guilty about leaving them on the hunt for Horcruxes, and quickly said, “And I appreciate that. I’m glad you’re going to be there with me, mate. Especially when Hermione’s decided she needs to swot more instead. Can’t believe she’s going for an internship which is basically like going to Muggle university for research.”

“At least she’s not going away to Hogwarts,” laughed Ron, his countenance brightening again. “Although I’ll hardly get to see her, what with training starting and me helping George out at the shop on weekends.”

The boys started walking away from the platform.

“I’ll miss her though – Gin,” said Harry. “We’ve barely had weeks to be together, properly.”

Harry still couldn’t quite believe they were now together, without reservations, even as it felt like the thought of Ginny being away for the semester made his chest hurt. He thought fondly of the moment that Sunday morning when Ginny had come in from flying, her hair windswept and glinting in the morning sun. In front of the Weasleys, and Hermione, he had reached out for her, holding her hands. It finally wasn’t a funeral, wasn’t a memorial, wasn’t a hearing. The holding was just because they would be together. He didn’t need to say more.

The weeks of summer he had with Ginny had been perfection.

“Yes, I didn’t need to witness all of that,” said Ron mock-disgustedly, shaking his head. “You’ll think you would remember she’s my sister and all, I didn’t need to see or hear you snogging her every moment you could.”

“We weren’t nearly that bad.”

“You were quite enough.”

“Could say the same for you and Hermione, who’s practically my sister.”

“Not quite the same when Ginny actually is my sister,” remarked Ron, “I couldn’t decide at times whether to hit you or be happy for both of you. Merlin knows you deserve some happiness after all of that, but again – didn’t need to be around for all of that.” Ron ran a hand through his thick, messy red hair as they came out onto the street in Muggle London. Harry had promised him a good brunch out among the Muggles, followed by a matinee showing of a movie. Ron had never been to a movie theatre, and Harry had had a sudden hankering recently to be in one for the first time in years. It was also nice – different – to be doing something with just Ron for once.

“Anyway,” continued Ron, “it’s not like you can’t Owl her, or visit her on Hogsmeade weekends. I’ve seen you the way you look at her too – you’re practically able to communicate telepathically at this point, I’m sure. She’s not about to go run off with some other bloke in Hogwarts.”

Harry laughed; he hadn’t been thinking along those lines at all. He and Ginny were like James and Lily – they were just right.

“I mean, hell, mate, it’s not like any other bloke in Hogwarts saved Ginny and Hogwarts and all.”

***

“Didn’t expect to see you back, Malfoy.”

Draco’s head jerked up. At the threshold to his compartment was Blaise Zabini, looking as unruffled as ever, nary any hostility on his perfect face. Then again, Blaise’s perfect face mainly rested at lazy hostility and disdain towards one and all, so Draco wasn’t sure if he was reading into it.

“I’ll be joining you,” Blaise announced, sliding into the seat across from Draco. “My mother insisted I repeat my “fiasco of a seventh year”, as she put it, though I’d pointed out to her that also had a lot to do with the fact that she pulled me out barely two months into it. But what are you doing here?”

Draco felt the ghost of a smirk lift his lips as he met Blaise’s eyes. It almost felt like how it used to be, except everything was no longer as it used to be. “If you weren’t around physically, Blaise, I was hardly around mentally,” Draco responded, and the small smirk quirked into a smile. “It’s good to see you again, mate.”

Blaise looked mildly surprised at what counted as a sincere and enthusiastic greeting from his fellow Slytherin. “I suppose I’m glad I’m not the only one repeating seventh year in Slytherin,” Blaise drawled in reply, “Do you think they’re going to make us room with the first-time seventh years? How awful.”

“Well,” said Draco, “If there aren’t that many returning Slytherins, we could very well spread out at least. Anyway – you’re out of luck there, Zabini. They made me Prefect again this year, and Slughorn’s allowed me to retain my Head Boy room in Slytherin. You’re going to have to survive the other seventh years by yourself.”

Blaise raised his eyebrows at this but thankfully didn’t remark on this news or the suitability of his appointment. Draco found that he was glad that if any of the boys from his year in Slytherin had to return, it was Blaise. There were times when Blaise knew when to hold his tongue, and there were at least half of those times when Blaise did.

“Who d’you think they made Head Boy?” asked Blaise. Draco noted that this was usually about the time they would have previously asked after each other’s summers, and he was glad that Blaise seemed to have decided to let the topic slip away. Certainly a few weeks of Draco’s summer had been publicised on the Prophet for all the wizarding world to know.

“Salazar knows, hopefully not a Hufflepuff,” replied Draco. “I’ll let you know after the Prefect meeting on the train.”

“You do that,” laughed Blaise. “I’m just absolutely dying to know.”

Draco found himself smiling at that as well, and a pleasant beat of silence passed between the two boys.

“Do you know if anyone else’s coming back?” asked Blaise, as he relaxed further into the seat, stretching out his long legs on the length of it.

“I don’t know who is,” replied Draco. Then, before he could stop himself, he added, unable to keep a note of bitterness out from his voice, “It’s not like I was receiving Owls throughout the summer which weren’t from the Ministry or our lawyers.”

“Mate,” said Blaise levelly, his eyes cool as he looked straight into Draco’s eyes, “I don’t think any of us were up for much correspondence. Why do you think I’m asking you? I thought at least Parkinson or Greengrass junior may have said something to you. The girls were anxious about you for ages.”

“That was before you left.” Draco’s voice was clipped now. “I haven’t seen or heard from them since…we were all last in Hogwarts.” He didn’t need to say when that was.

“It might just be us, then,” said Blaise. “From our year. Shambles, mate.”

Draco found himself nodding. Even if he didn’t know what he had been expecting when he decided to return, he also hadn’t thought fully about what it would mean with a diminished Slytherin.

“We might even have to play every position on the Quidditch team,” continued Blaise. “Well, we’ll have to play every position before we let some of those dire fifth- and sixth-years play…”

Out of the corner of his eye, Draco saw a flash of red outside their compartment, and turned just in time to see Ginny Weasley, her eyes straight ahead as she walked past. She looked more freckled than ever, even as her skin looked somehow both creamy and lightly kissed by the sun.

He wondered briefly how her summer had been.

***

“Malfoy,” Ginny greeted in a clipped voice, as she entered the carriage where the Prefects were meeting. She was coming in late, and it appeared he was just entering before her.

She had to wonder what logic had been applied in Malfoy’s being appointed a Slytherin Prefect again, after everything, but then again – perhaps there wasn’t much of anyone left to appoint from Slytherin, and McGonagall being who she was, had pushed through on keeping the same number of Slytherin Prefects as Hogwarts had always had, even in the circumstances. There were times when Ginny hated how fair-minded and principled her head of House – now Headmistress – was.

Also, thought Ginny, she remembered how Malfoy, then Head Boy, had cast a Cruciatus curse on her on behest of the Carrows, but she had known the spell had been a mere echo of what it could have been. Her nerve endings whispered rather than screamed with pain. Other Slytherins had not nearly been as merciful. She remembered his slate grey eyes staring at her as he kept his wand trained on her, as if willing her to play her part.

Ginny had done some of her best screaming for him.

Now, Malfoy held her gaze, grey eyes widening in surprise initially, then he simply looked away and moved towards a seat in the magically enlarged compartment.

Well then. So much for her effort at baseline fellow-Prefect civility, despite everything.

Ginny settled into the remaining seat across from Malfoy, coincidentally next to another Slytherin Prefect, sixth-year Alec Vaisey. Ginny didn’t know much about him but noticed briefly that he was all cheekbones and pale skin, and that he nodded in silent greeting when she met his gaze.

“Weasley,” he said, “Alec Vaisey. First time doing this, like you.”

Ginny smiled. “Good to know someone else is new to this, and that I’m not seeing you on the pitch for once.”

“You’ll be seeing me on the pitch soon enough, O star Gryffindor Chaser and Captain,” replied Vaisey, smiling lightly. Ginny decided she liked his smile, even though it reminded her strongly of another boy from another lifetime, close-lipped and somewhat tight, not quite reaching his dark eyes.

For a Slytherin, Vaisey seemed friendly. She also didn’t remember seeing him the entire of the last school year, which in the circumstances, had to suffice.

“Settle down all,” came a voice from the middle of the compartment. Anthony Goldstein from Ravenclaw and Hannah Abbott from Hufflepuff were the Head Boy and Head Girl respectively this year.

As Anthony started his speech, Ginny found her attention wandering and she started looking around the room, taking note of her fellow Prefects. She didn’t know how she felt about becoming a Prefect – in a sense it felt like another thing thrust upon her. Dutiful Daughter, Grieving Sister, Girlfriend, Gryffindor Quidditch Captain, Prefect.

But there hadn’t been much time to think about all of that.

Her fellow Gryffindor Prefects were (somewhat surprisingly, thought Ginny) Seamus Finnigan from seventh year, Romilda Vane and Luke Lang from sixth year, and Dennis Creevey and Melissa Stone from fifth year.

Dennis. Ginny stilled for a moment, studying Dennis’ wane face. She had written to him a few times over the summer but hadn’t heard back from the younger boy. She hadn’t known that he was going to return.

A sudden prick of tears came to Ginny’s eyes. It still shocked her sometimes how the pain could still be fresh, could still come in waves, crashing in out of nowhere.

“So – while previously patrols were done by individual Prefects, following all…that’s happened,” said Anthony, his voice coming back into focus for Ginny, “…I’ve discussed with the Headmistress beforehand that perhaps this year we should institute pairings for Prefect patrols as a permanent feature. It’s not that we expect any more danger, but perhaps this could promote…more balanced handling of incidents across the board, and at least some reassurance for the students.”

Right, thought Ginny darkly, because who knows how people will react when coming up against a lone Slytherin Prefect these days.

“Do we get to choose our pairings?” asked Benjamin Sykes from Hufflepuff, who had returned to repeat his seventh year. Ginny remembered that he had spent quite a chunk of his first time being punished by the Carrows, having taken it on himself to look out for his younger, terrified Housemates, and mentally shook herself to stop the memory of Benjamin, his long fringe matted against his bloody forehead, eyes bloodshot, coming to mind.

“No,” responded Hannah, her low, sweet voice firm. “Anthony and I have discussed at length about the pairings, and we’ve made sure to pair Prefects from different Houses together. We’ve done our best to ensure that the pairings are – well, hopefully, manageable and uncontroversial. You’ll see your pairing in the sheets,” she continued, as she passed out copies of the patrolling schedule.

When Ginny received her copy, she quickly scanned the page for her name. Her heart dropped when she saw her schedule.

Friday evenings – Ginevra Weasley and Draco Malfoy.

***

Chapter Text

The Trick is to Keep Breathing

Chapter 2

“Do try to keep up, Deveraux,” Draco Malfoy sighed, as Lane Deveraux hurried after him following the Start-of-Term Feast. “You’re our only new Slytherin, and a seventh-year transfer at that; you would think we can get to the dorms quicker with you.”

“Whatever are you rushing him for, Draco?” asked Daphne Greengrass. She was the female seventh year Slytherin Prefect – well, she had been the only girl returning in the seventh year. “It’s not like there’s a lot of us to catch up with before bed tonight.”

“I want some quiet to myself perhaps, Daphne?” replied Draco grumpily, “The longer we take situating Deveraux, the less time I have in my own bed.”

“I’m really feeling the Slytherin warmth and welcome,” remarked Deveraux drily. He was lightly built, with a slender face made more cherubic being framed by his honey-blond curls. He had violet eyes – Draco had never seen that in another person. Deveraux was an old wizarding family mostly of French origin, and as far as Draco was aware it had been some time since a Deveraux had graced Hogwarts’ halls. He had been surprised to hear Deveraux’s name being called that evening.

“Your family’s not been to Hogwarts in a while,” said Daphne, her thoughts apparently running along similar lines as Draco’s, glancing over her shoulder at Deveraux. “How come you’re joining us just now? Weren’t you already attending Beauxbatons?”

“My side of the family’s the Irish side,” replied Deveraux, voice in a slight staccato as his legs tried to keep up with the taller Prefects. He was a few inches shorter than Daphne, who in turn was only about an inch shorter than Draco – the Greengrass girls were taller than most other girls Draco knew. He wondered why Astoria Greengrass hadn’t returned this year with Daphne. “I’m late to coming to Hogwarts, clearly – my parents wanted me to transfer earlier when we returned to our estate in Ireland but then wouldn’t let me come in the past year. My parents went to Hogwarts – they wanted me to have the same experience.”

“I’m not sure about the same experience,” remarked Daphne, “But I suppose it was a good thing you’re only arriving now. May be a bit of a lonely one for Slytherins though. You should’ve maybe have considered that when the Hat gave you a choice.”

“The Hat didn’t give me a choice,” said Deveraux matter-of-factly. “And anyway, I didn’t want to have more of a conversation with it.”

“It doesn’t really matter being among the few Slytherins from my year anyway,” continued Deveraux. “I spent most of my time alone on our estate last year.”

Daphne threw a sideways glance at Draco, but Draco didn’t have time to respond as they had reached their destination. “The password’s Veritas,” said Draco quickly, as the heavy door swung open into the Slytherin common room. “Remember that, it’s not difficult.”

“I was more thinking I’m surprised someone who had any say in the matter would want to join Slytherin,” said Daphne, standing in the threshold as she ushered Deveraux in. “We’ve never been popular, but we’re certainly not fashionable right now. You might even say that being in Slytherin’s going to attract some trouble for you. Anyway – your door’s the second last on the left at the far end of the common room.”

“I am in Slytherin now,” said Deveraux, unblinkingly. The thought came to Draco’s mind that he could very well be a doll. “I’ll just have to accept it, like the rest of you have.”

With that pronouncement, Deveraux nodded at both Prefects, then made his way across the common room. He barely spared a glance around the room, which did not surprise Draco. Most of the Slytherins felt immediately at home among the dark, lush furnishings.

“Why are you back, Draco?” asked Daphne, as soon as Deveraux was out of earshot. “I thought after everything you would be allergic to this school.”

“I wasn’t really around much of the past two years,” said Draco levelly, meeting Daphne’s pale blue eyes. She was prettier than he remembered, and he found himself somewhat surprised that she looked tanned and healthy, like she had been in the sun and had had proper sleep.

Daphne had always been one of those people who somehow managed, either by brutal compartmentalisation or a lack of imagination or both, to stay untouched by strivings around her. Draco had never seen her anything less than serene. He knew the Greengrasses were Voldemort sympathisers and believed in blood purity, but while Daphne had never expressed disagreement with the more aggressive pronouncements made on the issue in Slytherin, she had also gone out on dates to Hogsmeade previously with her half-blood Advanced Potions classmate from Ravenclaw, Michael Corner. He also knew that there had been curiously little gossip or criticism circulating about this when it had happened.

Even through what had happened in the last two years, he did not remember Daphne so much as strain herself to be affected. In fact, now that he thought about it, it was more surprising that Daphne seemed to register that Deveraux, or any of the returning Slytherins, would have a less-than-stellar time being from Slytherin.

“I thought I may need a proper education,” continued Draco finally. “And maybe I wanted to exorcise some memories.” He found himself saying that last sentence before he could stop himself. He didn’t need to be this honest.

“I see,” said Daphne. “I guess we all respond to what happened differently. Astoria told me she wanted to forget everything. She’s gone to Beauxbatons for the rest of her education. I guess what we lost in Astoria, we gained in Deveraux.”

Draco nodded but found that a part of himself was a little disappointed. Before the worst of it, he had started spending more time with the younger Greengrass girl, finding some grounding in her steady nature. It helped that Astoria was pretty, too, with her heavy brunette hair falling in perfect waves, and her cornflower blue eyes. She was very different from Pansy Parkinson, and after Pansy he had needed someone less strident. Pansy hadn’t taken a liking to that development.

In the time since he had realised that both girls had shown him care, or what affection they could show as Slytherins, while he was going through everything. But since the Battle of Hogwarts, he had not heard from either girl. He supposed, like Daphne said, Astoria was simply reacting to what had happened in the past years in her decision not to continue at Hogwarts. He would also not be surprised if the Greengrasses’ mother thought it wise that she redirected her younger daughter’s attention to other suitable young bachelors walking the halls of Beauxbatons. Certainly, the Greengrasses had not called on the Malfoys in the past three or four years. Daphne, unlike Astoria, had never shown much interest in Draco, and for his part, despite noticing her prettiness, Draco never warmed to Daphne’s unflappable, unreadable manner which seemed to stem from some other, darker wellspring than her sister’s sweet calm.

“Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m back, though?” asked Daphne, smiling slightly.

“You’ll do what you want to do,” Draco replied, “And you weren’t around for much of what happened towards the end. Somehow, I don’t think you’ll be given as much of a wide berth as I will.”

“You’re not wrong,” Daphne nodded, as the two Prefects stepped further into the common room as other students started filtering in past the door.

Like Draco had earlier predicted with Blaise Zabini, there weren’t many returning Slytherins. As far as Draco could tell there was a lone first year, no second years, and only a handful of third or fourth years. There weren’t any girls among them. He recognised fifth year Vincenzo Talkalot – Draco was hoping Talkalot could be a Chaser this year, his mother having been a legendary Slytherin Quidditch Captain. Talkalot was lanky, dark-haired, and had always kept a relatively low profile in the House. He was a natural on a broom, cutting fluidly and efficiently through the sky. He was one among a few people the Carrows let continue to fly on the grounds in the last year, even though there was no training scheduled, and no games played. Yet Draco did not recall Talkalot meting out punishments in any of the Carrows’ detentions.

There was Blaise of course, and Cameron Urquhart, the large, sandy-haired Slytherin Quidditch Captain, starting his seventh year, having been a sixth-year last year. Like Blaise, Urquhart had disappeared for nearly the entirety of the last year. The Urquharts were standoffishly rich, tucked away in their sprawling Scottish estate, and were presumably only going to reappear when the dust settled in either which direction.

Of the sixth years, there was Alec Vaisey, also another likely Chaser having played on the Quidditch team previously. Vaisey had done a similar disappearing act like Blaise and Urquhart; Draco knew that Alistair Vaisey, Alec’s father, was a prominent lawyer who had a good reputation that seemed to extend within every faction in the Ministry. Kay Vanity, a small, lean girl who Draco always knew in his heart of hearts ought to be the Slytherin Seeker, came in next to Vaisey, talking animatedly. The Vanities were of similar standing to the Vaiseys – they were well-known financiers who seemed apolitical; Vanity’s aunt Emma Vanity had been a long-time fixture on the Falmouth Falcons’ roster despite her gender and had been a favourite of the general Quidditch-watching public despite her team. Vanity had stayed in Hogwarts last year, but he didn’t recall seeing her much.

He was returning to a Slytherin where his classmates were from families skilled at finding routes to power via an iron hand in a velvet glove. It was unsurprising that these classmates would return to Hogwarts, having none of the taint of Voldemort on them.

Draco suddenly felt very alone.

Consequences. Lucius Malfoy had made different calculations. Draco would have to live with the consequences of them.

“Malfoy,” greeted Urquhart, settling into a large high-backed leather chair in the common room. “I’m surprised to see the princeling return.”

“Malfoy’s more of a refugee right now than a princeling,” offered Vanity, but her tone was light, and her hazel eyes were bright with mischief rather than malice. Draco had seen enough of malice to know its piercing, ruthless face. “We might have to draw up a schedule to guard our most famous Slytherin from vigilantes seeking vengeance.”

“I don’t need your protection or pity,” Draco couldn’t resist biting back, though with only an echo of the feeling he would have once put into it.

“No one’s about to pity a Malfoy,” rejoined Alec, leaning against Vanity in the settee at the centre of the common room. “Kay’s just noting a change in dynamics. I mean – look at the pairings they’ve got us on for Patrols. And McGonagall going on about embracing a path forward as one school…”

“What pairings?” Urquhart asked, stretching his long legs out from under his chair.

“Prefect pairings for Patrol nights,” responded Alec. “I guess they don’t want to test how the general population is going to react to a Slytherin Prefect patrolling the corridors at night, or they don’t want to see if anyone’s kept any of their bad habits from the Carrows. No fingers pointed, of course. All Patrols are going to be in pairs – a bloke and a girl for each pair, and every Slytherin’s paired up with either a Gryffindor or a Ravenclaw. Best not to expose us for an extended period to singular Hufflepuffs, I guess. Wouldn’t be good for their constitution.”

“Who’re you with? Who’s Malfoy going to be with?” asked Urquhart, the amusement apparent in his voice.

“I’m going to be with Melissa Stone from Gryffindor,” replied Alec, “And Ginny Weasley’s got Draco.”

Blaise chuckled from his seat next to Urquhart’s. “Goldstein’s wheeled out the prettiest Blood Traitor lioness especially for you, Draco.”

Draco winced. He did not relish spending hours on a Friday night with the littlest Weasley – he had spent enough time over the years mostly watching her from afar to know, somehow, that it was not likely to be good for his constitution.

Further, the last time he had seen Ginny Weasley for a proper length of time, she was waiting in the court room, dutifully waiting for Harry Potter to finish his testimony on behalf of Narcissa and Draco. Her face had been curiously blank throughout the hearing, and she barely seemed to react when Potter sat down next to her again and immediately pulled her hands into his lap.   

“You only wish McGonagall thought you could apply yourself to disciplining your fellow students now, Zabini,” remarked Vanity. “We all know Ginny Weasley’s every straight Hogwarts boy’s cup of tea, including yours.”

“Blood Traitor – ten-foot pole,” said Blaise languidly. “Also, I value my neck enough not to involve myself with the love of the saviour of the wizarding world’s life.”

“Scared, Zabini?” asked Vanity, laughing.

“No, lazy,” replied Blaise, “Imagine all the media attention I would be getting if I were to steal Potter’s girl from him. Also, my mother would take offence if I got more coverage from the tabloid press than her.”

“The Gryffindor princess’s finally in her rightful place, she’s not about to give it up for the likes of you,” drawled Urquhart.

“Why would Ginny Weasley even be breathing in a direction of a Slytherin at this point?”

***

“’Mione!” Ron Weasley called out, waving his girlfriend over to where he and Harry Potter were seated at the end of the crowded Muggle pub. It was the end of a long first week in Auror training, and Harry was glad that he was finally of age to be out having a pint with his friends.

“How are you both doing your first week of training?” greeted Hermione, kissing Ron quickly on the lips and reaching over for a hug with Harry. “It’s been absolutely amazing in Nightingale’s team, I’ve been learning so much…”

“’Mione,” interjected Ron, his face half-stuffed from chips off the plate in front of him, “At least settle down and get some food and drink for yourself before you start giving us a lecture.”

“I know, Ron – I will get to it, it’s just I really want to share with both of you what Nightingale’s magical trace team has been researching on, it’s exciting! Oh alright, just get me some of the same – actually, no, do they have any fish pie here? I’ll get that then,” Hermione said as she settled in between the two boys, smiling and gesturing towards a waitress.

“So, what was I saying?” continued Hermione after her order had been taken. Harry shook his head, in response, mid-way through tucking into his steak pie. “Oh yes – so Nightingale’s team’s been researching and conducting tests on this field of magic called Vestigia. It’d been kind of neglected for some time, and close cousins with sympathetic magic, but basically Nightingale’s reviving research into it given all the opportunities the magical trace teams’ been having at raids on Death Eaters’ and purebloods’ estates these days.”

“What’s it?” asked Harry between bites, “and why’s it important now with the raids?”

“Vestigia is a magical phenomenon about the kind of clinging, leftover residue of magic and history in certain places and on certain objects. Apparently back in the day, the Sacred 28 and other old pureblood families would only construct their estates with materials and furnish them with interiors which were particularly conducive to and absorbent of magical residue. They’ll collect antique objects and art pieces known for the presence of Vestigia on them. It was thought that the tendency was to circulate and concentrate even more magical energy within their houses and make them more powerful,” said Hermione, launching into full lecturing mode. “Since the magical trace teams are having access to quite a few of these properties these days, they’ve been investigating the veracity of the theory and also the effects.”

“Sure won’t be finding anything like that in the Burrow,” mumbled Ron. “But I dunno, Mum used to say that the Prewett estate had a drawing room that was entirely made of a kind of red marble which was special and had been in the family for generations.”

“That could be an example of something amplifying Vestigia,” nodded Hermione, “If Molly still could have access to the Prewett estate I would love to examine that room sometime.”

“How does the residue of magic impact wizards and witches though?” asked Harry.

“Well, no one can quite explain the mechanics, and it seems like it may be dependent on the person. As much as the rich pureblood families were hoarding suitable material, this also seems to have an opposite effect where they get less sensitive to the “soaking” effect of the residue magic over time. Much like their sometimes getting more and more inbred from maintaining their blood purity,” Hermione noted drily, “But generally yes the theory is that the more Vestigia there is in your environment, the more likely you’re going to be attuned to magic, though it could also mean – if it’s not been a happy place where you are – that you could be more sensitive to dark magic or something particularly gruesome that had happened in a place.”

“So too much of a good thing, then,” Harry said lightly.

“I mean, it could also have an impact on psychology,” continued Hermione, her brow wrinkling slightly at the thought. “There’s often a history of violence in some of the pureblood families – obviously those who were Death Eaters, certainly – and you have to ask, how much of it was growing up in constantly circulating dark magic Vestigia?”

“The walls made me do it, Hermione?” Ron said sarcastically. “That’ll make for a convincing defence.”

“Look, I’m not saying that they had no agency in their choices – but it could very well be an environmental factor,” Hermione said thoughtfully. “The kind of hatred the Death Eaters bore with them was not on any kind of normal scale.”

“Same could be said for Muggle Nazis,” Harry said, feeling slightly irritable. “Evil is evil, whatever the circumstances you came from. And most of the Death Eaters were rich, privileged sods. How’s that count in the equation?”

“Still,” said Hermione stubbornly, “It’s an interesting thought exercise…and it’s not just houses and estates. There’s credible evidence that the phenomenon occurs on objects, too.”

“You mean like what happened with the Horcruxes?” asked Ron, an eyebrow raised. “They were vicious.”

“Well, that was also them being infected with Voldemort’s soul, and his magic, but probably to some extent, yes,” said Hermione. “It’s interesting that you bring it up though. Remember the diary? It was very different from the other Horcruxes.”

“It wanted to survive like some of the others did,” said Harry. “It just wasn’t maybe so loud about it.”

“Right,” said Hermione. “And in a way that made it more dangerous, don’t you think? I mean, Ginny was young when she encountered it – and so were you, Harry – but even though Ginny had grown up around magic all her life at that point she didn’t sense how dangerous it could be. I’ll say it rather even persuaded her in some way to start writing in it and keep writing in it – I mean why did Ginny even start using a book she didn’t recognise?”

“She just thought it was a gift or hand-me-down,” said Ron. “It looked harmless.”

“But if it were like the other Horcruxes, it wouldn’t have felt innocuous.”

“And then there’s the whole Tom Riddle of it all,” said Harry. He didn’t like to think of a smaller, younger Ginny, pouring her heart out to the ghost – soul – of a young Voldemort. “Much as I hate to say it, he was a friend to Ginny, and she relied on him in her first year.”

“I wonder where the diary is now,” said Hermione, looking thoughtful.

“Dumbledore’s office,” responded Harry. “That’s where I last saw it.”

“Do you think Snape would’ve kept it there, though?” asked Hermione. “I do wonder whether it somehow made its way out of that office. Dumbledore should’ve destroyed it fully when he could.”

“As long as it’s far as fuck away from us, and stays that way,” said Ron, taking a large swig from his pint. “I could do with nothing infused with the soul of You-Know-Who for the rest of my life.”

***

It was Friday evening, and Ginny was waiting outside the Prefects’ meeting room for Draco Malfoy.

She didn’t fully want to think about how she felt about the situation (which was starting to feel like a recurring theme in her life lately). She had been deliberately keeping her thoughts about being paired up with Draco Malfoy, for what was likely going to be at least the rest of the semester, to an objective, surface level, being – that she didn’t like him (her consistent feelings towards him throughout their mutual time spent in Hogwarts, less painful Cruciatus curses during Carrow-supervised detention notwithstanding), that Harry had spoken up for him during his hearing and he had gotten only a formal warning for his involvement in the war, and that McGonagall or Slughorn thought enough of him, despite the results of what he had done since his sixth year, that either one of them or both of them had made him a Prefect despite there being two other Slytherin seventh year boys who could have been chosen, not counting new boy Lane Deveraux.

She didn’t want to acknowledge the lapping waves of grief and anger around the edges of her mind.

And Lane Deveraux – that was also a thread for another time. She hadn’t seen him in years since the Weasleys’ holiday in Egypt, and the shock of seeing him still hadn’t quite worn off. She wondered if he even remembered her.

“Weasley,” came Malfoy’s voice, lower and less drawling that she had remembered. She turned and he came into view, almost a head taller than her. His white-blond hair was not swept away from his face as it usually was, and some of his fringe fell over his grey eyes. She didn’t see any hostility or anything like guilt in them, just some wariness.

Without a sneer or a smirk, he was even handsome, if you fancied your boys pretty and fair.

“Malfoy,” nodded Ginny. She kept her face blank. “Shall we start then? Which route do you prefer?”

“Starting on the higher floors and going down?” responded Malfoy. Ginny didn’t miss that that was a more convenient route for him, seeing as the Slytherin dungeons were in the lower levels of Hogwarts.

“Sure,” she agreed, not wanting to start the partnership with an argument. They set off in silence.

***

The last time he had been in close quarters with Ginny Weasley, he had been trying to control the force behind the Crucio he had cast on her.

As he slowed his pace so the petite girl could keep apace of him, Draco watched her out of the corner of his eye. This at least was not something new to him – he had watched Weasley previously and had always taken care not to do so noticeably. He had always known nothing good could come out of that, and in any case, it wasn’t like it ever meant anything.

She was just a noticeable person, had always been so. From the first time he had laid eyes on her as a child, springing out like an angry cat to defend Potter in Flourish and Blotts, she had been memorable. He remembered then the vicious anger he immediately felt towards Potter, having an ardent defender like that, and being clearly embarrassed by it. 

He even remembered thinking it was strange that in the rest of his second year, she had grown even paler than she already was, skin sickly white rather than fresh cream, the spark within her dimming.

But after that year, Ginny Weasley had then seemed to grow from strength to strength, and sometimes he just found himself watching her from across the Great Hall. She was always with someone, in the middle of something, her long, copper red hair like a flag from a distance. She did not seem to have any shadow of darkness to her person.

Even when he was about to cast the Cruciatus on her, her brown eyes had met his unflinchingly, almost as if she was allowing him to give a right go at her.

He had been surprised that Potter had left her in her sixth year to go hunting for Horcruxes. Perhaps Potter had not realised the dangers that would await her, being in Hogwarts. It had been a strange place to keep someone treasured.

Then again, many Hogwarts students’ parents had still sent their offspring to school that year. But many of them wouldn’t have known so intimately what the stakes had been. Potter had known enough to go hunting for Voldemort, keeping Granger and Ron Weasley close at hand.

Draco remembered thinking, at the time, that Ginny Weasley seemed a strange candidate to be treated like prize porcelain and locked away.

“Do you think you’ll stop staring at me soon?” said Weasley, her voice interrupting his thoughts.

“I’m not,” replied Draco automatically, and he felt his neck flushing.

“You could talk, you know, if you’re curious about anything,” continued Weasley, her tone surprisingly measured, even pleasant. “Merlin knows it may pass the time for us more quickly.”

“I don’t know that we have anything in common to talk about, Weasley,” Draco muttered, keeping his eyes ahead now.

“Seriously?” Weasley had turned towards him now, her expression incredulous. “What with what happened in the past year –”

 “Nothing I want to talk about from that,” interrupted Draco. He was facing her now, an eyebrow cocked. “Particularly not with you. I also doubt you would enjoy talking about it with me. Also, it’s been quite talked to death in the past few months, don’t you think? A regular litigation in the court of public opinion.”

“And let’s be frank,” he continued, “You’re hardly interested in how my family is recovering from our summer.”

Weasley had come to a stop before him, and her light brown eyes narrowed at his words. Then abruptly she nodded, before continuing to move down the hallway. “You’re not wrong,” she said, after a few moments.

“I’m surprised I’m not getting the force of your temper, Weasley, but I’m not about to look the gift horse in the mouth,” responded Draco. “If we’re going to survive this pairing, I suppose we can be civil for these Patrols.”

“That’s the intention,” said Weasley, “Though I tend to think Anthony and Hannah were counting on me unleashing my temper on you if needed, ergo us being paired together.”

“And there was I thinking it was because you had an outstanding loan with Goldstein,” Draco muttered in response.

Weasley cleared her throat. “Oh good, the Weasleys-are-poor comments are back,” she said sarcastically, “I had almost thought you were actually intending to be civil.”

“Living in a civil society is acknowledging that some of us have financial woes, and are apparently happy to live with them,” responded Draco reflexively. This was easy stuff, and he felt something like a hum of familiarity slip into the situation. The Weasleys were such a sensitive bunch, which seemed inconvenient when what embarrassed them was so easy to point out. “Can’t say why, though.”

Weasley fixed him with a glare this time, but she didn’t respond further for a moment. They were now on the sixth floor. Then she said, somewhat forcefully, “Quidditch.”

“What?”

“Quidditch,” she repeated, looking up at him, and in the dim light of the hallway they were in, her eyes almost seemed a liquid gold. “We can talk about Quidditch. I’m prepared to talk about Quidditch with you, if that’ll help us survive this without being at each other’s throats and without you staring creepily at me.”

“We don’t have to talk, alright, Weasley?” said Draco exasperatedly, “Must you fill up the silence? And I was not staring at you.”

“I’ll rather have us arguing over Quidditch than you staring at me while we go through this or us trying to find any common ground about anything that happened last year. Or hearing you talk about my family, for that matter,” snapped Weasley. “I’ll start. I think we’re going to have a brilliant team this year.”

“Really?” Draco’s brows were raised. “I don’t know what Urquhart may have planned, but we have Talkalot available this year…”

“Slytherin’ll be interesting if you actually had Kay Vanity play Seeker,” cut in Weasley. “You should play Chaser.”

“I’m going for Seeker,” said Draco stubbornly, defensively. “And what’s the angle with this, the Gryffindor Captain giving her views on what players should play on other House teams?”

“I just like playing against a fully stacked opponent,” responded Weasley, her chin raised somewhat aggressively at him. “And it’s a pity to see Vanity’s talent go to waste.”

“How do you know that Vanity’s a good Seeker?” asked Draco despite himself. “She’s never played in that position in Hogwarts.”

“I read she’s been shortlisted for try-outs with the Montrose Magpies, once she’s out of Hogwarts,” said Weasley.

“She’s only been sought out because she’s a legacy,” said Draco, snidely. Seeker was his favourite position, and even if she had no say over the constitution of the Slytherin Quidditch team, he did not much like Weasley thinking his position belonged to someone else. Even if he agreed with her.

“Malfoy,” said Weasley slowly, “You do realise that Urquhart’s going to have full reign over his team roster now, right? He’s not going to gift you the position just because Lucius Malfoy bought some brooms for the team more than five years ago.”

“And,” she continued, this time quickly before he could interject, “Like I said, you can play Chaser. I’m sure you’ll be perfectly fine in that position.”

“There’s hardly an available position for me, what with Vincenzo Talkalot joining, and Urquhart and Alec already being Chasers,” retorted Draco, starting to feel heated.

“Well, then you could get used to being the substitute Chaser or Seeker,” replied Weasley, a sweet smile affixed onto her elfin face.

“Draco Malfoy is not a substitute,” ground out Draco. “And how do you know enough to form opinions about my Chasing abilities, anyway?”

“You’re the right build for it,” said Weasley, and she looked thoughtful now. “You’re a bit too tall now for a typical Seeker. And I saw you play as Chaser once, though that was a long time ago. You weren’t bad.”

Draco studied her face, somewhat confused. “I played Chaser even before Hogwarts, in the children’s league,” he finally said. “Was that when you saw me?”

“Yes,” Weasley said matter-of-factly. “I thought you were good, so I was always surprised that you went for Seeker. Was that something to do with Harry?”

Draco blinked, surprised that she had remembered his performance from so long ago. “There are some of us with lives not revolving around Saint Potter, I hope you know,” he said. “I’m a decent Seeker.”

“You are, but you could be a better Chaser,” said Weasley, apparently still insistent on her line of argument. “You really shouldn’t be so close-minded about this.”

They had come to the fifth floor now.

“Really – you – a Weasley and a Gryffindor, telling me not to be close-minded?” chortled Draco.

Weasley fixed him with a long look. Finally, she said, “I suppose it would take one to know one.”

“And look – we’re a third of the way through and we haven’t gotten close to killing each other yet.”

***

It was near 11 p.m. by the time they reached the Slytherin dungeons, and Draco noticed that they were even slowing down to wrap up their latest argument on the latest line up of the Chudley Cannons.

Apparently, it was possible for Ginny Weasley and him to be civil – if arguing over Quidditch came within that description – to each other for more than an hour. If Draco were an honest person, he might even have admitted that he had been enjoying himself.

“Well, this is you then,” said Weasley, “Looks like our partnership was sufficient to ward off any breaking of curfew.”

“Yes, people tend to want to avoid a Malfoy,” said Draco drily. “Also – let me walk you back to Gryffindor Tower.”

The words had come out before he even realised what he was saying, and Weasley’s eyes shot up to meet his in surprise.

“Why?” asked Weasley. “I mean – there’s no need, Malfoy. I thought that was why you wanted us to end at the Slytherin dungeons to begin with, so you could go off to your beauty sleep immediately after we were done.”

“It’s not anywhere close to my bedtime,” said Draco, ignoring the fact that he had, indeed, suggested the route so that they would end where it was most convenient for him. He decided to ignore why he had then offered to walk Weasley back. “Anyway – it’s not going to take me long to walk you. Mother would not take kindly to me letting a young lady wander around by herself at this time of night. And you need to know that you’re wrong about the Cannons’ Chaser line up.”

He could tell Weasley was amused at this. “Well, if Mother would so insist,” said Weasley, her eyes twinkling. He would’ve never in a hundred years think that such an expression could be directed at him from her.

“I’m still right about the Cannons’ Chasers though.”

***

Chapter Text

The Trick is to Keep Breathing

Chapter 3

“Why do you always run away, Ginny, when you so desperately want to get caught?”

The voice felt close by, so close that she could feel the speaker’s breath pressed against her neck, and she had to work not to flinch.

“I want to go back,” Ginny found herself saying, and she realised that she was choking down a sob.

“I want to go back, Tom – I don’t like this.”

“My sweet, darling Ginny girl,” cooed Tom, and now he was swimming into her line of vision, his black curls slipping over his dark eyes. He was so handsome; Ginny had never seen anyone or anything as beautiful and terrifying as him.

“Why would you want to leave me all alone here with my Basilisk, Ginny girl?” Tom continued, his smile both widening and tightening at the same time. Ginny shivered, and she was steadily losing any sense of feeling in her fingers. “I do so need you. Well – at least for just a little longer.”

His eyes were so dark, and so flatly malicious. Her heart felt strangled somewhere in her throat.

“I’ll hold your hand, Ginny,” Tom said, and she vaguely felt his fingers press into her right hand.

“You’ll have me until I decide it’s time for you to go.”

***

Ginny Weasley jerked awake, her heart racing and her night shirt clinging to her body from cold sweat. Tom, again. She’d had at least a few months’ reprieve from him this time, but she had hoped – what with Voldemort finally being vanquished – that the last time would indeed be the last time.

But I’ll never leave you, Gin.

Was she never going to be rid of him? She had thought that it would be over. It felt thoroughly, devastatingly unfair, and Ginny felt tears prickling at her eyes. If she had, over the years, somehow managed to let go of the cavernous guilt she had felt realising she had been responsible for hurting her classmates in her first year, then she still paid in repeated nightmares which haunted her ever since. The mirrors she avoided looking at out of the corner of her eye when she passed by them, still afraid of what she might see. The shadows she tried not to notice at night.

And all the things she avoided examining too closely, feeling too deeply, just in case.

At some point she nearly thought that seeing Tom in her dreams was even comforting, because a small part of her did know it was a dream, and that this was her subconscious giving her a constant point of reference. A constant, terrible point of reference.

If you saw your personal monster every other day, or every few weeks, does he keep being your monster, or does he come back around to being your friend? After all, Ginny hadn’t died.

As the years passed, this thought had come repeatedly, unbidden, to her mind.  

Ginny sighed and looked down at her wristwatch. She pushed down her tears. It was just before 6 a.m., and it was hours before breakfast yet. She knew from experience that she wasn’t going to fall back asleep easily.

This was, at best, disappointing, but this was something she knew how to deal with.

Slowly, Ginny pulled herself out of bed. She supposed she could go for a run this morning.

Some sunshine was always a good disinfectant.

***

Draco Malfoy was making lazy circles around the Quidditch pitch when he spied Ginny Weasley on the grounds, her long red hair tied up into a ponytail but still catching the light. She was wearing what looked like Muggle sweats, and she seemed to look up briefly at him before she started jogging.

What was she doing up at this hour, jogging? Draco was up because he couldn’t stay asleep ahead of the try-outs this morning; their conversation from days ago had affected his confidence in making the team more than he liked to admit.

The first few days back at Hogwarts had been relatively uneventful, or at least nothing had occurred which was materially outside the realm of Draco’s expectations.

The Slytherins were civil enough. Of his fellow seventh years, Blaise was Blaise, good at avoiding any topic of substance for the most part and keeping his occasional jabs to a tolerable level – no real harm done, and no real temptation for Draco to punch him in his perfect face. Mostly Blaise kept company with Urquhart and his younger brother Callum Urquhart outside of classes, which Draco wasn’t averse to. Even in their old gang, the dynamic between him and Blaise had always been a mix of reflexive affection borne out of having known each other since they were children, and a long-running rivalry kept under boiling if only because both were always set for different roles in Pureblood society.

Draco no longer knew for certain what his role would become in Pureblood society, which was a dislocation he didn’t like to think too closely about. But it seemed Blaise hadn’t yet thought to push the existing boundaries of their dynamic. Considering Draco sensed that Blaise held more cards than he did now in this world, Draco supposed he ought to be grateful.   

The Draco of two years ago would have chaffed to come to this conclusion, but the Draco of two years ago was dead.

Otherwise, Daphne had disappeared into a coterie of seventh year Ravenclaws for the most part, and Deveraux seemed friendly, but mainly kept true to keeping to himself.

Outside of Slytherin, the professors seemed intent on keeping up a front of business as usual and to not hold what had happened against Draco. He could see the cost of these decisions on their faces when they looked at him, and deep down, Draco knew that this was already much, much more compassion than would have been afforded to a Blood Traitor had Voldemort and his Death Eaters won. He wasn’t going to let the gift of his professors’ principles, as much as he still bristled at the thought, prevent him from finishing up his year in Hogwarts.

He knew what awaited him outside in the wizarding world was unlikely to uphold the same principles with the same rigour.

The only observation Draco had so far which came as a bit of a surprise to him – not unpleasant – was that non-Slytherin students treated him much the same as they had in the past year. Being, they avoided him and spoke in whispers around him. Draco already had practice with this treatment, so more of the same hurt less than he had anticipated it would.

Although all this meant that the only time Draco had extended interaction with anyone else in the castle had been on his patrol with Ginny Weasley.

Which led him to his anxiety over making the Slytherin Quidditch team. Weasley had made irritatingly good points about the contenders for the team. Draco just wanted, selfishly, one thing which could feel the same, could remind him of what life was like, before. He was alone and he could not afford to think much of what was outside of Hogwarts, or how his parents were doing.

He couldn’t let Vanity make the team ahead of him as Seeker.

Draco found himself circling closer to the ground towards Weasley. “Oy, Weasley!” he called out, deciding to quash the question in his head asking him why he was greeting her. “What are you doing here?”

“What’s it look like to you, Malfoy?” shouted Weasley in return, her voice surprisingly steady. “I’m jogging! You don’t see me asking you what you’re doing!”

“The Slytherin try-outs are in less than an hour,” volunteered Draco. “You’ll like to make yourself scarce before that!”

“Me jogging does not prevent your flying!”

“Urquhart’s not going to be a fan!” responded Draco. “And you’ve not answered my question. Why’re you out jogging at this hour?”

“Exercise! Cardio! Heard of it? No wonder you’ve not got any stamina on a broom!”

“I’ll have you know I have plenty of stamina,” Draco smirked, having reached to cruising just by Weasley’s eye level.

Weasley gave him a dirty look, but then what could pass for a sweet smile broke into her face. “Well, Malfoy, not the first thing we’ll hear in the corridors about you…”

“I’m sure that’s ‘cos there are plenty of other things they’re just screaming out about me,” rejoined Draco.

“You tell yourself that,” retorted Weasley, but she was smiling properly now despite herself. Draco could tell, and he was surprised to find himself a little pleased at the sight.

“But really, is this something you do normally?” He found himself asking. Why was he having a conversation with Weasley outside of patrol? “And I wasn’t joking when I said you should probably leave before Urquhart, and the others, get here.”

“I’m touched that you care for my wellbeing, Malfoy,” said Weasley, and her voice was starting to strain slightly from her continuing to speak while jogging, breath coming up in little pants. Small red splotches were coming to her fair cheeks, but Draco didn’t find them displeasing.

“But I’ll stay however long I wish to stay,” continued Weasley, “Though yes, fair enough, as a Quidditch Captain myself, I’ll grant Urquhart the respect that I won’t stay on the pitch while he’s selecting his team.”

“Shocking how Gryffindors always manage to do the right thing,” observed Draco sarcastically.

“Just so I can keep the moral high ground to remind Slytherins they’re wrong when they do the wrong thing,” retorted Weasley, but the smile was still on her face.

“So, it’s true that you need us,” said Draco, “Without us, you wouldn’t even know how good you are.”

“What would light be without darkness?” asked Weasley rhetorically. “And anyway – if Urquhart’s only coming in about an hour, what are you doing here so early? Nervous?”

“Getting prepared,” said Draco flatly. “Warming up? Heard of it, Weasley?”

“You’re going to be fine, Malfoy. As much as it pains me to say it, you’re actually a decent flyer,” said Weasley. Her cheeks were now fully flushed, and he found that he rather liked the sight of it. Some of her long fringe had escaped her ponytail and bounced around and framed her small face in a way that made him both want to push it back for her and watch it be rebellious for longer.

“You were just saying on Friday that Urquhart should choose Vanity,” replied Draco.

“He should,” replied Weasley, “Doesn’t necessarily mean that he will. I’m not Urquhart. And anyway, you should also try out for Chaser. I keep saying that.”

“Are you so eager to go toe to toe against me, Weasley?”

“I don’t really see Chasers from opposing teams as going up against one another, Malfoy,” replied Weasley. “That’s why I like being a Chaser. All I focus on is being good. Well, I suppose I’ve also got to be good against the opposing team’s Keeper, but they’re just there as an extra obstacle rather than really being my direct competitor.”

“Being Seeker is actually being a direct competitor all the time, and it’s a bit too much stress for me,” continued Weasley. “It’s also probably why you always choked up against Harry when you were perfectly fine going up against anyone else.”

Draco frowned. “If you’re trying to say I was always destined to lose against the Chosen One…”

“I’m not,” said Weasley, meeting his eye. “You and Harry just never really saw straight when it came to each other.” She made a face. “Actually, that almost sounds romantic.”

Draco gave a little retch. “Do not even put that out into the world, Weasley.”

“I don’t want to either, considering that’s my boyfriend I’m talking about,” said Weasley drily. She was almost at the end of her loop around the pitch and was starting to slow down to a stop.

“So, Potter did get his happily ever after then,” said Draco, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice – he did not need her to see him bleed – as he dismounted to join her on the pitch.

Curiously, Weasley’s face seemed guarded at this remark. Then she gave a small shrug, and replied, “Not that it’s any of your business, but he seems happy with what’s happened after, yes.”

“Happily ever after for you too, then Weasley?” Draco said softly, studying her face. Instinct told him that there was some chink in the armour there which he could exploit at some point. Even if Draco of two years ago was dead, some things were bred to the bone.

“I’m very happy, Malfoy,” said Weasley flatly. Her smile was entirely gone now, and Draco felt a pinch of regret at this, even as another part of him filed this reaction away as potentially useful information. “Overjoyed, triumphant.”

“As you should be,” said Draco, leaning back, deciding to take the pressure off. Lightly he continued, “Can’t be often that Weasleys feel like they’re winning.”

Weasley stopped fully at this, and he could tell she was serious now. He found that he hadn’t intended for this. “I lost a brother, Malfoy. Remember that? I would hardly call that winning.”

Draco let out a breath that he hadn’t known he was holding. It had slipped his mind, even if it wasn’t on purpose. He just hadn’t been associating the Weasleys with loss since the Battle.

Finally, he started, “Look – Weasley, I…”

“It’s fine,” interrupted Weasley. She was starting to walk back towards the castle. “Well, it’s not fine, but it doesn’t matter. We’re not friends. We just need to not kill each other on our patrols together. You don’t have to apologise – fuck, I don’t even know if you were going to. Probably not.”

Draco didn’t quite know how to respond to that. He wasn’t about to start trying to placate her.

“Look,” said Weasley, turning back briefly to face him. She was facing the light, and her eyes were squinting. The red was retreating from her cheeks, and the piece of fringe that was outside of her ponytail was matted with sweat against the side of her face. “Forget all that. It’s none of your business. All the best with your try-outs, I guess. Try not to be too disappointed when I’m right.”

With that, she turned on her heel and walked away.

***

Lane Deveraux leaned back from his vantage point in the Astronomy Tower, happy to have observed what had been an unexpected interaction between Ginny Weasley and Draco Malfoy.

He had woken up early this morning, as he often did; Hogwarts was a very late-rising school, and Lane liked waking up at earliest light. He had been ensconced in an alcove in the Slytherin common room, reading, when Malfoy had emerged from his room with his broom.

Lane had already noticed that Malfoy never made early appearances and had been curious enough to make his way up to the Astronomy Tower to observe Malfoy on the pitch from a safe distance. And now, he had also collected a piece of information about Ginny Weasley.

He hadn’t been lying when he told Malfoy and Greengrass that he didn’t mind being alone. Lane was a quiet sort, and even in Beauxbatons, with a few cousins of varying degrees being his schoolmates, he had been content observing from the sidelines. There had been the occasional dalliance, the odd friendship, and a sufficient smattering of allies for his family’s purposes, but Lane never had much stamina for actually liking people.

People exhausted him. That might even have been why he had agreed to his parents’ request for him to transfer to Hogwarts – he had guessed that with the war, and even in its aftermath, it wasn’t likely that there would be as many students there as at Beauxbatons. And given that he hadn’t had the background of six years previously spent at Hogwarts, he had the excuse of first observing the populace before actively having to interact with them.

In any event, the reasons for his parents’ request for him to transfer had not been entirely sentimental. After all, they had also wanted him to reconnect with his old friend in Hogwarts.

Ginny Weasley.

It had been some years coming, but following the war, the Deverauxes had seen fit to lean on a connection a few years old, given the proximity the Weasleys had to Harry Potter – or more generally, the victorious factions coming out of the war. Lane for his part, still hadn’t gone out of his way to approach Ginny, even in the few classes that they shared – he sensed that the right moment simply hadn’t arrived. But he would, in his own time. He wanted to see if she remembered him, to see if she had changed.

Lane and Ginny had met when both their families were on holiday in Egypt. Being the only British families in the sprawling magical resort (the Weasleys had piled into a junior suite, the Deverauxes had spread out in a villa), their respective parents had made short work of finding each other, and soon quiet Lane Deveraux had found himself next to quiet Ginny Weasley during outings and dinners.

Even as a child Lane had been able to tell that Ginny’s rather boisterous family had thought that her quietness was something to be fixed. They had fussed over her, anxious and hovering, and he had wondered why they could not tell how that had only served to make her further retreat into herself.

It had been an interesting contrast to young Lane’s own family. His parents had never let him feel that his keen, quiet observation and obedient, pleasing demeanour were anything short of weapons. The Deverauxes already had a showstopper, after all, in Lane’s older brother Julien Deveraux: ten years older than Lane, charming and distractingly handsome, he had swiftly and ostentatiously climbed the ranks of the French Ministry of Magic.

Now aged seventeen, Lane knew his role was to silently and unobtrusively expand the Deverauxes’ interests in wizarding United Kingdom. The Deverauxes never liked to have their cards too openly on display.

When they had been in Egypt, by the second day of their families’ time together, his mother had pulled him aside and told him to be kind to Ginny, who “had been through a lot lately”. Lane had been only eleven at the time, but the remark from his mother had given him enough indication that his parents thought Ginny was an interesting one. Lane had wondered at this, but as a game for himself (the kind of game he had known his parents would fully indulge), he had decided not to ask what this could have meant. Instead, he had approached the issue in his own eleven-year-old way. That had meant patiently keeping sullen, silent Ginny Weasley company, waiting to see what she would reveal.  

“Did anyone tell you what happened to me?” Ginny had finally asked him, on the fifth day.

“No,” Lane had replied, “but you don’t have to talk about it anyway.”

Ginny had afforded him a small smile. Then she had reached over and given his hand a squeeze. “Thanks, Lane.”

“It’s quite alright.” He had given her a squeeze in return.

That night, when their families had settled into their Disillusioned tents within sight of the pyramids, Ginny had snuck into Lane’s small personal tent. When she had woken up in a sweat in the middle of the night, crying, Lane had held her hand.

For the rest of the holiday, Lane and Ginny had kept close together. Whenever they could, either Lane or Ginny had been in each other’s beds at night.

After the holiday, Lane and Ginny had tried to keep up some correspondence. The correspondence had been difficult to maintain, however, once Lane’s parents had averted their attentions (and thus Lane’s priorities) to other alliances, and once the distance between them grew – especially when their best times together had been spent mostly in silence. Soon the letters had become infrequent and then had eventually stopped halfway through their respective fourth years in Hogwarts and Beauxbatons.

But Lane had never forgotten that summer with Ginny Weasley. Now and again, he would still wonder if the demon she had survived was still haunting her.

***

“Gentlemen,” smirked Urquhart, “And Vanity, I suppose – not sure if you count as a lady – it’s been some time since Slytherin has won the Cup, and Potter has fucked off, so we had better get it back.”

“I will not be extending any favours in deciding on my team,” continued Urquhart, and Draco felt that was directed at him. “It’s a new world now, aye? Meritocracy and all that jazz,” Urquhart said, his smirk now decidedly malicious. “Only that you’re still going to be joining up to a dictatorship, the dictator being me. Now – Keepers – Callum, Luke Shacklebolt…”

The few Slytherins on the pitch shuffled about into groups according to the positions they were trying out for. Draco hung back somewhat uncertainly, turning over in his mind Weasley’s insistence that he also try out for Chaser.

“Malfoy – you and Vanity on that side for Seekers,” barked Urquhart.

“Actually – Urquhart, I’m going for Chaser as well,” decided Draco, then immediately tried to ignore the looks of surprise around him. Blaise turned his broom around just to face him at his statement.

“I’m not up for a first-string Seeker position, Urquhart,” cut in Vanity before Urquhart could respond to Draco. “Malfoy’s hardly going to need to audition for the same position he’s already played before. I’m here just to keep my reflexes warmed up – the Magpies don’t want other teams to take too much notice of me. And I’m already practising with them at their camp when I can.” A haughty look crossed her face.

Draco was surprised though. He knew that Vanity had despised that he was Seeker for years, and although her words made sense, they sounded like an excuse.

“Still need to try out for Chaser then, Malfoy?” asked Urquhart, looking annoyed. He could hardly force Vanity into playing first-string if she didn’t want to, and he wasn’t about to prevent her from practising as a substitute. It was an open secret among the Slytherins that Urquhart was keen on a professional Quidditch career, and it wouldn’t be smart to deny someone like Vanity with established ties in the industry of something she wanted.

“I’m good,” said Malfoy quickly. Again, he wasn’t about to refuse another gift afforded to him since his return to Hogwarts. He felt a weight off his shoulders. At least he was going to be able to keep his Seeker position for himself.

It just irritated him that it felt like charity from Vanity.

“What are you on about, Vanity?” he flew up to level with her as Urquhart turned his attention to running trials with the other candidates. “I know you’ve wanted the position for years.”

“I said what I said, Malfoy,” said Vanity frostily. “I don’t need it. And maybe you do. You wouldn’t have kept me from it for this long otherwise.”

“I don’t need you to step aside for me,” responded Draco stubbornly, even though he understood he likely did need it. He just couldn’t help himself.

“Being Slytherin Seeker is nothing to me,” replied Vanity, a tight smile on her face. “Just take it that our interests are aligned here, Malfoy. My eyes are on the prize, and being Slytherin Seeker is no longer the prize. I’m going to be the greatest secret weapon in the British and Irish Quidditch League in two years’ time. The more they don’t get to see me play in the meantime, the more they’ll anticipate me. You’ll see.”

“Are you already signed with the Magpies?” Draco asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” grinned Vanity. She tossed her short hair. “And who do you think is going to be Chaser among the bunch?” she asked, jerking her head up towards the boys in the middle of their Chaser trials.

“Talkalot – Vaisey – Urquhart,” replied Draco mechanically. “It’s not even a question.”

“Keeper?” said Vanity, and then both she and Draco said at the same time, “Callum Urquhart.”

“And Blaise and Max Bletchley for Beaters,” finished Draco. “Blaise will maybe sub in as Chaser now and again if Urquhart has a substitute Beater. It’s almost the same team from two years ago.”

“Well, hopefully Talkalot is a material change,” said Vanity drily. “Or Urquhart’s not getting his dream of getting the Cup back.”

“Or we could always hope that the Gryffindors and Ravenclaws do badly,” said Draco.

“Not untrue,” nodded Vanity. “Gryffindor’s not got much of a Seeker replacement since Weasley’s going to play Chaser and Potter’s gone, and the Ravenclaws have been boring for ages. Better than being useless like the Hufflepuffs but boring nevertheless.”

Draco made a noise in agreement. They continued watching the trials run, and in the next hour, to neither of their surprise, the first-string team was exactly as they predicted.

It was good that some things were still the same.

***

Somewhere in a dimension of the Room of Requirement, Tom Riddle thrummed within ink that hadn’t escaped onto paper inside a pierced diary.

He hadn’t felt this much sympathetic magic in what had felt like years around him. It felt even stronger than when the diary had been trapped in Malfoy Manor, surrounded by what lingered from generations of Malfoys and their magic. Tom didn’t know that the diary was now in a space made specifically to respond magically to the dreams and needs of its occupants, and thus particularly steeped in Vestigia, but Tom knew that he liked it.

He was still weak, and he was still trapped, but he could form thoughts again. And soon perhaps, the words on a page would follow.

The hole in the middle of the diary was becoming smaller, bit by tiny bit.

Chapter Text

The Trick is to Keep Breathing

Chapter 4

“So how has training Bright and Morning Star Number 1 and Bright and Morning Star Number 2 been?” Penelope Clearwater asked, sliding a steaming mug across the table. “Your coffee, Higgs – black, like your soul, as always.”

Terence Higgs took the cup like a man accepting his fate. “You’ve been asking me some iteration of the same question for weeks now, Penelope, and the answer hasn’t really changed,” he replied wearily, sipping at his coffee. He did really need it. Every training cycle meant memorising the manuals better than his trainees – twice over and backwards – and poor Terence was steadily losing sleep to stay ahead.

“Potter has strong instincts, has good magical combat skills and seems to have grown up expecting to be pummelled at any given moment, but equally it’s been hard tamping down his impulsivity and tendency to go charging into any situation without any proper risk assessment or caring how any of the rest of his team thinks of it. Weasley is strong tactically but overcorrects for Potter. Half the time he’s just diving in because Potter’s already neck-deep in trouble. Together as a pair – Salazar forbid they actually remember they’re part of a larger team – they bulldoze through the simulations before other teams even get their bearings. The results are either spectacular or catastrophic, with nothing in between.”

“You see, I ask you every week, because you give such an evocative summary every week,” noted Penelope. “You remind me why I thank Merlin that I didn’t get the saviours of the wizarding world in my trainee team.”

“I mean look at my girls,” continued Penelope, nodding over to her five trainees at a table on the other end of the officer’s mess, all female, all tall, willowy, brunettes, all eerily Penelope-esque. “They’re all so simpatico. All so careful and well-prepared and never trying to save the world. It’s been a joy every week to see their steady improvement.”

Terence sighed. He had been the only Slytherin to qualify as an Auror in his year (and so far, the last). Since then, his career seemed to consist only of the most treacherous missions and, every fall, training the most problematic trainee teams. Either he got Slytherins with chips on their shoulders, viz. families who were decidedly Dark and who they were rebelling against, or the “special unicorn” trainees – the scion of important Ministry officials or the extremely rich, or celebrities in their own right, usually former Quidditch stars, or this year in a fit of just absolute luck for Terence, Harry Potter and Ron Weasley.  

The first group, Terence didn’t need to ensure they passed (and so far, he was 0 for 5), but he had to commit to a punishing after-hours schedule of unofficial counselling given that he was the only senior Auror among the training team they could trust and relate to. The second group, Terence absolutely had to ensure they passed, without getting seriously injured or killed during the process, and with sufficient skill that they didn’t get killed (or get someone else killed) on their first job immediately after qualifying.

It was as if the powers that be wanted to remind him that he was perpetually on probation. Penelope, his best friend who had qualified with him, liked to say it was because he’d beaten the odds, and management held him in high esteem.

Terence often wished they’d stop rewarding his competence with punishment.

Penelope nudged him as a new figure swept into the officers’ mess. It was Julien Deveraux, robes pressed and sharp, ash-blond hair perfectly coiffed. A visiting official from the French Ministry, he looked more like he’d stepped out of a high-end wizarding fashion catalogue than the staid halls of bureaucracy.

“Clearwater, Higgs, good morning,” greeted Deveraux. Unlike the other French officials also visiting the British Ministry of Magic, Deveraux had nary a French accent. His English even had a faint Northern Irish to it, if Terence really strained for it.

Terence hadn’t asked, but Penelope had supplied that Deveraux was probably from the Irish side of the Deverauxes. Terence had nodded like that meant something to him; he was a Pureblood, but remembering other people’s complex family trees had never been a priority. Terence had learned early on in Slytherin that the correct response to any name-dropping in particular circles was a raised brow and a murmured, “Ah but yes, of course.”  

“Are you observing this morning’s training, Deveraux?” asked Penelope. Julien Deveraux had been attending some of the trainings lately, ostensibly to provide the Auror department with suggestions on improvements with the training programme. So far, his contribution, as far as Terence could tell, was to make everyone uncomfortable.

The British Ministry was still greatly diminished following the goings-on of the war. The expedited trials of Death Eaters and corrupt Ministry officials who had assisted with Voldemort’s war effort, and investigations leading to capture of fugitive Death Eaters, had sucked up nearly all remaining resources and energy. Much of the churn of civil and public service work had otherwise come to a grinding halt. Multiple departments were missing key personnel and dysfunctionalities were baked in, processes entirely missing. Morale had seemingly been killed in action. The Acting Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, had opened the doors to French assistance, and since late August, French officials had started arriving to physically be on the ground and troubleshoot rebuilding efforts.

“Yes,” replied Deveraux. He locked eyes with Terence; the two men were roughly the same height, and Deveraux’s violet gaze felt oddly confrontational to Terence. Terence could not shake the feeling that charming Julien Deveraux was a slippery sort, having lived for years in a House specialising in exactly the sort. “I am going to be observing Terence’s team today. The simulation is especially interesting for his team given the combat elements.”

Terence shrugged. It almost disappointed him that Deveraux thought this exercise was going to be insightful: this was the one simulation he wasn’t too bothered about with his team, given that either they passed because Potter obliterated everything in sight in record time, or Potter made a mistake and his entire team would have to fight for their lives (which they could, they were competent enough – they just didn’t get much practice with Potter as their unofficial lead trainee). What kept Terence up at night for this trainee team were the subtler missions, like any simulation involving more strategic retrieval (alive, not dead) or involving any kind of need for reconnaissance – the missions involving any kind of finesse, restraint, or Salazar forbid, diplomacy. But Deveraux didn’t know that.

“Everyone’s only ever interested in Terence’s team,” grumbled Penelope. Terence did appreciate that Penelope had never entirely given Deveraux the deference he seemed to expect of everyone. “There are promising Auror trainees besides the Bright and Morning Star Numbers 1 and 2, you know.”

“Bright and Morning…” started Deveraux questioningly, then his expression cleared. “Ah, you mean Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley?”

Deveraux gave a short, dry laugh when Penelope nodded in response. “You know that’s an interesting choice of nickname, Clearwater.”

“How so?”

“In the Muggle Christian theology,” explained Deveraux, “the title ‘bright and morning star’ has been used to describe both Lucifer, the fallen angel, and Jesus Christ.” He continued, “I’m guessing the phrase must have come from your youth spent in church, Clearwater. But it does have quite a cosmic duality to it. Light and shadow. Saviour and rebel. Interesting use on Mr. Potter.” He had a small, thoughtful smile on his face.

Terence sipped his coffee, and from the window of the officer’s mess he watched Potter enter at the far end of the long training hall outside of the officer’s mess, his hand gripping his wand, expression set and grim, already looking like he was ready for battle. Weasley followed, his tall figure slightly hunched, as if already bracing for whatever chaos the simulation – and his best friend – would unleash.

“Duality’s one word for it,” Terence muttered. “I’ve got a few others.”

***

“How are you, Ginny Weasley?”

Lane Deveraux’s voice was deeper than she remembered, which came as no surprise. A week into the term, they were finally seated near each other in Transfiguration, and now, as she packed away her books, Lane approached.

“I’m good, and you?” Ginny looked up, smiling. He was about half a head taller than her, and almost as delicate-looking as he’d been as a child, with his porcelain skin, violet eyes and curls.

“Sorry I haven’t said hello earlier,” Ginny added. “I wasn’t sure if you remembered me.”

“I took my time as well,” chuckled Lane in response. “And of course I remember you. Though you’re rather popular now – I’ve hardly seen you alone. I had to wait for my moment.”

Ginny laughed. “It may come as a surprise given how I was when you last saw me, but I started having friends, you know, since I actually started talking to people again. Took me a while, but I got there. But if you don’t mind me asking, why are you only now in Hogwarts?”

They left the classroom and began walking down the corridor together.

“You remember Mother and Father always wanted me to attend?” replied Lane. “I just took some time with it, that’s all.”

Ginny nodded. “And how’s the transfer been for you? Slytherins treating you alright?”

“You mean, has anyone been awful to me?” asked Lane, smiling. “I think the Slytherins’ reputation has really preceded them. I’m mostly left alone. Also, my family’s just like most of theirs, which doesn’t hurt.”

Ginny nodded, though there was a slight crease in her forehead as she listened to him. “Well – I suppose most of the worst elements in that House hasn’t come back,” she said eventually. “Malfoy’s still there – but he doesn’t seem to be back to his full powers of suck without Crabbe and Goyle and Pansy Parkinson with him.”

“Those names really don’t mean anything to me,” remarked Lane. “I’ll take your word for it though. Malfoy seems mainly caught up with his schoolwork and Quidditch now, anyway.”

“Look – Lane,” said Ginny, glancing at her wristwatch. “I need to get to my next class, but we should catch up – I mean, if you’ll like to…”

“Do you know how to find the Room of Requirement?” Ginny continued, “we’ll have some privacy there.”

***

While Terence’s trainee team gathered at the far doorway of the training hall and Terence, Penelope and Deveraux watched from behind the window in the officer’s mess, the training hall was transfigured into a battle-worn street that looked uncannily like Diagon Alley – cracked cobblestones, flickering streetlamps, and the echo of spells ricochetting off soot-stained walls. Panicked civilians – holographs and temporary golems provided by the simulation – were darting between buildings.

The simulation brief Terence had provided to his team beforehand had been simple: neutralise any hostile parties (in other words, Death Eaters), secure the perimeter, and extract any injured civilians. The catch was that the hostiles were in plain clothes, blending among the civilians.

Potter was already staring down the street, looking like he was already expecting a full-frontal assault. Weasley was checking their gear with another teammate, Terry Boot. The two boys were whispering – probably running tactical contingencies. Terence appreciated that Weasley at least had some support from and rapport with Boot, an athletic mixed-race boy who was clear-headed and competent. Finn Pike (Terence’s one hope to qualify as an Auror from Slytherin this year) and Sally Smith rounded off the rest of the team – they both looked tense, anticipating what was coming.

“Simulation begins in thirty seconds,” announced Rivers, another training officer who was coordinating this simulation, over the loudspeaker.

Terence pulled open his training notebook and quickly sucked on the end of his self-writing quill. The quill sprang to life, dutifully setting out the date on the corner of the blank page and poised itself ready to start taking notes following Terence’s observations. Penelope leaned over, still sipping her coffee. “How long do you think before their formation breaks? Five minutes for Bright and Morning Star Number 1 to go rogue?”

“Three,” responded Terence calmly. On his other side, he felt rather than saw Julien Deveraux raise his perfect brows at him.

Potter was already inching forward; his eyes locked on something in the middle distance of the training hall.

“Ten seconds,” Rivers called.

Potter raised his wand.

“Five.”

Weasley noticed that Potter was already poised to move and was hissing something at him – probably wait.

“Commence.”

Potter didn’t seem to have heard Weasley, and he certainly didn’t wait. He launched forward, throwing in a forward roll for good measure as he stunned the first hostile who had, to be fair, appeared from exactly where Potter had been staring. The rest of the team hadn’t even moved.

“For fuck’s sake,” Penelope muttered.

Terence saw Weasley close his eyes for a beat, likely wishing he were anywhere but where he was, but he duly sprinted after Potter, barking orders to the others as he went. The other trainees scrambled to keep up, their formation barely holding as Potter made quick work through the simulation.

“He’s forgotten the perimeter,” sighed Terence. “And maybe the civilians.”

Potter was now duelling two hostiles at once, throwing out offensive spells and throwing up shields with alacrity. Weasley was valiantly trying to cover him from further fire, while also trying to help the other trainees secure the civilian population.

“Do they ever wait for recon?” Deveraux finally asked.

“I don’t think it really strikes Potter to,” Terence said as levelly as he could. “Potter goes in, wands blazing, absolutely laser-focussed on the enemy, Weasley tries to contain the fallout, and everyone else tries to survive.”

“Well, you could say he has clarity of purpose?” suggested Penelope, helpfully.

They watched as Pike threw up a magnificent shield at the rear, holding off a surprise attack from hostiles which the team hadn’t looked like they had otherwise been prepared for.

“I suppose that’s a kind of strategy,” Deveraux mused. “Very…offensive forward.”

“It’s all pretty disastrous,” admitted Terence. He wasn’t admitting anything that Deveraux couldn’t see with his own eyes. “But as a team they can pull through – they will have their purpose in the right mission.”

Potter had cleared the final building, panting. The rest of the team came in slightly worse for wear behind him, but otherwise all without injury. The simulation ended with a melodic chime.

“Results: 76% success within 13 minutes and 43 seconds,” Rivers announced. “Civilian casualties: three. Hostiles neutralised: all. Perimeter breached. I’ll also like to point out, Potter, that you neutralised half of those hostiles, but you broke formation nearly from the get-go. Please, do be mindful of that. The training and the formation exist for a reason. Pike – excellent use of Protego Maxima there.”

Terence exhaled. “Well, that was better than last week.”

Deveraux pinched the bridge of his nose, frowning slightly. “They’re effective, but they need a lot more discipline.”

Penelope laughed, and raised her mug. “To the Bright and Morning Stars. May they never burn out.”

Terence didn’t toast, and didn’t laugh. He was going to have to get it through to Potter that he couldn’t burn through the rest of his team.

***

“Did Ginny tell you? She’s stuck on patrols with Malfoy now,” said Ron, as he wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his left hand. The Auror trainees were taking a break following what seemed like the umpteenth time they were running the same simulation – they were still a minute off the timing Sergeant Higgs was expecting.

At least they’d held formation this time; Ron was relieved that Harry had finally stopped charging ahead and was waiting for him and Terry Boot to map out a strategy before going on a tear down the simulation and expecting the rest of them to keep up.

“Apparently McGonagall’s paired up the Prefects for patrols,” Ron continued. “And I guess they figured only someone like Ginny could handle Malfoy without hexing him into next week. Or I suppose she would be the one to hex him into next week if it came to that.”

“I don’t think she mentioned it,” replied Harry, his bright green eyes narrowing as he tried to recall what Ginny had written to him about in her last letter. It had been a few days – Ginny wasn’t the most consistent correspondent, and to be fair Harry didn’t much like putting pen to paper either. He wished there were a more efficient way of communicating with her, but a Floo conversation wasn’t convenient in the middle of training camp.

“Why? Has he been giving her any trouble? I didn’t think that Malfoy of all people would go back to Hogwarts.”

“Was surprising to me, too,” said Ron. “Maybe something familiar was better than going out into the working world just yet?”

“I hardly expect Malfoy needing to work,” replied Harry. “Lucius Malfoy’s sentence didn’t include any surrender of their properties and assets.”

“You’ll think so,” said Ron, “But I think it’s a Malfoy thing – they’ve never been able to keep their hands out of political or financial something or other. Dad’s always said they like power too much to leave the rest of us well alone. Malfoy’s probably just waiting for the heat to die down after his father’s sentence. He’ll turn up trying to finagle his way into something important. And they’ve enough Galleons to donate themselves back into polite society soon enough.”

“Anyway – how’s Ginny been doing being stuck with him?” repeated Harry. He wasn’t much interested in Malfoy now that he had repaid his debt to Narcissa Malfoy, and they were no longer schoolyard rivals.

“Apparently, alright?” Ron shrugged. “She said they talk exclusively about Quidditch, and that that’s made it somewhat tolerable.”

“They can actually talk?” Harry asked, genuinely surprised. He’d expected Ginny’s famous temper to have gotten the better of her at some point if up against someone as obnoxious as Malfoy.

“Well, neither you nor I ever had a conversation with Malfoy which didn’t end up in curses or a punch out, so Merlin knows,” said Ron. “Maybe the trick was to be stuck alone with him for hours. Not that I’ll like to try.”

Harry nodded. “Do you know when the next Hogsmeade weekend will be?” he asked Ron.

“Harry, I’m not the one dating my sister,” said Ron exasperatedly. “Shouldn’t you know better than I do? Have you made any arrangements with her?”

Harry flushed at this. “Well – I kind of thought we were definitely meeting,” he responded. “I haven’t checked when it’s going to be exactly, but I expect it’ll be sometime in November?”

“Well, make a plan then, mate,” said Ron, expressively rolling his blue eyes. “You’re already not seeing her regularly, so she’ll probably want you to plan something special. With flowers or whatever it is that girls like.”

“Look at you being a relationship expert,” laughed Harry, though Ron’s comments did pierce his conscience a bit. Ginny was where she was supposed to be, in Hogwarts, and they were in a relationship which had been some time coming, and he honestly hadn’t thought much further than that. He supposed he had been concentrating on Auror training. “Hermione’s rubbing off on you.”

“Mate, I swear, there are all these expectations,” grumbled Ron. “Apparently, if I truly loved her, if I wanted to, I would.” His voice had risen into a high-pitched imitation of his girlfriend’s, and Harry laughed.

“Sometimes I want to tell her that I’m not a bloody mind-reader,” Ron continued. “But then she’ll nag me about not working on my Legilimency, or something. She keeps nagging me that it’s a leg up in Auror training if I do it right.”

“She’s not wrong, you know, even if we can’t use it for evidence gathering,” said Harry.

“I know, Harry,” said Ron. “Don’t you start too. I just don’t need to be told all the time how I can better optimise my existence. If she weren’t the best thing that’s ever happened to me, I swear she’ll have driven me bonkers by now.”

“Well, we’d better get back into formation with the rest of them,” said Harry, seeing Higgs coming back around the corridor towards the break room. “I’ll plan something for Ginny, I promise.”

“You’re not promising me, mate,” Ron said. “You’d just better not be disappointing old Ginny – she’s waited for you long enough.”

***

“So, you do have your reasons for being in Hogwarts, Deveraux.”

“Zabini,” acknowledged Lane calmly, turning around to face the older, taller boy. Lane had timed his conversation with Ginny Weasley deliberately – he also wanted to know who was watching him. That it was Blaise Zabini came as no surprise.

“I had wondered,” Zabini said, his smile practiced and gleaming. “Why Julien Deveraux’s younger brother was shipped off to Hogwarts. Seems like you’re cultivating something with Ginny Weasley?”

“We’re old friends,” replied Lane agreeably.

“Not the kind of ‘old friends’ our families are,” Zabini countered smoothly.

“Indeed,” said Lane, his expression unchanging. “The Deverauxes are always friends of your family’s, Zabini.”

“Surely now…slightly closer friends,” Zabini murmured, the smile abruptly leaving his face. His eyes were cool, appraising. “We kept ourselves clean.”

“Enough of us did,” Lane said lightly, “that we all ended up looking rather alike.”

Zabini gave a slow nod. “I understand that. But it’s too soon after the war that things may still be on a knife’s edge yet, don’t you think? Do the Deverauxes really want to risk that kind of ambiguity in England at this juncture?”

Lane paused at this. After a moment, he answered, “Ginny Weasley is my friend, Blaise. Will keep being my friend.”

“And I suppose you mean that what that means for the Deverauxes,” observed Zabini, voice cool, “Will be determined by the Deverauxes.”

***

Draco Malfoy didn’t quite know how it had happened, but after a few more Friday nights patrolling with Ginny Weasley, it was almost as if she were a friend.

After how their talk on the pitch had ended weeks ago, he’d arrived at their second patrol braced for stony silence. Instead, Ginny Weasley seemed to have had decided that she preferred arguing with him about the 1995 season finals playoff between the Montrose Magpies and Appleby Arrows. The bint had infuriatingly strong opinions about things, and they tended to be diametrically opposed to his. Draco made sure to hold his own, but she also had a way of triggering honesty in him, at least about Quidditch, and he found he didn’t mind it.

When he’d told her that he’d made first-string Seeker for Slytherin, she had given him a long sideways glance, like she had known somehow that it had more to do with Vanity stepping aside and not taking the position. Draco had ended up passing along the gossip that Vanity had probably already signed with the Magpies, and Ginny had simply said that she was glad for him, if Seeker was truly what he wanted. He’d appreciated that she didn’t seem to have any judgment about the end result (which surprised him, seeing as she was supposed to be a self-righteous Gryffindor who only ever arrived at any achievement by merit, surely), though he’d taken offence at her prediction that Slytherin wasn’t going to win the Cup, again, given that he was their Seeker.

In the weeks since, he found himself even looking forward to seeing the littlest Weasley. Last Friday, they had even started discussing their schoolwork and common classes.

Complaints about course load and homework seemed easy unifying points.

It was almost like what he imagined other students in Hogwarts would be like – those not involved in rivalries or the struggle between the light and the dark or trying to outmanoeuvre or one-up each other in inter- or intra-House power plays. Were these the conversations that Ravenclaws had? Or, Salazar forbid, Hufflepuffs?

Truthfully, all that posturing had started to feel irrelevant. After the war, after everything, Draco wasn’t sure he wanted to go back to what once had been.

They stayed true to avoiding talking about anything to do with the war, or the Battle. Weasley never asked him anything about his family. He repaid the favour by never talking about the other Weasleys and even tried not to refer to their poverty (or at least, he tried not to make snide comments about it too often – he suspected he was constitutionally unable not to comment on it altogether). Still, he saw plenty of her personality in their time together, and their interactions did not feel superficial.

He found himself wondering what she thought of him. And if she thought of him at all.

“Evening, Malfoy,” greeted Weasley. She jogged up to him, cheeks slightly flushed. Not for the first time, it struck him that she looked very pretty.

“I’m sorry I’m a little late, I was finishing up a Potions essay with Lane and forgot the time.”

“Deveraux?” asked Draco, surprised, as they started on their usual route. Since their first week on patrol, they had kept to the same routine of starting from the seventh floor and winding down to the Slytherin dungeons, followed by Draco walking Weasley back to Gryffindor Tower. He was still trying to listen for the password to the Tower. It was always useful to have information on his enemies, even if they weren’t really his enemies any longer, and there was nothing he was planning for. “I didn’t realise you were friendly.”

“We’re old friends, actually, our families met in Egypt years ago,” said Weasley. “I’ve been meeting him in the Room of Requirement on and off for a few weeks now. We usually just do homework and study together – I think he likes the quiet outside of Slytherin. Lane – well, he isn’t much of a talker.”

“There’re spare classrooms,” Draco pointed out. “Why do you have to use the Room of Requirement?” He only had bad memories of the place – the hours on hours of desperately trying to fix the Vanishing Cabinet, and what had happened to Crabbe when they were last there.

“Didn’t want anyone to see us and gossip,” said Weasley, “We’re very much just friends, and all we’re doing 90% of the time is our own homework and studying, but you know how people are when a bloke and a girl spend time together.”

“Afraid word will get back to Potter?” asked Draco, watching for her expression out of the corner of his eye. “And you’re sure Deveraux knows you’re just friends?”

“I think Lane is practically asexual,” laughed Weasley, more matter-of-factly than unkindly, “And no, I’ve not told Harry about him, but it’s a bit difficult to explain.”

“But you’re telling me?” asked Draco. This was interesting.

“Well, you’re not my boyfriend, I hardly think you’ll care quite so much, and you can take my word as a Gryffindor that Lane and I are just friends,” replied Weasley. “Anyway, it’s not anything material I need to alert Harry to. He’s busy with Auror training.”

“You’re spending hours with another guy,” observed Draco, “but it’s not material to Potter?”

“And you’re an expert on my relationship or on what’s good for the wellbeing of Harry Potter now, aren’t you?” said Weasley, giving him an irritated look.

“I could give a fuck,” said Draco easily, “But objectively, if my girlfriend were huddled away in a secret room which can provide anything you require, with another – I’m assuming – straight guy, I would like to know, never mind how innocent the two of you apparently are. I mean, Weasley, this is a lot of secrecy for just doing History of Magic homework.”

“You’re also not in the middle of potentially life-threatening training that demands your full concentration,” snapped Weasley, “And also, Lane and I have a context, and like I said, he really appreciates quiet, and I want to meet him where he is. It’ll be easier to explain in person to Harry. I’ll not have you judge me now – when there’s nothing to judge!”

“Far be it for me to judge sweet mademoiselle Ginny Weasley,” sang Draco. He would have pushed further, but Weasley looked genuinely put out. Was there actually some kind of history to her and Lane Deveraux?

Did Draco have the patience or curiosity to ask and to listen? It did seem rather interesting that a Deveraux would be “old friends” with the littlest Weasley, and Draco could file that away for further examination at some later juncture, but he also doubted that Weasley would give on her position at this point, or even that she was aware of whatever position Deveraux was coming from.

“I’m truly not interested in judging you though, Weasley,” said Draco quickly, “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

“Good, because I wasn’t about to!”

“I for one think it can be healthy to be friends with the opposite sex who may or may not be interested in you,” continued Draco helpfully, “It’s an exercise in drawing and re-drawing boundaries and can be very good for testing that you know what you want – and your self-control.”

Weasley gave him a dirty look. “I don’t need to hear about whatever it is that goes on in your Slytherin Pureblood circles,” she muttered.

“Well, I never,” rejoined Draco in mock-offence, “I’ll have you know Daphne Greengrass dates Ravenclaws. I think she’s even been with your ex, Corner.”

“What, no Toujours Pur for the Slytherins after the war now?” asked Weasley sarcastically.

Draco blinked. “How do you know the Black family motto?”

When Weasley didn’t answer even after a pause, Draco added, “Anyway – after all that, does it really matter any longer?”

Weasley stopped in her tracks. “Excuse me?”

“What?”

She snatched his wrist with her left hand and tugged him toward her, then reached up with her right to press her palm against his forehead. Her hand felt soft and warm against his skin, and he caught a creamy magnolia scent from her wrist. It startled him.

“What are you doing?” asked Draco, as she pulled her hand back and studied his face with a suspicious look on hers.

“Checking your temperature. Making sure you’re not delirious. Who are you, and what have you done to Draco Malfoy?” she asked. “The Draco Malfoy I know who’s called one of my best friends a Mudblood for years. The Draco Malfoy who wears a Dark Mark.”

“So you would rather I continue to be bigoted?”

“When did you stop being bigoted?”

Now they were standing facing each other in the middle of the empty sixth-floor corridor, and Draco dimly realised that she was still holding his wrist. She didn’t appear to have noticed.

“Look,” Draco said finally. “A lot happened in the last two years. Yes, three years ago, if you asked me, it was about power. It was about blood. Then it became simply about not dying. Not dying painfully – or having my parents die – by the hand of that nightmare creature. I couldn’t understand why we, as Malfoys, were bowing and scraping to this creature who was always threatening to kill us – my father was kissing the hem of his robes, Gin – Weasley.”

He had no idea why he was telling her all this, after weeks of them studiously not talking about the war, and after he had never fully articulated this to anyone else. He also had no idea why he had almost called her by her first name.

“So you stopped being bigoted because Tom wasn’t a god worth worshipping?” said Weasley slowly, her eyes narrowing.

“Who the fuck is Tom?” asked Draco, confused.

She finally let go of his wrist, though the gesture seemed absent-minded. She looked unsettled herself. Then: “Tom Riddle. He’s You – Voldemort.”

“Why – how…” Draco started, closed his eyes for a moment, then shook his head. “How do you know what Voldemort’s name is? Why do you think that he was – whoever that was? That sounds English, but it’s not a name from any Pureblood family I know – it’s definitely not Sacred 28. Father was in his inner circle, and he never told me this.”

“Well, I think maybe your father did know,” said Weasley. Her tone was thoughtful. She was looking at him as if she was about to deliver news which would require him to be seated for. He didn’t like it.

“Tom Riddle is who Voldemort was,” she continued quietly. “He was a Half-blood who went to Hogwarts in the 1940s. He was Head Boy – you may still be able to find his bloody Special Award for Services somewhere in the school.”

“That can’t be right,” said Draco. “Why would Purebloods – who truly believed in blood purity – follow a Half-blood?” He couldn’t imagine his father – or a true fanatic like Bellatrix Lestrange for that matter – compromising about this. Wasn’t that the key principle of the cause?

“I don’t think it was widely known,” said Weasley. Her brown eyes were wide, fixed on him, and he imagined they even looked sympathetic. In an insane moment, Draco thought he could slap her. “I doubt he would have been open about it. And he was very powerful, and I guess they wanted to believe what he was espousing because it fit in with their world view.”

Draco felt like he was swaying physically, and Weasley reached out for his hands, so perhaps he really was. For a few moments, they just stood there, hands clasped in the middle of the corridor.

“How did you know all this?” Draco finally said.

Weasley sighed, “It’s a long story. But if you don’t believe me – well. You can look up the history of it. It’s there if you know where to look. Or you can ask your father, I suppose.”

“If what you are saying is true, Weasley,” Draco eventually ground out, “I think I may have to kill Father myself.”

“He put Mother and I through it,” Draco continued after a pause, feeling sick. This wasn’t the kind of thing that someone like Ginny Weasley would lie about – she at least sincerely believed it was true. And she was confident enough that there was evidence he himself would be able to find, to point towards this. “I’ve never been stupid. I’m not blind. I know that fucking Granger’s one of the smartest witches Hogwarts has ever seen. Potter was the fucking saviour of the wizarding world without having known of its existence until he got his first fucking letter to attend Hogwarts. He didn’t even know what it meant that I am a Malfoy. I’ve had plenty of time to think of these things and understand that the purity of my blood matters not a jot to what I can accomplish. But I was taught that my blood would protect me. Then it didn’t. By the end, I just wanted everything to be over. It wasn’t my fucking war. And to think – he truly believed – and followed a fucking Half-blood dressing up as a Pureblood – what the actual fuck?”

By the end of his rant, he was nearly seeing white stars in his vision. Vaguely he felt himself sliding to the floor, Weasley gripping onto his forearms now so that he was not fully falling. She sat with him, still not letting him go, and he felt keenly her anxious gaze on him.

“Malfoy – Draco,” said Weasley, her voice soft. “Do you want me to walk with you back to your dorms? I doubt it really matters if we complete our shift. I’ll let one of the Gryffindor Prefects know. I’ll swap or beg off.”

He looked up at her, dazed. He was practically sitting in her lap, in the middle of an empty corridor.

Finally, he managed to nod.

Weasley pulled him to his feet. She held his hand as they walked back to the Slytherin dormitories in silence.

***

When they got to the Slytherin dormitories, Draco muttered the password mechanically, not caring that Weasley heard. Not letting go of her hand, he started leading her past the threshold.

“Malfoy,” hissed Weasley, “I can’t go in with you…?”

“There’s no one in the common room, and I have my own room,” he said flatly. He just knew that he didn’t want to be left alone with what he’d just learned.

“Okay…?” said Weasley uncertainly, but she continued to follow him, hand still in his as he led them towards his door.

Once inside, he asked, “Vodka, gin, whisky, Firewhisky?”

“Malfoy – I’m not drinking with you; I’m not of age…”

“You’ve just handed me a bomb, Weasley. Least you can do is drink with me,” said Draco. He was still holding her hand, and only finally dropped it as he moved further into his room towards the cabinet where he kept his collection. He almost immediately regretted having to let go. It was simply a mad night, and he could be forgiven some strange impulses. “Salazar fucking knows I need a fucking drink.”

“And I thought I was Draco now,” he continued, and he could not keep the venom out of his voice. Everything was hardly her fault, some small part of him still knew, but he was going to take some pleasure out of shooting the messenger.

“You’re not taking this out on me, Draco,” said Weasley softly, as if reading his mind. She was still looking at him with that maddening sympathy. Apparently deciding there was nowhere else to sit, his desk and chair being at the far end of the room away from her, she sat at the foot of his bed which was closer to the door.

“I know this may be hard to take, but…”

“Do not coddle me, Ginny Weasley,” he snapped. Angrily he poured a generous amount of whisky into two crystal glasses, took a large swig from one, and then handing her the other. He sat heavily beside her.

The fucking whisky is too fucking expensive for these purposes, came the absurd thought to his mind. He wanted it to burn him from the inside out; he wanted to get stinking drunk.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think – I didn’t realise that you wouldn’t know,” said Weasley. “For what it’s worth though – you sounded like you were already coming around…”

“I already knew that whatever the fuck the last few years was, was a futile, stupid gesture,” interrupted Draco. “Now what you’re telling me is that it was a futile, stupid, entirely unprincipled and irrational one. So forgive me if I’m taking some time to process this. Father risked Mother and I, risked all that generations of Malfoy have stood for, risked Malfoy Manor and everything we have, for what? For someone aping at being one of us? This is so fucking insulting and indefensible.”

“And to think,” Draco continued, “That there are still those fucking idiots running around dodging Aurors and risking their own stupid necks in the name of that fucking pretender who finally had the decency to die. It’s the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Why haven’t they just fucking broadcasted this?” Draco demanded. “If we had known, would there ever have been – I saw Crabbe die…”

“They signed up to his ideas, Draco,” interrupted Weasley gently. Her hands were on his lap, as if she were trying to placate him. “Probably a lot of them would’ve fought for him anyway. They wanted someone who gave voice to their need for blood purity, they wanted to punish Muggleborns for what they saw as them stealing our magic. Even if they had known that he was a Half-blood – maybe even if he were a Muggleborn – they wouldn’t have cared. They just wanted an excuse in the form of a powerful leader.”

Draco swallowed down more of his whisky, feeling the blood in his cheeks, the alcohol singing in his veins. He needed something – anything – to dull the edge.  

Finally, he said, “I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t want any of it. I know I have blood on my hands, but it wasn’t something I wanted.”

Weasley looked like she was about to cry, and guilt stabbed through him. This wasn’t her burden to carry.

The blood he was referring to included her brother’s.

“Look – Draco,” Weasley started. It was strange, hearing his name on her lips. It was a strange night. “It’s not your fault. I mean – it is in the sense that you did what you did, but you were coerced into it. You were just a child, and they made you do horrible things…”

The tears were spilling down her cheeks now. He felt terrible, and then he realised that his own face was wet.

It was all so fucking unfair.

“Do you want to know how I know about Tom Riddle?” Weasley asked. Roughly, she used her hands to swipe at her face, wiping away her tears. Her chin trembled.

Draco nodded.

And Ginny Weasley told him the story—how his own father had given a child a diary containing the soul of the darkest wizard they knew. How that fragment had manipulated her into opening the Chamber of Secrets. How she’d nearly died.

Draco found himself drinking straight from the bottle.

For some time after Weasley finished her story, Draco and Weasley sat in silence. Weasley took a large gulp from her glass of whisky, and wordlessly Draco topped her up from his bottle.

“So, I guess if you’re feeling well – silly, Draco,” said Weasley finally, “I’ve had a lot of practice with that. The person I loved and trusted most in the world turned out to be Lord fucking Voldemort.”

Chapter Text

The Trick is to Keep Breathing

Chapter 5

Draco woke to a throbbing headache – and the unfamiliar warmth of someone else in his bed.

Ginny Weasley.

He jerked away initially in surprise, then thought to stop so that she wouldn’t be disturbed. She was still sound asleep, red hair fanned out on his pillow, her mouth slightly parted as she lay on her side. Her lashes were long and heavy over her cheeks. She looked surprisingly peaceful. And far too close.

He couldn’t recall when they had fallen asleep. They had talked into the early hours of the morning, and they had been drinking – he suspected that they hadn’t kept to the one bottle of whisky he had started with, and indeed, two empty bottles lay on the floor beside his bed. He sincerely hoped they hadn’t mixed liquors.

They were both fully dressed still – Weasley was even in her school robes. His shirt was untucked and half unbuttoned, his tie askew. He was fairly certain no lines had been crossed.

Thank Salazar it was a fucking Saturday.

Carefully, he extricated his arm from under Weasley’s – Ginny’s – body. He supposed he should be thinking of her as Ginny now. After the last night they’d shared, you couldn’t stay on a last name basis.

He propped himself up on his elbows, wincing as it set off another tight, painful ping in his head, and studied her.

This was all too fucking much.

What was he supposed to do now? Logically, he could keep doing what he was doing – finish the year quietly, let Narcissa Malfoy call in social favours and make generous donations in the meantime to whitewash Lucius Malfoy’s being in Azkaban, before stepping into his role as the Malfoy heir, hopefully with minimal friction. It surely made no real difference to anyone else whether he was no longer interested in blood purity and supremacy because Voldemort lost, or because Draco no longer believed in it, or because the man who his family fought for wasn’t even a Pureblood. But part of him still wanted to be angry, or at least even angrier than he had been. And he didn’t know where or who to direct his anger at. Lucius Malfoy, after all, was already in fucking Azkaban.

And another part of him just felt deeply, acutely embarrassed.

He hadn’t known, yes. But how had he not thought to ask? He’d just accepted Voldemort’s existence and narrative as a fact, had never thought to question his provenance. He had never even thought about his name – he had always just been the bogeyman that was. Draco had followed his father blindly off a cliff.

He hadn’t been given much of a choice, but had he ever really asked for one?  

In the light of day, he appreciated that Ginny had shared her part in opening the Chamber of Secrets. It grounded him in the fact that they had both been children and had been manipulated into horrors they couldn’t understand. He couldn’t countenance the fear, betrayal, embarrassment and guilt Ginny must have carried after her first year. She’d certainly seemed to have handled it with more grace than most would have.

Salazar, my head fucking hurts.

It made him feel sick to think that his father had put an eleven-year-old child directly in the path of the most powerful wizard of their age.

Ginny was starting to stir. He watched as she yawned, rubbing her eyes and wincing as she slowly sat up in bed.

“Morning, Ginny,” he greeted softly. “Feeling awful?”

***

“Morning, Julien,” said Percy Weasley. “I’ve got the profiles you’d asked for from Terence Higgs’ trainee team – trainee team 1.”

“Is that what they call it?” asked Julien Deveraux, taking the file from Percy’s hands. “How…pedestrian.”

“Actually, from what I hear, the teams trained by Higgs are generally referred to as the ‘Slytherin Squad’,” Percy offered. Julien did like to give Percy the space to provide such little bon mots. When he’d first been paired with the younger man, his impression of the slight, anxious-looking redhead was that he had a need to please bothering on the obsequious. But Percy had proven himself – his encyclopaedic grasp of Ministry workings and interpersonal connections made him substantively useful. He just needed the right directions. Criminally underused as a junior undersecretary in some obscure department, Julien had quickly secured him as his personal liaison across all his British portfolios.

Julien also appreciated that Percy was a Weasley: perhaps not the most obvious one, but like the rest of his family, Percy couldn’t abide existence without adhering to a moral code. Julien liked that – it made him predictable.

Julien hadn’t been on the same trip to Egypt as his parents and younger brother Lane had been with the Weasleys, but while Lane was working on the Weasleys’ precious jewel, youngest daughter Ginny, Julien saw no harm in getting to know the buttoned-up bureaucratic almanac that was Percy Weasley. It didn’t hurt for the Deverauxes to have another organic point of overlap with the Weasleys.

Percy continued, “It’s not, of course, that Higgs’ teams are full of Auror trainees from Slytherin. Only a handful of them have passed through that team, and none of them have qualified so far. The nickname mostly seems to come from Higgs overseeing the team. Did you know, he was the only Auror from Slytherin during the Battle of Hogwarts?”

Julien nodded. He had already looked into Higgs. Interesting fellow – Pureblood, from a relatively upper middle-class family of mostly Healers. Higgs seemed uninterested in politics and unaffected by the fact that he was tipped for greatness by senior Aurors, despite having been a Slytherin. He genuinely appeared to have just turned up to fight “on the side of good” without much spiritual struggle. He did not seem at all to be driven by any excess in ambition, either.

Julien pulled out the first profile.

“Sally Smith,” commented Percy. “She was near the top of her class in Hogwarts, a Hufflepuff Prefect, and a member of Dumbledore’s Army in her final year. Upper-middle class background; her father’s a solicitor working in Muggle London, and her mother’s from an old wizarding family. Works as an Unspeakable – Cora Smith, you spoke to her in your first visit to the Department of Mysteries last week. Sally has a brother a year younger than her – Zacharias Smith, who is still attending his last year in Hogwarts. Higgs notes that she is particularly talented in Healing charms.”

Julien studied the photo at the top of her profile. She had wavy dark blonde hair, hazel eyes and the kind of serious, unsmiling face that suggested a depth of character that could surface during difficult times.

He moved on to the next profile. “Finn Pike,” continued Percy. “Also a top student from Hogwarts, the only Slytherin in the Auror training programme this year. Hopefully he’ll end the drought of Slytherins qualifying. His mother is also from an old wizarding family and he took her name; his father was Evan Rosier, a Death Eater killed by Alastor Moody during the First Wizarding War. As far as is known, the Pike family remained neutral during both wars. Pike’s mother is a regular in philanthropy circles.”

“Even so,” remarked Julien, “I’m surprised he was accepted into the programme during a time like this.”

Percy hesitated. Julien’s interest sharpened.

Finally, Percy said, “If I may – it’s not in his profile, but I had a personal word with Kingsley Shacklebolt about him when I heard that his application had come in. During the Battle of Hogwarts, I witnessed Pike fighting for us. I mean – at one point he turned up when I was cornered by a Death Eater. I thought I was done for – here was a Slytherin who might aid him. But Pike disarmed him instead. Then I saw Pike again later in the Battle. I never got to thank him, but I wanted to do what I could to support his application.”

Julien looked appraisingly at Pike’s profile. He had a slim, nondescript face and hooded blue eyes. Interesting.

“Mark this profile for me,” said Julien. “And I’m glad he was in the right place and the right time for you, Percy.”

Percy nodded, his face flushing slightly. He continued, “The next profile’s Terry Boot. He did well in school, was a Ravenclaw. His parents are separated and his mother lives in Muggle Shanghai. His father, Troy Boot, works for the Department of International Magical Cooperation; he was only recently reinstated after the war, having been removed when Death Eaters infiltrated the Ministry. Higgs identifies him and my brother Ron as the stronger tacticians of Slytherin Squad.”

Julien had noticed Boot earlier during the simulation he had observed; he was skilled and held his own beside Harry Potter’s heroics.

“And finally, there’s Harry and Ron,” said Percy, unable to hide a note of pride. “There’s nothing in their profiles which you wouldn’t already know.”

Julien nodded, then shut the file. “Thank you, Percy,” he said. “Could you please keep this on my desk for me, and make sure that I’m in attendance for at least one of their simulations per week. I have two more items I’d like you to follow up on.”

“First,” Julien continued. “I want you to give me a write-up about the Corrupt Investigations Office within the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Profiles, current and notable investigations from the past two years, and who they are currently working with. Actually…” he turned to Percy, eyes narrowing as he tried to recall who he’d met during his visit to the Department. “I don’t believe I saw any names from the Sacred 28, or one of the ancillary notable wizarding families, there? Anyone you recall from a Slytherin background?”

“No, I don’t think so, though I would have to double check that,” answered Percy slowly. 

“Yes – anyone like Pike would interest me,” said Julien.

“The second thing,” continued Julien, “Is to set up a meeting for me with the Press Office. Is there any interim secretary in charge of that department right now?”

“Yes,” replied Percy. “Eric Macmillan’s just been installed as of late August.”

“Good – I want a lunch meeting with him – this week if possible. Could you please arrange that?”

Percy nodded, scribbling furious in the old leather notebook he always carried with him.

Julien watched him, once again thankful for the sheer accident of having been paired with the younger man since arriving with the French contingent.

The House of Deveraux only had so much time before the likes of the Malfoys sucked all the oxygen out of the halls of power in the British and French wizarding world again, after all. Julien would take the help he could get.

***

Never in a million years would Ginny Weasley have thought she would be waking up in Draco Malfoy’s bed.

Disoriented, she quickly glanced down at her clothes and felt a wave of relief that she still had her robes on. Across from her, Draco sat up, still in his rumpled uniform from the night before.

Thank Merlin it doesn’t look like we did anything. Then came the more troubling thought: This would be impossible to explain to Harry.

“Oh my God,” she groaned as a sharp pain pulsed through her head. Draco chuckled softly at this. She buried her face in her hands, feeling the mattress shift as he got up, then returned with a small bottle.

“Have some of this,” he said, handing it to her. He unscrewed the cap of a second bottle and quickly downed the contents in a single gulp. “It’s a hangover potion – I always keep a supply on hand, just in case.”

“Having drunk girls wake up in your bed a frequent occurrence, Draco?” she asked, as she also took a swallow from her bottle. Almost instantly, she felt some of the pressure in her head ease off, although there was still definitely a headache. “Couldn’t you at least have, I don’t know, slept on the floor like a gentleman?”

“Haven’t had girls over for some time now, no,” said Draco lightly, “This Malfoy hasn’t been a sought-after commodity for a bit. And Malfoys certainly do not sleep on floors.”

He retreated into the adjoining bathroom, and Ginny heard running water. He came back and handed her a glass of water. “You should hydrate, Ginny.”

“You know it’s insane that you’re calling me by my first name,” laughed Ginny. “My brothers would never believe it. It’d probably make the Prophet – ‘Breaking News: Malfoy Heir and Weasley Daughter Call Each Other by First Names—Has Hell Frozen Over?’”

“Well, it is a rather silly first name,” remarked Draco, an eyebrow raised. “I swear that’s where most of my difficulty is coming from. Your parents couldn’t have come up with something less childish and more…dignified?”

“Ginny is perfectly decent,” Ginny shot back. “It’s down-to-earth. And unfortunately, actually, it’s not what my parents named me.” She scrunched her nose. “Also – insulting my name? Rich coming from someone called Draco.”

He cleared his throat. “So Ginny’s short for something?”

“Yes,” said Ginny reluctantly. “It’s short for Ginerva.”

“That’s pretty,” he said. He seemed to be studying her face. She didn’t particularly want him to; she was sure she looked dishevelled and unwashed, and that wasn’t an effect she aimed for in front of a Malfoy, no matter what they had been through the night before.

“It’s stuffy,” responded Ginny with a grimace. “It’s an old lady’s name.”

“Well, I think I’m going to call you by that name going forward,” said Draco cheekily. “Bonus points since you obviously hate it.”

“No, you’re not,” scowled Ginny, and before Draco could react she grabbed his pillow and hurled it at him, hitting him square in the chest. He nearly spilled water out of the glass he was holding.

“Oh – sorry about that,” Ginny said, but when he looked up, she was grinning.  

She and Draco Malfoy might have actually become friends.

***

“Morning, Potter,” greeted Finn Pike. It was breakfast at training camp; it was late Saturday morning, meaning that most trainees had already left for the weekend. Ron and Harry were just finishing up after a slow start to the morning.

“Morning, Pike,” replied Harry, nodding. Pike slid onto the bench beside him, setting down a bowl of oatmeal and a large mug of coffee.

“You know,” said Pike, “That was a good sim we did yesterday. Even if we did take about ten times to get it completed under ten minutes.”

Harry made a noise of agreement. Ron was off fetching more coffee for both of them – desperately needed after a late night of studying reconnaissance theory. Sarge Higgs was being brutal with the readings.

“I just thought I’d say,” Pike continued casually, “you could afford to slow down a bit in the simulations. The war is over, at least for now. You don’t have to speed run the rest of your life.”

Harry’s eyes met Pike’s pale blue ones in surprise. He never really knew Pike from school – he recalled he hung around Malfoy and Crabbe and Goyle in their earlier school years, and after fourth year, Pike had faded into the background. It had surprised Harry when Ron mentioned that Pike had been the only Slytherin seventh-year to fight on their side during the Battle of Hogwarts. Maybe the only Slytherin student at all.

In the few weeks they’d trained together, Harry had noticed that Pike was particularly handy with defensive spells, but they hadn’t really exchanged many words. This comment felt...out of nowhere.

Harry wasn’t sure how to respond.

Likely sensing Harry’s confusion, Pike added, “We can all see you’re strong offensively, and I’m pretty sure this team is fine to let you take the lead – I mean, Weasley and Boot already do that; strictly, I don’t suppose I can speak for Sally, but I really could not care less. I do care, however, that you don’t seem to be absorbing that Sarge is trying really hard to make sure we all manage to pass as a team, partially because he needs to make sure you pass. You can’t just be a lone Auror out there, Potter. You’ve got to show you can work with the rest of us.”

Harry frowned. “Wait—what do you mean by Higgs needing to make sure I pass?”

“Okay, so…” Pike paused, then spoke slowly, as if he was talking to a particularly thick child. “Sarge Higgs needs you to qualify. You’re Harry Potter, saviour of the wizarding world. There’s no way you can flunk out of Auror training, but you need to be decently trained on qualification. That means learning to conform, sticking to formation, using the team’s strengths. You’ve got to slow down, Potter – listen to Weasley and Boot, and actually use me and Sally. Do you even know she is practically qualified as a Mediwitch?”

Harry felt his face getting hot. Somewhat defensively, he began, “I’m only trying to –”

“You’re only doing what you do best, I know,” said Pike gently. “I’m not saying to stop. But listen to Higgs. Slow down. Use the rest of us. We need to qualify with you – and we can help you. Like I said, you don’t have to speed run your destiny; you don’t have to carry this team.”

He leaned back slightly. “There’s a system here, Potter. You don’t have to keep charging ahead alone.”

***

“How are you going to sneak me out of here?” whispered Ginny, as Draco cautiously cracked his door open just an inch to peer into the Slytherin common room. It was past eleven, and they had definitely missed breakfast, and given it was a Saturday Draco expected the common room to be full of lingering Slytherins.

Sure enough, he spotted Blaise’s dark curls over the settee in the middle of the common room, surrounded by what looked like half the Slytherin Quidditch Team. On the far side of the common room, a group of fourth- and fifth- years were playing what looked like a violent strategic board game – figurines representing platoons vanished from the board in tiny explosions.

Draco closed the door and sighed. Their next window was probably at lunchtime. There was no explaining why a rumpled-looking Ginny Weasley was ensconced in his room.

“You’re going to have to wait. I think we can try again maybe around 1 p.m., but it’s too crowded out there right now,” Draco said. “Look – I can lend you some fresh clothes, and I have an extra toothbrush and clean towels. You can use my shower if you like, freshen up?”

Ginny sighed, then nodded. “I could really use a shower and a toothbrush,” she agreed, beginning to remove her robes while Draco gathered supplies.

After she must have removed her uniform while in the bathroom, the bathroom door opened slightly and a pale forearm appeared, pushing out her clothes onto the floor outside.

Draco stared at the small pile, trying not to dwell on the fact that a naked Ginny Weasley was just feet away. He sighed and fell back onto his bed. The sound of running water filled the room. After everything that had happened last night, the last thing he needed was to think about Ginny being in his shower.

“Thanks, Draco,” came her voice a few minutes later, and Draco looked up to see her emerge, fresh and clean, her long red hair wet and uncombed, with a towel draped over her shoulders. He had provided her with a forest-green pullover and dark trousers; the pullover hung long and loose on her frame, but she had simply rolled up the sleeves, leaving an expanse of creamy, freckled skin and clavicle exposed above the round neckline. She must have shrunk the trousers magically because they cut off neatly at her ankles just above her bare feet.

Something caught in his throat at the sight of his clothes on her.

It could be a problem that he was this attracted to her.

“What is it?” asked Ginny. His eyes snapped to hers, realising he must have been staring. A blush had crept into her cheeks, and she looked mildly annoyed. “Do I look weird in your clothes?”

“Please don’t make some kind of joke about how these cost more than all the money us Weasleys have in Gringotts,” Ginny added, rolling her eyes. She began drying her hair in sections with the towel, picking up her clothes from the floor as she walked further into the room. “It’s unimaginative. Also, why do you get your own room? I’m a seventh-year Prefect too and we don’t get our own rooms. Your showerhead has the best pressure I’ve experienced in this school.”

Draco swallowed and shook his head. “It’s probably because this was already my room when I was Head Boy last year,” he answered, his voice sounding scratchy to his own ears. He coughed. “There aren’t many Slytherins around anyway, so Slughorn probably figured it wasn’t any harm done letting me keep this room. And I guess... just in case—after everything that happened—if anyone’s still mad at me. It’s probably safer for me to have my own room.”

Ginny gave him a sideways glance, her brown eyes thoughtful. “Fair enough, I suppose,” she said. Her hair still damp, she pulled a hair tie from her wrist and combed through it with her fingers, twisting it into a low bun at the nape of her neck. She pulled off the towel and handed it to him with one hand, muttering her thanks, while tugging self-consciously at his pullover with the other, tucking the front of it into his trousers and smoothing it over her torso.

She looked small and adorable in his clothes.

I am going insane, thought Draco, inwardly groaning.

“Look – Gin – Ginny,” managed Draco. “I’m going to have to freshen up too. Just – sit tight, you can look around and see if you want something to read and I may have some sweets and snacks in the cabinet if you’re hungry. I’ll get you out after once the coast is clear.”

Not waiting for a response, Draco hurried to gather his things and headed to the bathroom with alacrity.

***

“Do you want to have lunch together?” Ginny asked.

The common room had finally emptied, and she and Draco had crept out of the Slytherin dormitories having had hopefully no witnesses.

“At the Great Hall?” asked Draco in response. “That’s not exactly low-key…”

“Ashamed of your lady friend who stayed the night already, Draco?” teased Ginny.

Draco flushed, feeling the hot points on his cheeks and knowing fully that his colouring would have immediately betrayed him.

“I mean,” she continued, “wait for me outside the Hall, and I’ll grab us some food. We can have a picnic.”

“Not in the Room of Requirement,” cut in Draco. He did not need to go anywhere near that place.

“Okay…” said Ginny slowly. Then a smile came to her lips. “What about at the Lake then? I know a quiet spot.”

***

The hole was half the size it had been since that damned Potter boy plunged the Basilisk fang into it.

Tom Riddle knew that there was still some ways to go. But the diary sensed that it was being shuffled into the room – he had surmised by now that it was the Room of Requirement – when it was being used sporadically, but meaningfully. He knew because he had heard voices, seen flickers of images. Light had hit the spine of the diary, and he had felt the warmth and crackling from a nearby fire.

When the diary had been kept in Dumbledore’s office, a similar such fire must have been a regular occurrence, but there hadn’t been nearly anywhere as much reactive sympathetic magic as in the Room of Requirement. Here, he could draw on it – to restore himself, the diary, and shape words to images and sensations.

He even thought he had seen – sensed – long red hair, pale skin. Recognised a voice, a laugh.

Her magic and soul that tasted and felt like warm honey.

***

“If I had known you were planning a hike, I would’ve just levitated the damned food,” complained Draco as they reached their destination, each carrying a small bag of food and drinks that Ginny had smuggled out of the Great Hall. “It’s just a lunch, anyway, how did you end up taking so much food?”

“Draco, I’m starving,” replied Ginny, settling gracelessly onto a grassy spot under a large cypress tree facing the lake. She had been right that it would be a quieter spot – but they’d had to trek around the lake to get there. Thankfully, most students must have still been eating their lunch, and Draco only saw a handful of students milling at the far end of the lake near the castle. “You do recall you filled me up with whisky on an empty stomach, and we missed breakfast.”

“Oh, the horror,” said Draco drily.

Ginny was already making quick work of opening her bag of food, retrieving sandwiches, chips, a large takeaway cup and a towering slice of strawberry shortcake.

“I see why you need to jog,” muttered Draco, earning a look from Ginny.

“I do not appreciate any disparaging of my weight or figure,” said Ginny primly. “The body wants what the body wants.”

Draco’s brows went up slightly at this, but he didn’t comment further.

“Also, I grew up with six brothers,” Ginny added. “I tend to inhale food, it’s not pretty.”

This earned a chuckle from Draco. “I can’t imagine having that many people around all the time.”

“No,” said Ginny, giving him an appraising look. “I suppose you wouldn’t. If the Malfoys had company, I’m guessing it was for some fancy soiree or masquerade ball.”

“You’re not incorrect,” Draco admitted.

They sat in silence for a few minutes as they tucked into the food.

“Why haven’t you asked me about how I’m doing since last night?” asked Draco eventually. “You’re clearly sticking around to make sure I’m not losing my head, but you’ve not asked me anything yet.”

“You mean like, ‘How are you? What are you going to do? Are you feeling better?’” supplied Ginny. She was already starting to demolish her strawberry shortcake slice.

“Yes.”

“Well, in my experience, this isn’t the time to ask those questions,” said Ginny. “You still need some time to sort through your thoughts. I just didn’t want you to be alone today after what you…I guess went through last night. You can share if you want, but you don’t have to feel any obligation to. I mean – maybe I’m not even the person you’d want to talk to – you’re a Malfoy and I’m a Weasley, after all. Anyway – the point is, you don’t need to come to any conclusions yet. It’s too early for that.”

Draco held her gaze for a moment, then looked down at his sandwich.  “I would’ve never thought a Weasley could be this wise,” he said.

“Some Weasleys have wisdom, though I’m not sure that I would count among them,” responded Ginny cheerfully. “Credit’s due more with Lane when it comes to this kind of insight.”

“What do you mean?” Draco asked. Then, “Is that why you said there was context to you and Deveraux? Did you meet him after your first year?”

“Yeah, that’s when my family went to Egypt, and met Lane’s,” nodded Ginny. “Lane’s not much a talker. He must have known something had happened because my family would not stop hovering, and I could tell his parents knew too. Everyone kept pressing me about how I was, every day, like each 24 hours that passed could make a giant difference. Lane just stayed with me and didn’t demand anything of me. He didn’t push. He knew I was going through something, and he let me be.”

“To tell you the truth I just was really sick of talking,” continued Ginny. “Tom…maybe a few weeks into writing in the diary, Tom’s voice started coming into my head, as if he were part of my own thoughts, only I knew it was him and not me because it was in his voice. At first, I really enjoyed his company. He was clever, even when he was cruel – he could always justify it.…anyway, we would have conversations all day long in my head. We were constantly talking. It was terrible when his diary was briefly with Harry, because suddenly it felt like something had been ripped out of my head…”

“But then towards the end, it felt like all I would hear in my head was Tom, Tom and his thoughts, and I couldn’t get a thought in at all, I was exhausted. It was like he had colonised my mind and pushed out everything that was me. He’d just be shouting in my head too, berating me and keeping me off kilter, coaxing me and saying I was pretty and his favourite one moment, then screaming that I was stupid and useless the next. After I was rescued from the Chamber, then it was questions from everyone around me, when I was still getting back into my own head. I felt like I couldn’t get any quiet, but inside I felt so alone. It wasn’t until we met Lane that I met someone who just held my hand while we were out by the pool, walked along the Nile, went sightseeing.  He didn’t require me to reassure him. By the time we got back from the trip, and my parents arranged a Head Healer to see me, I was finally ready to talk. I think that was because of Lane.”

“…wow,” breathed Draco, when she completed her explanation. He could see why now Ginny treasured the friendship with Deveraux, enough not to want it misunderstood by other students or prodded at by Potter via Owl post.

“Yup,” said Ginny. She didn’t meet his eyes, instead returning to her enthusiastic attack on her strawberry shortcake. “I mean, I’m not saying we need to start spending loads of time together. I just mean... if you ever want someone to sit with you, do something else, maybe talk things through when you’re ready—I don’t mind being that person. I think I understand, a little, what you’re going through.”

She finally looked up and gave him a small smile.

Draco felt a swell of emotion at what she must have thought was a modest, limited offering – but it was more than most would have ever given him.  

Chapter Text

The Trick is to Keep Breathing

Chapter 6

Someone I loved once gave me

a box full of darkness.

It took me years to understand

that this too, was a gift.

  Mary Oliver, The Uses of Sorrow

September 1992

I’ve been thinking about this for a few days, Ginny. Why did you tell the Hat that you wanted Gryffindor?

Ginny Weasley stared at the page, perplexed. She’d already explained this to Tom – days ago, when the Hat first Sorted her. When it asked whether she preferred Gryffindor or Slytherin, she’d answered immediately: Gryffindor. Because every Weasley ever had been from Gryffindor, and no one who could be trusted ever came from Slytherin.

It still disturbed Ginny that the Hat had considered Slytherin for her at all.

Well – there were no good sorts from Slytherin, except Tom. Tom was different, though. After all, why else would he have received the Special Award for Services to the school at only sixteen? Tom had told her where to find the plaque himself. And Tom had also shared with her how lonely he’d been in Slytherin, and how he hadn’t been accepted because he wasn’t a Pureblood.

Why was Tom asking this question again, as if it bothered him?

Finally, Ginny wrote, as Tom’s words sunk back into the page: I told you, Tom. All my family’s ever been in Gryffindor.

But did you want to be in Gryffindor, Ginny?

Ginny’s brow furrowed. Tom seemed to be treading the same ground here, and she wasn’t sure how she hadn’t answered his question.

Yes? Because my family’s all in Gryffindor. The twins and Ron and Harry Potter are in Gryffindor.

But have you ever asked yourself, Ginny girl, why you must do the same things they have? And do the twins, Ron and Harry spend time with you?

Not really, replied Ginny, a flush creeping up her neck.

The twins were, as always, entirely within their own twin bubble. If they noticed Ginny, it was mostly to tease her. Fred could be relentless. George was kinder – eventually – but Ginny didn’t always appreciate their attention, especially when she felt nervous and alone at school. They didn’t seem to realise that they weren’t in the Burrow anymore.

She was still painfully shy around Harry, and he seemed embarrassed by it, which only perpetuated how awkward she felt around him. And Ron was irritated by how she wasn’t herself around Harry, and the few times they’d been alone, Ginny had been on the receiving end of such helpful advice as to “just stop it” and “be normal”. And their friend Hermione Granger – who had introduced herself and seemed friendly enough to Ginny, and sensitive to her shyness around Harry – was mostly spending time with Ron and Harry, understandably because they were her friends.

This is all a bit frustrating, Ginny girl, admonished Tom. Ginny felt the flush intensify at this, her cheeks red. She hated it that Tom found something disappointing. About her.

He continued – You’re young, Ginny, but you must learn to exercise your own will as soon as you can. Do things because you want to, not because you think you must. Otherwise, you’re just performing someone else’s agenda and fulfilling someone else’s plan. Living a life that someone else wanted for you.

But we all have to do things that we’re made to do, responded Ginny, defensive. Professor Snape is nasty to Gryffindors and always gives us so much reading to do for Potions, and we do it anyway.

You’re being deliberately obtuse, Ginny.

The words stung. Tears pricked at her eyes.

You know that’s not what I mean. You must learn to exercise your will. You’re capable of articulating what you want, and you shouldn’t be sleepwalking through your own life. I confess I do not understand all your inclinations and what you claim to be your interests, but you disappoint me if you don’t exert control. Or ambition.

I’m just a kid, Ginny wanted to write. But she knew that this would only upset Tom more. She swallowed the instinct and pushed it down.

Okay, she managed to write instead. She blinked hard, quickly and repeatedly, not wanting to cry.

Tom paused. She could always tell when he was taking the time to think, because the page almost seemed to take a breath in anticipation under her hand.

You remember I told you that you had potential, Ginny girl? I told you I can feel your magic, that I can sense your soul. If you would just apply yourself, we could achieve so much with your one life.

You’re my dearest, only girl, Ginny, and we are going to achieve so much together.

***

13 October 1998

Hi Ginny –

I hope things are going well at Hogwarts. Auror training’s been intense – way more reading than I ever expected. I never thought learning to fight crime would involve this many manuals and tests! Ron and I are quite near sleeping with our training manuals under our pillows at night in hopes that the rules will just go into our heads through osmosis (sorry, you may not be familiar with that concept) via proximity. I think we spend at least two hours every night just studying because Sarge Higgs can test us on anything at any time; I don’t think Ron’s ever worked this hard without Hermione hovering nearby.

It's been a lot of physical drills too, not just duelling (with wands and wandless!) and techniques for magical subterfuge and Occlumency (less Legilimency, thank God, apparently there are too many ethical issues and specific bounds in which we can practise it on suspects, anyway) but also what I imagine drills like what Muggle soldiers do. I’ve never been fitter in my life, and I’m hungry all the time. I’m eating almost as much as Ron to keep my energy levels up, and you know how much Ron eats (and yes – Ron’s eating even more than usual).

I wish you could visit, or I could visit you. I can’t wait until basic training is over, and when you can come out to Hogsmeade. Can you let me know when it is? Or if I can, I’ll go visit you at your first game. When is that going to be? You’ll have to do us proud as Gryffindor Quidditch Captain! Who did you make Seeker in the end?

Is there anything you’ll like me to bring you from the outside world? I realise I don’t even know what your favourite flower is, and Ron’s no help.

I’ve also been discussing with Ron and Hermione that we’ll rent a flat together – I mean the four of us, including you once you leave Hogwarts. I know there’s 12 Grimmauld Place – but I was thinking that, for the both of us, we can always go back there again at a later point. Also, don’t worry – if we all rent a flat together I’ll make sure we get the better room, and I’ll cover your share of the rent until you find a job. Hermione’s already started talking to housing agents. It’s tricky finding a place in Muggle London with all the credit checks and paperwork, so we’re probably looking at magical London or the suburbs. Thank Merlin for Floo transport. It’ll be fun for all of us to be living together – we can get that dog or cat (only one please – okay maybe just a cat, I don’t think we can deal with a dog if I’m an Auror and you get a busy job) that you’ve always wanted. I’m sure Ron and Hermione wouldn’t mind; Hermione already has Crookshanks, anyway.

Finally, like I mentioned before, Ron and I have been at the twins’ shop on the weekends; George still hasn’t come by. Lee and Ron do what they can, but I don’t think it’s open regularly during the week. George’s still been sleeping in Ron’s room back in the Burrow, too. I guess he still can’t bear being in his and Fred’s room yet.

If you’re not buried under your coursework, and Quidditch, and your Prefect duties (how’s patrolling with Malfoy going, by the way? I forgot to ask—why didn’t you mention you were stuck with the amazing bouncing ferret??), please do write me more.

I love you and I miss you.

Yours,

Harry

 ***

15 October 1998

My favourite sister, belle of the ball, face who launched a dozen brooms (okay maybe a hundred, but don’t let that get to your head),

I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to respond to your Owls. I won’t bother making excuses because you’ll see through them anyway. I was simply not up to it, and I know I can trust you with me being honest about that, because of our entire family you may be the only one who can look the truth in the eye.

Well, maybe Bill can too, but he’s got all that werewolf-y stuff to deal with now, and he actually lives with Fleur, so I’ll spare him the extra truth for the time being.

You know what’s funny? Since I wrote that second paragraph, I remembered something. Before the Battle, Fred and I talked about who could survive one of us dying. Don’t judge – we all thought about it, didn’t we? There are too many of us for all of us to have made it out. The odds were not in our favour. Just don’t ask me who I thought would / ought to die instead.

I mean, the truth is, it looks like all of us can survive a death in the family. Well, maybe the jury’s still out on me – DO NOT PASS THIS ON TO ANYBODY ELSE IN THE FAMILY, AND I AM NOT ABOUT TO DO ANYTHING THAT’LL UPSET YOU – if only because we must. Unfortunately – again, DO NOT PASS THIS SENTIMENT ON TO ANYONE ELSE IN THE FAMILY.

But anyway – the point is, Fred and I decided it would be you. Maybe because of how you coped after your first year, maybe it’s just a hunch from your favourite brothers (our hunches being tippy-top of the line), but we just knew. We said your name at the same time in answer to the question, in fact. And now, I guess that endorsement’s just coming from me. For what it’s worth.

I appreciate that your letters have mainly been about:

1. the latest jokes you’ve heard in the hallways of Hogwarts (all of them not up to par, by the way, the humour standards have clearly slipped since Fred and I ruled our fiefdom);
2. your quarrels with Malfoy (what did you do to piss off Goldstein??); and
3. the Gryffindor Quidditch Team and your extremely elaborate and detailed tactics (maybe unnecessary? Are you Oliver Wood??).

One could almost accuse you of being as avoidant as me. But you’re right, in that you’re speaking my language. I might just take up your suggestion from the postscript in your last letter and I visit your Head Healer. And yes, I’ll remember to declare our relationship on the application. I highly doubt they’ll think we’re not related though. Can’t go anywhere these days without some groupie asking me how I, as an obvious Weasley, am related to Harry Potter. (On reflection, I suppose people aren’t thinking so much that we’re related as that they’re thinking that we’re only relevant because of Harry, which is maybe a teensy bit offensive. Us Weasleys were important before Harry Potter came along.)

What I meant to say was – I am not going to be fine for a while (DO NOT PASS ON THIS MESSAGE ON PAIN OF DEATH CONSTANT CEASELESS HUMILIATION FOR THIS LIFE AND THE NEXT). That’s the answer to your unasked question. I know only you know not to ask, and I understand now why you don’t. You’re also the only one I’ve been able to tell because of that.

I’ve just been sending the rest of them (bar Bill – see his trials abovementioned, and I don’t need Fleur mad at me – and Ron, because I don’t want the Aurors after me as some kind of terrorist, so really it’s just Charlie and Percy) all my latest joke experiments. I think Percy’s exploded in his face and his skin was purple for a week. They’re (the experiments, not our brothers) all a bit wonky, because I’ve just been building them from whatever scrap material I can get from Ron’s room. I think I’ve used up nearly all his Chudley Cannons’ memorabilia in some shape or form. I’m in grief though, so he will simply have to suck it up.

And, of course, they’re not great, because half of us isn’t here to help achieve Genius and Perfection.

I can’t promise you I will be fine in the future. I know Fred would want me to be, but I just can’t say for sure right now. But for you and for him, I promise I will try.

I love you, sis. Thank you.

With much love,

Forge

P.S. Send my love to Malfoy – make sure you keep him humble. Crush his spirit. Trample him underfoot. I know Mum and Harry have both said we can’t blame him – and somehow you’re not killing him – but I am a good thousand post codes away from forgiveness.

P.P.S. You’re moving in with the Golden Trio? – per Ron. Are you now the Codependent Quartet? How’s that going to work with your lifelong dream of being a professional Quidditch player?

P.P.S. I re-read my letter. I think I’m still going to have to send it, partly because I already took all day to write it (entirely my own problem, I know), and mostly because I don’t know who else to tell all these things to (probably why I should go see that Head Healer of yours, eh?). I haven’t even said half as much to Angelina. I’m sorry that you’re the one who has to read this. I hope what I’ve written isn’t too heavy to bear. If it is, please release what I’ve put on you as best as you can. Please burn this letter if you must.

P.P.P.S. In case it needs to be said again – I love you.

***

October 1992

Tom?

Yes, Ginny girl?

Are you still angry with me?

For saying that the crowning achievement of your life will be winning the Quidditch World Cup for England?

You did seem rather put out. You haven’t said anything all afternoon since. I don’t want to disappoint –

I won’t pretend that I don’t think this is a small and frivolous dream, Ginny. But if it’s what your heart wants, then it’s what your heart wants.

I still feel like you’re judging me.

Ginny felt Tom exhale in her mind, then sigh aloud. Finally, he replied, his voice as precise and serious as ever.

Haven’t I told you this repeatedly, Ginny? It doesn’t matter what I think or what anyone else thinks. You must decide what you want and pursue it. Would I spend my time doing something more…substantial? Yes. But as long as your dream has vision, and you’re willing to work for it, Ginny girl, I’m not going to judge you.

And I suppose being a “Quidditch star” would afford you a certain kind of standing and power.

Ginny hoped Tom couldn’t sense the thought that came into her mind: for all his talk of ambition, she wasn’t sure if he did achieve his dreams in his lifetime.

She had tried asking Percy about Tom a week or two ago – she had explained that she had seen Tom’s award when wandering along a corridor, and wondered what he had accomplished in life, being already so illustrious at Hogwarts. Percy was somewhat perplexed at her interest, but a few days later, he had dutifully reported to her that it didn’t seem like Tom Riddle had ever reached any pinnacle of achievement in the Ministry or in the wider wizarding world. There was some mention of him working at Borgin and Burkes – a firm Percy had sniffed at – but otherwise Tom Riddle seemed to have vanished into obscurity.

Ginny sincerely hoped Tom hadn’t died before accomplishing any of his dreams.

Come back to me, Ginny.

Sorry Tom, I got distracted.

I know. Please pay attention when you’re talking to me, if you can. It does so make me feel more alive. I’ve been lonely in the diary for so long. It’s lovely to able to speak directly to you.

You do still need me to write in the diary though, don’t you, Tom?

Yes, I think it’s best that we still do so, so that we can keep this link sustainable. It may even help us grow it. I would like to see the world directly through your eyes, Ginny.

I’d like to see your face in the mirror. I always like to put a face to a name. I imagine yours is quite lovely.

 ***

18 October 1998

G –

I know we just spoke two days ago, but I don’t know, I felt like writing to you. I hope that’s okay. I’m trusting you not to advertise what I’m writing (actually, burn this letter after you’ve read it, please). I’d appreciate if you kept this confidential.

Also, really, we only have Friday nights to talk, and I don’t want to disrupt the flow we’ve got dissecting the English team’s tragic performance in the 1986 World Cup quarter finals (your opinions are still wrong).

It’s been just over a week since that night and I’m starting to think there are a few threads to my thoughts. I’m writing them out as they come, so forgive me if they’re not entirely coherent:

1. I can’t forgive Father. This is very clear in my mind. But I also don’t want to write Mother about this. She’s dealing with enough, I’m sure, handling society engagements and our affairs etc. I think, though, that I also don’t want to know if she knew. I don’t know why this is the case.
2. I’m very sorry. I’m still sorry.
3. I don’t know if I can talk to Mother about this over Christmas break. I could probably avoid it if I really tried, but I don’t know if I can avoid it forever.
4. (2) was my limited attempt to cover a multitude of sins, but specifically – because we’ve never discussed this – I’m sorry about the times the Carrows made me punish you during detention. Also, sorry for all the Inquisitorial Squad stuff. That was meant more sincerely than how it’s been inadequately expressed, I promise.
5. I feel alone in Slytherin. I know we were all – I know we weren’t Gryffindor-approved, my friends and I. But Pansy and Astoria did care for me, I think. And Crabbe and Goyle were there. For the most part – at least before everything really went to hell – they listened, even if they didn’t always understand. I know this may be unfair to tell you. But they felt like friends. We’d been together for as long as I can remember.

The Slytherins who are left – they and their families made the right choices before and during the war. I can’t trust Blaise or Daphne, not with what I’m going through. And I wouldn’t know how to talk to Lane Deveraux. I’m glad you’re friends with him, but he has no context for what happened to us at Hogwarts.

6. For now, I’m still in my holding pattern of finishing out the year. Then the plan is to step into being the Malfoy heir. I feel like if I don’t think like this, I wouldn’t know what to think. And I wouldn’t know what I’m doing or where I’m going.

That’s all I have for now. It already seems more than I should share with you, and I apologise in advance if this isn’t what you signed up for. Please do keep talking Quidditch to me on Friday nights.

D

P.S. If you give Artaxerxes a scratch on his head, and a fresh owl treat or slice of bacon from your breakfast (whatever piece of meat you have on hand, really), he will like you better – in case you’ll like to write back to me.

 ***

18 October 1998

Dearest Forge, chaos agent, disciple of calamity, heir to Loki himself,

I will never burn that letter (actually, you’re not the only one who’s asked me to burn a letter lately – do I look like I cast Incendio, or dramatically toss letters into open fires, on the regular?). Before I go any further, first and foremost – I love you. And because it does need saying again – I love you.

Also, if he is crazy enough to accept you as his patient, send my love to Healer King. He’s got his work cut out for him.

Also, also, if you can, when you can – maybe try telling Angelina a bit about how you feel. It goes without saying that she must miss Fred dreadfully too.

Also, also, also, to round off the serious part of this letter, I’m honoured that you and Fred thought that I’d be the one to survive something like that. The answer, of course, is that you were right. This sister of yours will always prevail. And if you ask me – though I know this feels impossible now – I believe you will, too.

My latest quarrel with Malfoy is that England should have won the 1986 World Cup quarter finals. I know this is the wrong opinion, because England was an unmitigated disaster. I just like seeing Malfoy go pink, then red, each time I defend everything from the choice of Chasers (abysmal), the Keeper (blind), the Seeker (blinder) and even the team robes. Honestly, what were they thinking with the giant animated dragons? Though now that I think about it, why would Malfoy object to that? Seems perfect for him.

On that note – just briefly – I understand why you can’t forgive Malfoy. Some part of me probably never will either. But he really was a child when he got pushed into his role in the war. Having said that, duly noted, and I view it my life’s mission to have my foot firmly planted on Malfoy’s neck.

I’ve got more letters to write (but yours is the first I’m replying to – so do not complain) so I’ll spare you my full, latest thoughts on my very secret Gryffindor Quidditch tactics. Maybe you should subscribe to my newsletter. Maybe I should start exchanging letters with Oliver Wood – he’s clearly the only one who truly understands how serious this endeavour is. Game recognises game. Anyway, suffice to say that Natalie McDonald is shaping up to be a brilliant choice of Seeker and I have high hopes for her. Them other Houses will not see us coming.

Do you think you could visit during my first Hogsmeade weekend? Or will you be up to watching me at my first match? The game’s on 7 November (against Slytherin!!), and Hogsmeade’s on 21 November. Only if you’re up to it, but I’d love to see you.

Once more, with feeling: I love you – to the moon and back. And thank you, too.

Much love,

Ginny

P.S. Out of curiosity, do you know what my favourite flowers are?

P.P.S. Harry’s just written to me about renting a flat with Ron and Hermione. I suppose it’s happening? I suppose I will be using the Floo network a lot? I don’t think I should be paying the same equal rent if I’m going to be away most of the month? Is it petty that the first thing I’m thinking about is how we’re splitting the rent?

Now that I think about it, I’ve not told Harry about my super-secret ambition to become a world-dominating Quidditch star, no. It’s a bit difficult to share this with the youngest Seeker in Hogwarts history. I guess it’s one of those things only big brothers know and should be sworn to secrecy purely on the basis of shared blood.

P.P.P.S. Do you think Oliver Wood would mind if I just wrote to him? He’s still at Puddlemere United, right?

 ***

18 October 1998

D –

Thank you for writing to me. Please know that I’ll always keep your letter – in a safe place, I promise with my life. I’m touched that you thought to write, and I appreciate everything you shared. It must not have been easy to articulate. For what it’s worth, on (4) – it’s a bit of a strange thing to say out loud, but I always meant to thank you for not putting your heart into your Crucio’s.

Also, you’re the second person today to ask me to burn their letter. For the record, I’m not burning that letter either. Does everyone think I’m some kind of international spy, constantly torching correspondence?

I don’t want to be too forward, and your tips about Artaxerxes worked a trick (he is a very large owl though, and is a bit too memorable? And also, a bit pushy?) so I think I’m his favourite now (too bad for you, I’m sure you’re heartbroken, etc., etc.) but I know this letter-writing / correspondence trick someone taught me ages ago. You spell two sheets of parchment paper (we would each keep one), and when one person writes on theirs, the message appears instantly on the other. It should work as long as we’re within a reasonable distance of each other (which I assume should be fine as long as we are on castle grounds?).

If it’s not obvious already, I’ve never actually tried this spell myself, but I THINK I remember the steps (there may be some trial and error involved because again, I learned this from years ago).

I’m suggesting it because of what you said—about your thoughts coming in threads. Since we can’t talk consistently outside of Fridays (and, as mentioned, Artaxerxes is far too grand and recognisable to be swooping in during mealtimes), I thought this might help. If a thought comes to you and you’d like to share it, you could just write it down—and it would appear on my parchment. If the spell works properly, the messages disappear once they’re read. And only the intended recipient can see them. It’s a bit of a “for your eyes only” system.

So maybe I am an international spy.

I suppose you’ll never know.

No pressure of course – again, who knows if I will even get the spell right. But if you would like us to keep talking Quidditch on Fridays, and just in case you would like to jot down anything for me at any time, this could be a solution?

G

P.S. What’s your issue with the 1986 Team England robes again? They had animated dragons on them, doesn’t that just call out to you??

 ***

18 October 1998

Hi Harry,

Thanks for your letter. Auror training sounds absolutely jam-packed. They do know that they’re dealing with the saviour of the wizarding world, don’t they? Can’t they put you out in the field and just let you at it?

In all seriousness, please do take your training seriously. I still can’t believe you spent almost a year on the run last year, without any professional help. I don’t think you will ever understand how much I worried about you, and Ron and Hermione. I may never forgive you for putting me through that, ever (jokes, you can certainly make it up to me…).

I miss you too. I suppose this really is a long-distance relationship, given that our letters by Owl are the only sanctioned communications. Just wondering—are they vetted before they reach you or leave training camp??

I miss falling asleep in the treehouse with you, and I miss going into the village to get ice cream. I miss holding your hand and petting every dog we come across.

(Sorry to the Auror on duty if you had to read all that – please avert your eyes. At least I didn’t go into any gory details? Also, please do not sell our letters to The Prophet. You will probably lose your job (and it’s not nice).)

I must have forgotten to mention my patrols with Malfoy in my last letters. He’s really not that bad. Our interactions during patrols are 95% Quidditch-related quarrelling. I know – hell has frozen over. But I think you were right, that he thought he had no choice.

Finally, my first match is on 7 November, and my first Hogsmeade weekend is 21 November. Please let me know if you can come for either or both!

I love you.

With all my love,

Ginny

P.S. I know this is such a cliched choice, but really my favourite flowers are roses. Deep, blood-red roses. I’m morbid – or should I say sexy? – like that.

P.P.S. But really you don’t have to get me anything.

P.P.P.S. Because I am learning to communicate while in a relationship…you should maybe get me one small thing (if it’s not too much trouble).

P.P.P.P.S. Our new Seeker’s Natalie McDonald. She’s brilliant. Also, do you think Oliver Wood would mind if I wrote to him?

P.P.P.P.P.S. Please give Ron a hug from me – I will write him as well but I’m glad that he’s still working on the twins’ shop and trying to keep it going with Lee. Thank Lee for me too, when you see him!

 ***

31 October 1992

Ginny. Ginny girl, you have to get up, and move.

Ginny blinked. She was facing a wall – she was kneeling, facing a wall. Why was she in this position? And why did her head hurt so badly? It felt like it was pounding and pounding. Ginny felt nauseous.

Ginny, move. Get up and move.

Ginny didn’t think she was moving in response to Tom. It felt more like her knees came up towards her chest of their own accord, and her feet planted themselves, heels striking first, then she stumbled slightly to the left before regaining her balance and standing up. The feeling of nausea intensified, and Ginny almost threw up right there.

Tom, where am I? What happened? How did I get here?

It doesn’t matter right now, Ginny. You need to move, it’s not safe to stay here. Listen to me, I can already feel the link fraying, I don’t know how much longer we can stay talking. Go back to your dorms. Now.

Ginny nodded, still shaky. She tried to get her bearings. She was on one of the lower floors. How had she ended up here? The last thing she remembered was the Feast…

Even so, something told Ginny she did not want to be alone in this corridor. Tom had also said it wasn’t safe…

Ginny did her best to concentrate, to feel in her body, and move herself towards the stairs.

Good girl, Ginny. Move fast now.

Ginny nodded again, still feeling weak and disoriented but knowing that she was going to move, she was going get back to her dorms. She placed a hand on the banister at the bottom of the stairs.

Tom, why – why are my hands bloody?

You must have slipped in something, Ginny. You need to get back to your dorms and clean yourself up.

It’s blood, Tom, it’s red and I think I can smell it, oh my God Tom…

Ginny. Tom’s voice was the sternest she’d ever heard it.

You will go up to your dorms. You will wash your hands.

Ginny felt it – like a grip behind her neck, pressing on her shoulders.

Ginny returned to Gryffindor Tower, still quiet because Nearly Headless Nick’s Deathday Party was still at its rowdy, happy peak in the Great Hall.

Ginny washed her hands, washed her face.

Ginny went to bed, and fell into a dreamless, black sleep.

My good girl, Ginny girl.

Chapter Text

The Trick is to Keep Breathing

Chapter 7

“Correspondentia…ad Draco Malfoy…” Ginny said, tracing a tight circle over his parchment with her wand before flicking it upward, pointing it straight towards his temple. A thin blue light shot from her wand, going directly between Draco’s eyes.

Draco winced. “Well, that was reassuring,” he said. He didn’t feel any different, but still hoped that Ginny’s spell hadn’t scrambled anything vital.

“Sorry,” Ginny replied. “Like I told you, I’ve not tested this out before – I just remembered it from someone. I did look it up properly in the library after I suggested it, I swear. That light was described in the book I found…”

“Well, I will just have to make sure that whatever you did to me, I’m doing to you,” replied Draco drily.

Ginny stood opposite him, holding out her parchment. Draco mirrored her earlier movements, wand circling, then flicking towards her temple. “Correspondentia…ad Ginevra Weasley!”

A matching blue light struck Ginny square in the forehead, and she made a face. “Did you have to use ‘Ginevra’?”

He chuckled. “I just wanted to get it right, Ginny.”

“Well, let’s test it out then, see if it works or if we’ve just cursed each other with permanent brain damage,” said Ginny, pulling a quill from her robes. She pressed her parchment against the nearest wall and began to write:

Greetings, Malfoy

Words in a small, slanted hand appeared before him on his parchment, then faded as his eyes went over the last syllable. The parchment appeared blank again.

“What, am I Malfoy again when you’re writing to me?” asked Draco. He took the quill from her, and pushed his own parchment up against the wall next to her and wrote –

I think you mean Draco, Ginevra

Ginny laughed as the crisp cursive appeared and vanished on her own parchment. “It works!” she exclaimed, and before Draco could react, she threw her arms around his neck for a hug.

In the moment that Draco froze in response, Ginny had already pulled away from him, hands clapping. She didn’t seem to register his stunned expression. “I’d learned about this from literal years ago, too. I don’t know why I only thought of it again when I saw your letter, but I’m glad I remembered enough of it to be able to look it up!”

Quickly she folded her parchment into thirds, then tucked it into an inner pocket of her robes.

“C’mon, Draco, we’ve dawdled long enough. Patrol time!”

***

How are you actually awake in this class, D???

Was this the agreed purpose of this correspondence?

Are you actually joking?

Correspondence can go two ways. You can write to me, I can write to you.

Yes, but I tell you things like, I remember the time when Father snapped the neck of my favourite falcon to teach me the importance of never loving anything, while you’re complaining about being sleepy in a very important Potions class.

Wait, what, when did you tell me that story?

You did not tell me that story.

And how is this a very important Potions class, we’re not even making any potions.

You’ve definitely not told me that story, right???

You’re right, there wasn’t such a story, but I just wanted to see if you were paying attention.

Also, it is a very important Potions class. This class is about making a series of Potions with the same underlying base; if you don’t get the base right, you’ll ruin everything that follows. The theory behind a potion matters. If you don’t understand how the ingredients interact, your practical work will always be mediocre.

You’re nearly as boring as this lecture.

Also, duplicitous. I can’t believe you were lying to me about a pet falcon whose neck got broken.

If you put in half the effort that I do, your practical results would be twice as good as they currently are.

And like I said, no pet falcons were harmed in the writing of that earlier sentence. No harm no foul.

No fowl, you mean.

Ginevra, you’re being extremely childish.

Now you’re just channelling my mother.

Merlin, you and Molly Weasley are practically the same person!

I am putting my parchment away. Pay attention. Don’t give me a face when your potion blows up again later.

***

What do you do nights, Ginny?

Hang out in the common room in Gryffindor Tower – there’s always someone up a chinwag. Or reading up about the latest British and Irish League stats and drafting training plans, or doing the necessary evil of homework, or reading (I’m obsessed with Muggle murder mysteries, they’re so clever!), or writing letters to my brothers and Harry, Hermione, Neville, Luna…I guess I can also do a lot of all that in the Room of Requirement with Lane, too. Why?

I guess I’m wondering, because right now (well, to be honest, most nights since I came back to Hogwarts) I’m just sitting in my room alone. It’s not the same coming back to Slytherin without my friends.

Once I’m done with my assignments and required reading, I don’t really know what to do with myself.

If it’s the daytime I can fly laps around the pitch, practise flying, but I can’t exactly do that at night.

I think I’m only able to tell you this because (a) I’m not saying it out loud, and (b) the words disappear from this parchment. And yours.

No harm, no fowl.

Ginny. I’m being vulnerable.

Humour and vulnerability can coexist, you know. In fact, I’d argue that humour and vulnerability must co-exist, because otherwise it may be too difficult to be fully vulnerable. Of course, I suppose you also can mask vulnerability with humour.

I guess the dividing line is your intention. But really – if I’m being humorous here, it’s only because I want you to be comfortable. I hope you know always that that’s my intention.

I appreciate that.

I guess I’m thinking about what I told you earlier too (now it’s a bit difficult to recall what exactly I wrote given that the words disappear…) – even when my friends were around, I felt alone. Especially in the last two years. I guess I couldn’t really tell anyone what I was dealing with.

Frankly, Crabbe and Goyle thought it was an honour that I had an assignment, even though they didn’t know what it was at the time, and did not understand why I struggled. Eventually, Crabbe actually despised me, because he knew that us Malfoys had fallen out of favour with Voldemort.

And there was no way I could tell the girls anything. If it got out, obviously my family would be punished. And knowing anything would’ve endangered Pansy and Astoria too.

I’m sorry – I know I’ve alluded to all this before, but I still don’t know how you feel about hearing my side of…well, the assignment.

You mean how I feel about you essentially endangering me and everyone I love and also the larger wizarding world in general?

Draco – I’m not going to sugarcoat it. What we have going on is kind of weird. I don’t know how I would be able to explain it to my loved ones. I write to my brother George every few days because I’m worried about how he’s coping with Fred’s passing. I struggle with my own grief. I didn’t ask to come back to seventh year to befriend someone who helped Death Eaters infiltrate Hogwarts. Honestly, I had to mentally frame our patrols as just me doing my Prefect duties, which was why I would only speak to you about Quidditch. It was either that or dead silence or you were going to be delivered to Anthony and Hannah in a shoebox.

So, what I’m saying is, I can’t rationalise why we had that conversation and spent so much time together after it. I can’t rationalise why we’re friends now. You’re just going to have to accept it, I guess.

And I’ll have to be honest with you if I ever reach the point where I can’t listen to something you’re saying.

You know, two years ago, I’d have reminded you that I’m a Malfoy and that I don’t need your charity.

But I find that I want to say thank you. I would like to accept what you can offer me.

Maybe that’s me being a Malfoy, though, because we are very good at being selfish and your talking to me helps me.

You know, for a Malfoy you’re awfully good at disparaging yourself. You do realise that you’ve never really described being a Malfoy as necessarily a positive thing? E.g. Malfoys’ fixation on power and blood purity, selfishness as a defining trait…

Well, you and I start off with very different ideas of what matters in life. I was mainly motivated to complete my assignment to save my family. To Malfoys, that is an entirely sufficient reason to do something (I guess in this case you could say, anything). I can’t imagine that the Weasleys would not all be ready to sacrifice yourselves for the greater good. Your family turned up running into battle, even that uptight older brother of yours, Peregrine.

Percy – Percival. Though now that you mention it, he could be a Peregrine.

Have you never thought that it might not be good enough to only want to save your own blood?

“Good” doesn’t come into it, Ginny. It’s only loyalty, prevailing over everything and coming out on top. It’s power. “Good” is for people who are willing to sacrifice something or someone you care about. That’s not a Malfoy.

You know, I’ve never had it shown so clearly to me before, the poverty (to me) of that philosophy.

I have to say you’ve made me grateful to be a Weasley. I know my family would stand for more than just our own. I can’t say I wouldn’t have made the same choices as you – I don’t have confidence that I’m that good a person. But I like to think that my brothers would have fought tooth and nail against having to carry out your assignment.

I’m not trying to disparage you. I can see how it’s a different way of looking at the world and of living. If I’m coming from your philosophy, I could see how morals or the greater good don’t even factor in.

No, I understand what you mean. It’s just a completely different calculation that you Weasleys do.

After all that’s happened, do you think that the Malfoy philosophy truly allows you to prevail, though?

You’re only looking at how our “philosophy”, as you’re describing it, has played out in the war. But I’m not sure that truly applying the Malfoy “philosophy” should have led us into the war at all. As we’ve established, I disagree with our involvement now.

You must admit, though, with the benefit of hindsight.

That’s not untrue, entirely.

Thanks for admitting that.

You’re welcome. Anyway – my point was, otherwise Malfoys have prevailed for generations. And as I’ve repeatedly had the pleasure of reminding your brother Ron, we’re swimming in it, to put it mildly, compared to the Weasleys.

Hrmm. Two households, both alike in dignity.

My point was that we aren’t “alike in dignity”.

Depends on how you define “dignity”, though, is my point.

But anyway – going back to the main point of this conversation. You were saying about feeling alone.

Though I hope that you’ll feel less alone now.

You know – I do. At least since writing to you tonight.

I’m glad.

***

Draco – are you awake?

Ginny – it’s midnight. Don’t you know that my kind comes alive at this hour?

Always knew you were a vampire.

Really though, what’s going on?

Do you want to go flying?

Are you not a Prefect, Ginny?

Have you ever lived, Malfoy? Also, I’ve got a little secret that’ll get us out onto the pitch, no issues.

If you want to go flying with me – get your broom, and let me know when you’re at the Slytherin dorm entrance. Stay hidden until I come get you. We’re going flying, and I promise you we’ll not get caught.

This had better not be some kind of prank or ploy to get me into trouble, Gin.

I’m appalled. Why would you ever think I would betray you like that? It’s almost as if you’ve forgotten – I’m the Gryffindor. You’re the Slytherin.

…I better not regret this.

***

Roughly 15 minutes later, Ginny came barrelling down the hallway, giggling, broom in hand.

“C’mon, Draco!” she whispered – though the effort was questionable, given how hard she was laughing. She grabbed his arm and leapt onto her broom in one fluid motion. “Get on your broom, quick! Mrs. Norris just missed me, but I’m sure she’ll come sniffing around soon. We’ve got to fly out at this rate, c’mon!”

Bemused, Draco mounted his broom and followed her lead as they shot down the corridor, swift and silent.

***

Five minutes later, they were free and clear on the pitch. Ginny kept pace with Draco as he lapped the field – no mean feat, considering he wasn’t going slow and she was still riding a Cleansweep. He wasn’t even sure they still made that model; it really belonged in a museum.

“Now,” Draco said, glancing sideways, “are you going to share your ‘little secret’?”  

“Nope,” replied Ginny, grinning. “Let’s just say that it was something Harry left me so I could sneak around the school undetected this year. Why the twins had given it to him instead of me or Ron to begin with, I can’t say…”

“So it’s something the twins had but gave to Potter, and now you’re holding onto it?” repeated Draco, brow furrowed in his effort to try to piece things together.

“Never you mind your pretty little head about it,” sang Ginny, mirthfully. “The point is, Draco Malfoy, you don’t have to fly only in the daytime now! I was thinking about what you wrote the other day – the whole not knowing what to do with yourself. If I can pull off nights like this, we can fly together.  We won’t get caught – promise.”

Draco made a small noise, then bit back what had come to mind. The gifts had kept coming since he returned to Hogwarts – Slughorn still making him Prefect, Professors holding back on their resentment towards him, classmates avoiding him rather than confronting him, the Slytherins being civil, Ginny becoming his friend…And now this – night flying, whenever Ginny could make it out to get him?

He certainly hadn’t done anything to deserve all these, but Draco was thanking whatever gods were so kind as to give him a break.

But of course, Draco was never very good at letting a good thing happen without poking at some other hornets’ nest.

“Why’re you still using a Cleansweep 11?” he asked.

Ginny sighed, fixing him with an irritated look. “Look Malfoy, is it so difficult to remember? Doesn’t it come to mind when you think of us Weasleys? We’re poor, remember? And Cleansweeps are perfectly decent brooms, even the older models.”

“I know all that,” said Draco, for once not actually having meant to make a Weasleys-are-poor jibe. “My point was, Potter’s not at school now, you said he was at Auror training – why didn’t he just lend you his Firebolt?”

“I didn’t ask him to,” replied Ginny. She still looked annoyed, but even at the speed they were flying Draco sensed a flicker of uncertainty in her voice.

Draco studied her. She was staring straight ahead now, and there was a set look on her face.

“Why didn’t you?” he dared to push, but kept his voice light.

“I didn’t want to just be asking for things like that,” Ginny said. The note of uncertainty was gone now, from her voice. “And besides, his Firebolt is special. Sirius gave it to him.”

“Sirius?”

“Sirius Black,” Ginny said. “It’s a bit of a long story, but in his third year Harry found out that Sirius hadn’t been the one who betrayed his parents. He never did those things that they claimed he did, and he was sent to Azkaban wrongfully. When Harry’s Nimbus 2000 was destroyed, Sirius, as Harry’s godfather, had gifted him with his Firebolt…”

“…And now Sirius is dead,” finished Ginny, and she let out a small sigh. She looked tired, as if there really was a lot more to the story but she was not up to the telling. “I can’t ask for something like that from Harry, it’s too precious. It’s one of the few things Harry has left from Sirius.”

“You’re not about to destroy a Firebolt easily, especially if you use it mainly for matches and not training,” replied Draco slowly. “Unlike Potter, no one’s trying actively to kill you.”

He paused, still mulling over the information Ginny had provided him. He recognised the name Sirius Black. “And Potter could still have lent it to you. Not much use for it during Auror training.”

“Like I said – didn’t ask for it.”

Draco gave a small snort. “Gin – I’ve had basically no relationship experience, what with spending the last few years being absolutely scared out of my mind about dying. But if I had a girlfriend who lived and breathed Quidditch like you do, and I had no use for my broom which is leagues better than hers, I would have no issues lending her my broom temporarily, present from my dead godfather or no. It’s a broom – it’s made for flying, especially a broom like a Firebolt. It’s a travesty for it to just be sitting somewhere. And you wouldn’t even have to ask – has he never seen how happy you are when you fly?”

“Okay, I see where you may be coming from, but I just…I couldn’t bring myself to ask.”

“I would have just lent it to you,” said Draco simply. “And I am a Malfoy, we don’t share things. But hypothetically – if I had someone I loved who loved something, I would want them to enjoy it as much as they could. It just seems very straightforward to me. And if that meant giving them or lending them something I have in my possession, it would not even be a question that they need to ask.”

Ginny did not respond. They continued looping the pitch, cutting through the cold night air. Draco had always loved flying – especially at night. There was a freedom to it that daylight couldn’t touch.

This was, perhaps, the best gift he’d received since coming back to Hogwarts.

After Ginny Weasley being his friend now, of course.

“Sirius Black was my mother’s cousin,” said Draco after some silence. “It’s strange – you, Potter, the Order… you all knew more about him than I ever did. And he was family. I don’t think I even realised until just now that he’s dead.”

“Regulus Black is dead too,” Ginny added, gently. “I’m sorry to drop that on you, like I’m commenting about the schedule for Quidditch. I just figured – if you cared about Sirius, you might want to know about Regulus. He would’ve also been your mother’s cousin; he was Sirius’ younger brother. He joined the Death Eaters, but again – long story short – he died trying to do the right thing. He tried to destroy one of Voldemort’s Horcruxes.”

Draco paused, absorbing what Ginny just said. It was strange, hearing about relatives he had barely thought about before. He had always sensed that Mother – and Aunt Bellatrix – were somewhat embarrassed about being Blacks, because in their generation there were a few Blacks who had “gone astray”, but he had never realised that it was because these Blacks had actually tried to walk different paths.

“It’s strange to think that they made different choices,” Draco finally said. “The Blacks were a very proud family.”

“And both their lives ended in tragedy,” said Ginny. “They didn’t get out unscathed.”

“So…the moral here is to do right and still suffer, Ginny?” asked Draco, grimacing.

“I mean, it was never a promise that doing the right thing means that you won’t die, or you won’t suffer,” said Ginny. “Doing the right thing I guess is the point. I mean, if that weren’t your goal, then you must ask if you were ‘doing the right thing’ in the first place. The point isn’t the reward. If you can even define ‘just being alive and not dying’ as a reward.”

“Do you think it mattered to them, doing the right thing, when they were dying?”

“I don’t know,” said Ginny, and Draco appreciated that she wasn’t trying to give him a pretty answer. “Maybe it’s some comfort, knowing they’d made peace with their choices? But Harry said, at the end, Sirius looked shocked when he died. He didn’t expect it. We never found his body. And Regulus Black died alone. I hope it matters to them, somehow, that they are remembered for the choices they made by people who loved them. Well – at least Sirius is. We didn’t actually know Regulus. I think Harry always felt sorry that Sirius never knew about Regulus before he passed. I guess I hope they know we mourn them. That someone’s proud of who they turned out to be.”

“Like I’ve said before, Draco, I can’t understand completely what you did,” continued Ginny. “I mean, I do to some extent, but there’s always going to be a part of me which will never forgive you. Because as much as you were trying to save your family, you risked mine. In some way, Fred’s dead because of the choices your family’s made too, the money and backing the Malfoys gave to Voldemort and the Death Eaters. Malfoy Manor will always be where some of us were held and tortured. I wish you’d made the kind of choices Sirius and Regulus Black made. And I also wish they were given the same chances you’ve been given after you didn’t. And yet I’m also glad that you are being given the chances you’ve been given, you know?”

Draco could only nod. It was a lot to take in. He wished, not for the first time, that just a few years ago he had had someone he had been able to talk everything through with. If only he had been aware of a few more things.

It was hard to think about two men in similar positions to him who had tried to walk away from Voldemort and didn’t manage to escape his long reach. Draco hadn’t even really tried. And yet he was alive.

There just wasn’t much justice in that, even if Malfoys didn’t believe in justice.

“This is random,” mused Ginny, “but I think you would’ve liked Sirius, and maybe he would’ve liked you. I don’t know Regulus, so I can’t say, but we lived with Sirius for a while at 12 Grimmauld Place – the ancestral home of the Blacks. He let the Order use it as a headquarters and he was basically trapped there, being a wanted fugitive and all. I think if he’d known you the way you are now, he would’ve liked you. He was very battered down by his years in Azkaban, and he drank maybe too much, and he was really upset about being trapped in that old house with all sorts of bad memories for him, but on his good days he could be funny, and kind, and he always had time for me even though I was just some kid with a painfully obvious crush on his godson. He did always tease me for that, though only when Harry wasn’t around, thank Merlin. He would call me mini-Lily Potter – Lily Potter being Harry’s mum.”

“There’s something about you and Sirius that are just somehow similar, now that I think about it,” said Ginny, smiling faintly. “Maybe it’s the shared genetics, or something to do with some common upbringing. Like I said, he’d been worn down a lot from Azkaban and his years on the run, but he was still – he had a lot of pride to him, and he still carried himself in a certain way and had certain mannerisms that are like yours. He really loved Harry, you know.”

Draco pictured a faceless man, dark-haired like most Blacks tended to be.  He could’ve been a mentor, a friend. Someone who could have helped him make different choices. Someone who might have changed everything for Draco.

But instead, he said, “So Potter – Potter managed to lose two father figures. Well – three, if you count Dumbledore.”

“How – how do you even manage to get there, Draco, I swear to God…”

“No listen, I’m not trying to be mean – I’m just saying –”

“In that case, it’s like you don’t even have to try. it just comes out of you naturally!”

“Potter’s not even here to hear this!”

“You make it sound like Harry’s just good at misplacing father figures, like it’s some sort of carelessness on his part…”

“I’m trying to commiserate with Potter!” protested Draco. “Salazar, woman, I’m sympathising with him. I’m saying it’s not normal to be that unlucky. I’ve spent most of my life hating Potter and what’s just handed to him, so if you could please appreciate that I’m trying to see what he’s lost for once before jumping down my throat…”

Ginny stared at him, mouth forming a small surprised “O.” Then she burst out laughing.

“Hell has truly frozen over. I’m friends with Draco Malfoy, sworn enemy of Weasleys, and you, Draco Malfoy, are actually sympathising with Harry Potter. If I’d known all we needed to do was just talk to you…”

“Would we ever have talked if it hadn’t been for the war?” interrupted Draco. They were on at least their fifth loop of the pitch now. It really was starting to get cold, even as the exertion of flying at the speed they were maintaining while keeping up with their conversation had warmed him up somewhat.

If there never had been a Voldemort, would he and Ginny Weasley ever have been friends?

***

“Have you told Potter about us, Ginny?” Draco asked as Ginny walked him back to the Slytherin dorms.

He didn’t like that he wasn’t walking her back to hers. But Ginny had insisted that she was less likely to get caught returning to Gryffindor Tower alone than he was sneaking back after escorting her. She was still being secretive about how she was expecting to roam the castle after hours without consequence.

“No…” said Ginny slowly. “I’ve just maybe mentioned that I think that you did what you thought you had to do?” She glanced up at him, uncertain, as if she were afraid even that was too much to have told Potter.

“So it’s two Slytherin boys you’re keeping from Potter, now,” teased Draco, “Looking more and more suspicious, Ginny Weasley.”

“I’ll tell him when I see him in person,” said Ginny, her nose scrunching up a little. It was a very specific quirk Draco was beginning to recognise as her thinking-and-irritated face. “It’s a bit difficult to explain over Owl post.”

“On your head be it, Ginny,” Draco replied mildly. It wasn’t his issue, but it did intrigue him that Ginny was keeping secrets from her boyfriend to keep her friendship with him.

They slowed to a stop in front of the Slytherin dorms. For a moment, they just stood there.

Then Draco leaned forward and pressed a light kiss to her forehead.

“Goodnight,” he said softly. “And thank you, Gin.”

***

A/N 2:

The spell used by Draco and Ginny is my invention.

The fake story relating to Draco’s pet falcon is a reference to part of Draco Malfoy’s (real, in that universe) backstory in Draco Sinister by Cassandra Clare, from the Draco Trilogy. This was one of the first fanfic works I really got into, and probably why I love D/G.

I’ve given Ginny the Cleansweep 11, which was Ron’s broom in canon.

In the last scene, where Draco considers that “…Ginny was keeping secrets from her boyfriend to keep her friendship with him”, I was inspired by the lyric (“I don’t wanna keep secrets just to keep you”) from Cruel Summer by Taylor Swift.

Chapter Text

The Trick is to Keep Breathing

Chapter 8

“Ginny, are you alright?” Natalie McDonald asked, her brow furrowed with concern.

Ginny knew exactly what she must look like – she’d studied her own pale face and colourless lips in the mirror this morning with growing unease.

Of all days to wake up with the worst headache and what feels like a stomach flu.

Ginny shook her head. “I’ve caught some kind of bug. I’ve taken some Pepperup potion I had on hand. Don’t worry – I’m good to play.”  

“You really don’t look so good, Gin,” interjected Ritchie Coote, one of the Gryffindor Beaters. “Are you sure you don’t want to go to the Infirmary before the match?”

“There isn’t time, Ritchie,” Ginny muttered. She sunk down on a bench. From afar, Ginny could already hear the din of students arriving at their seats, practising their cheers. “And Pomfrey’s not going to let me fly if she sees me like this. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. I just need a minute. And maybe more Pepperup potion.”

It was the first match of the season – Gryffindor vs. Slytherin. Harry and Ron were going to be in the stands, and Ginny couldn’t let her team out Captain-less.

She was just going to have to soldier through.

***

Draco felt his blood singing in his veins, the tips of his fingers cold, as the Slytherin Quidditch team did their customary half-lap around the pitch. The roar from the stands was already deafening—though most of it was clearly for Gryffindor. The Slytherin section looked sparse, a lonely splash of green and silver in a sea of red and gold.

If they were going to win, they were going to have to do it on their own.

“Look alive now, Malfoy,” muttered Cameron Urquhart, as he flew past Draco. He looked tense and hulking on his Nimbus 2001; opposite him was Ginny, small and fierce but looking somehow fragile in comparison. Her bright red hair was in a high ponytail. Draco didn’t know if he was imagining things, but she looked slightly green in the face.

He had sent her a message that morning wishing her luck, but she hadn’t replied. They had spent most of last night’s patrol taunting each other about the match, but now that he was actually facing Gryffindor on the pitch, Draco’s nerves were taut.

“Now listen here – I want a good, clean game,” Hooch shouted up at the players. “This school deserves an exemplary first match back after such a long time, you hear me?” Then, giving them all one last stern look, she released the Quaffle, the Bludgers – and then the Snitch.

They were off.

The Snitch vanished almost immediately from Draco’s line of sight – he saw his opposing number Natalie McDonald dive and almost followed, but then she pulled up and he figured it was nothing. The other players had already spread out, and the commentator – a rather sedate-sounding Hufflepuff, Benjamin Sykes – was narrating as if reporting on the weather that Ginny had possession of the Quaffle, and was already halfway towards the Slytherin goal posts.

A roar came up from the stands – Gryffindor 10, Slytherin 0.

“Blaise! Bletchley! Can you look like you give a fuck!” bellowed Urquhart.

Draco didn’t look to see Blaise’s reaction. He was busy scanning the pitch. Draco had a system – he did quick laps around the pitch, made strategic stops, while at the same time keeping an eye out for any Bludgers, and for any sudden movements from the opposing Seeker. The rest of the game barely registered.

Draco dipped down a level, then started another lap. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed McDonald tailing him.

“Gryffindor 10, Slytherin 10!”

“Vaisey now has possession – Vaisey – still Vaisey – oh, looks like he’s just taken a knocking from a well-aimed Bludger by Gryffindor’s Jimmy Peakes. Vaisey manages to stay on his broom, but Quaffle’s out of his hands – looks like Gryffindor’s Dean Thomas has possession now, and the Gryffindors are in formation charging their way back to the Slytherins’ goal posts…”

Then – something shiny caught Draco’s eye from about a hundred metres away, just in front of the Gryffindor stands.

“Malfoy looks like he’s seen something – he’s pulling down. I wonder, has Malfoy seen the Snitch?”

Draco was locked in. He was just twenty metres out. He could feel it –

And then Ginny Weasley screamed.

Draco’s head snapped left. Ginny was falling – her right hand grasping air as she tried to catch the end of her broom. Her scream sliced through the noise, through Draco’s concentration.

She was falling – plummeting.

Before Draco had time to think, before he could even stop himself, he was already flying towards her.

***

Draco barely registered the weight of Ginny’s body in his arms, her eyes wide with shock staring up at him as they lurched heavily down towards a landing on the pitch, Draco’s grip on his broom slipping. They hit the ground hard – Draco angled himself so his back took the brunt, Ginny landing on top of him. The impact knocked the breath out of his lungs.

“Draco – but…” Ginny began, dazed.

Then came the stampede.

Ron Weasley was first – frantic, panting – dropping to his knees and skidding across the grass beside them. Potter was close behind, pushing Draco away from under Ginny without so much as a glance, desperately shouting for Madam Pomfrey. Then the Gryffindor team converged, their voices overlapping in panic and concern.

Draco moved back instinctively. Someone’s elbow clipped his shoulder, and someone else brushed past him like he wasn’t there.

Broom still in hand, he rose to his feet and watched as Ginny was quickly engulfed by red and gold. Within seconds, she was gone from view.

Up above, Sykes offered his final commentary, voice blithely oblivious: “And that’s Gryffindor – 160 points, to Slytherin’s 10!”

Draco stood frozen.

Fuck. He’d really fucked up, now.

***

“Malfoy, WHAT IN THE FUCK?!” roared Urquhart, as he and the rest of the Slytherin team stormed into the locker room.

Draco sighed. He’d known this was coming.

“Look – I don’t know what happened,” said Draco truthfully, forcing himself to meet Urquhart’s eyes without flinching. “I just saw her falling, and I –”

“Had a personality transplant and became Harry fucking Potter?” Urquhart snapped. A vein bulged in his forehead. “I saw you – you were THIS CLOSE…”

“Urquhart, what are you going to do?” Kay Vanity cut in. “It’s obviously not a question of ability. Malfoy had an unfortunate growth of conscience.” She looked frustrated, but at least not murderous. “He doesn’t even look like he expected that to happen…”

“I AM NOT DONE, Vanity,” Urquhart snarled, whipping around to the diminutive girl. “If you had been playing instead, we wouldn’t even have this problem! How in the fuck was I supposed to know a Malfoy would go out of his way to save a bloody Weasley…”

“You know, Draco,” Blaise Zabini said smoothly, settling onto the bench beside him while Urquhart continued his tirade at Vanity, “you still had your wand.”

His voice was suspiciously pleasant, a small mischievous smirk tugging at his lips.

“You weren’t far from the Snitch – could have reached forward and grabbed it, then turned around and Levitated her, if you really needed to play hero. Was diving in to save the littlest Weasley strictly necessary? No one would have faulted you if you had your wand out on the pitch to rescue a war hero.”

His smirk had spread wide on his face now, which was not what Draco liked to see when Blaise Zabini had just lost his first Quidditch match back in the season.

“One could even construe your actions as a statement of intent, Draco,” added Blaise. His voice was just low enough that only Draco could hear.

“Do be careful now who’s picking up on that statement.”

***

The Infirmary smelled faintly of antiseptic and lavender. Ginny tried not to dwell on how familiar it was – the scent, the too-bright lighting. She lay propped up against a stack of pillows, her left arm bound tightly in a sling. Madam Pomfrey had muttered darkly about “Bludgers and reckless flying”, before bustling off to fetch another round of potions.

Curiously, Madam Pomfrey’s diagnostic spells had found no cause for the headache and nausea Ginny was still experiencing from the morning – symptoms that had dulled her focus and left her vulnerable to the Bludger coming straight for her arm, sending her spiralling off her broom.

The Gryffindor team crowded around her bed, noisily combining expressions of concern with their post-win adrenaline high.

“You scared the hell out of us,” Dean Thomas said, still in his Quidditch robes. “One second you were flying, and the next –”

“I know,” Ginny said, managing a weak smile. “I just didn’t see the Bludger coming, my head was pounding so. It clipped me right in the shoulder.”

“Clipped?” piped up Natalie McDonald. “It nearly took your arm off! We should totally report Bletchley for that.”

“It was a clean hit,” Ginny said reluctantly. “I was just really out of it.”

Ron handed her a glass of water, and Ginny tried not to notice her brother’s hands trembling slightly as she took the glass from him. Her chest tightened. She hadn’t meant to scare Ron.

“At least Madam Pomfrey’s said it’s a clean break,” Ron said. “And that you’re going to be fine in a week.”

Ginny nodded, then winced, pressing her fingers to her temple.

“You alright, Gin?” Ron asked, frowning.

“Just the same headache,” Ginny explained quickly. “It’s been going on since this morning. I probably didn’t sleep right.”

Harry hadn’t said much. He sat to her right, holding her free hand, watching her with a quiet intensity in his bright green eyes. Ginny felt the weight of his gaze, and she couldn’t help but feel guilty at it. Even if she knew she didn’t have anything to be guilty about.

Eventually, Madam Pomfrey returned, clapping her hands sharply. “Ms. Weasley needs rest to recover, not a Gryffindor Quidditch team party. If you can celebrate elsewhere, please?”

There were reluctant goodbyes, pats on the shoulder, the ruffling of Ginny’s hair and promises to visit again soon. When the room finally cleared, only Ron and Harry remained.

Ron sat beside her to her left, his expression softer now. “You alright, Gin, really?”

“I will be,” Ginny assured. “It was just an accident. I don’t know what’s wrong with my head, but I’m sure it will pass with some proper sleep.”

Harry finally spoke. “It’s not that I’m not grateful that Malfoy was there to catch you…but what do you think that was?”

“I…” Ginny hesitated. She wasn’t sure how to explain, and she was also a little flummoxed. She and Draco were friends – but she’d never thought he would do something like that for her.

Ron glanced between Ginny and Harry, seeming to sense something unspoken and choosing – for once – not to jump in.

Then came a knock at the door.

Madam Pomfrey poked her head back in. “One more visitor – then all of you out. Make it quick.”

Lane Deveraux stepped inside, his Slytherin robes immaculate, looking every bit like a porcelain doll with his blond curls framing his face. He nodded politely to Ron and Harry, then turned to Ginny.

“I saw what happened,” Lane said. “I wanted to check in on you.”

“Oh, thank you, Lane,” replied Ginny, smiling. “I’m going to be fine – just a broken arm.”

“Wait – you look familiar,” said Ron, squinting. “Where have I seen you…”

“Oh, right! Ron, you’ve met Lane – Lane Deveraux! We met his family in Egypt, remember?” Ginny said excitedly to Ron. She turned back to Lane – “Lane, you remember Ron.”

“Oh, and er, Harry,” said Ginny, suddenly realising that Harry had no idea who Lane was. “This is my friend Lane Deveraux. Lane – this is Harry, I’ve told you about him. It’s a bit of a long story, but –”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you around,” remarked Harry, taking in Lane’s Slytherin robes.

“I’m a seventh-year transfer student,” replied Lane. “Ginny and I have known each other since the Weasleys’ trip to Egypt, though. We’re old friends.”

“Trip to Egypt?”

“Summer after my first year,” said Ginny quickly. “Lane and I kind of fell out of touch, which is why I never told you about him before, but we’ve reconnected now that Lane’s transferred here. Er – we’ve been spending a bit of time together, studying and doing homework and all, because Lane’s new to Hogwarts, and there aren’t that many Slytherins, and it’s not like the ones that are left are very friendly…”

Ginny was definitely rambling.

“I see,” Harry said, letting go of her hand and offering his to Lane. “It’s nice to meet you, Lane.”  

“Likewise,” said Lane graciously, shaking Harry’s hand. If he noticed that Ginny was only now letting her boyfriend know that they were friendly, his serene expression gave no indication. He started to seat himself down next to Harry – Ginny could tell Harry hadn’t expected that.

“Actually,” Harry said, voice firm but polite, “Ron, Lane – sorry, Lane, I know you just got here – I’d appreciate a few minutes alone with Ginny. Visiting hours are nearly over, and we haven’t had much time together lately.”

Lane looked at Harry for a beat, then looked at Ginny. He didn’t seem particularly put out by this rather unwarranted dismissal, but he looked like he was considering something.

Then, “I understand. Ginny’s said you’ve been away at Auror training. You must miss her.”

“Gin,” Lane continued, “I’ll see you soon at our usual spot.” Gracefully he got up out of his seat and left the Infirmary without a backwards glance.

Ron followed him out soon after, giving Ginny a gentle kiss on the forehead and telling her to take care of herself before he did.

***

After Lane and Ron left, despite Harry’s having practically chased them out of the Infirmary, Ginny and Harry sat in silence for a few moments. Harry seemed deep in thought, his fingers absently playing with hers.

Finally, he spoke. “I’m struggling, Gin. You almost got seriously hurt, Malfoy of all people saves you at the cost of losing the game for Slytherin, and then you introduce me to Lane, an old friend you’ve never mentioned before …”

Harry sighed, releasing her hand and running a hand through his messy black hair, nudging up his glasses with the other. “I’m trying not to make this about me. I’m glad Malfoy saved you. I mean, of course I am. It was awful watching you fall. I’m just…”

“Struggling?” Ginny offered gently.  

“Can I help it, Gin? Am I wrong to be confused by all this?  We only had a few weeks together over the summer, but I thought we shared everything with each other. Now we’re confined to weekly letters, and I know that’s not the same, but Gin – everything there is to know about me, I have told you and I will tell you. So Ron and I visit so that I can spend some time with you, but all this happens instead, and it’s hitting me that there are things you’ve not written to me about that I would’ve liked to know.”

Harry’s eyes were wide and imploring, and in that moment, Ginny hated herself.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I just wanted to explain some things to you in person.” Ginny reached out, touching his face, pulling him gently toward her.

It felt like such a long time since she’d really looked at Harry. Looking at him, really looking at him, still provoked something like a squeeze around her heart – his boyish features, the faint grey shadows under his bright, clear green eyes, the mop of hair that never quite behaved. His expression, almost always open, still had the power to make everything else blur into the background. The way he just looked so decent. She had missed him.

But his words left a mark. Why had it felt so difficult to tell him about Lane? Or about Draco? Why had her reasons for leaving them out of her letters seemed so compelling?

 She hadn’t even mentioned the correspondence parchments with Draco, or how much time she’d spent alone with Lane.

Harry’s reaction was understandable. And Ginny couldn’t help but feel that this was a problem of her own making.

“I didn’t want to worry you when you were busy in training,” she said. “It’s hard to explain befriending two Slytherins – I mean, and Lane doesn’t really count as a new friend, and I hadn’t known he was coming back to Hogwarts. But well, with Malfoy, with all the history we have with him, I thought I’d tell you in person.” She felt a twinge as she used Draco’s last name, but she didn’t want to make things harder for Harry.

“So wait – you and Malfoy are actually friends now?” questioned Harry. He looked perplexed. “I thought – with the Patrols – you were only keeping your interactions minimal.”

Ginny sighed. It wasn’t fair to Harry that she couldn’t be honest about Draco, but it also did not feel fair to Draco if she were entirely honest to Harry about him. She wasn’t sure if she could thread the needle.

“We talked about Voldemort being Tom Riddle. He didn’t know, and it upset him. Turns out he really was forced into – well, everything he did, but it seemed like he didn’t even know fully what was going on. So, we’ve been talking about that. His friends didn’t come back to Hogwarts, and I think he’s lonely.”

“Gin – it’s not your responsibility,” said Harry.

“But Harry…I was the one who told him; I was there, and he doesn’t have anyone to talk to who would understand. And now that I’ve been there for him, is it right to just walk away?”

Harry shook his head, as if to clear it. “I stepped in during their trials because Narcissa and Draco Malfoy risked themselves at the right moments for me during the war. I couldn’t live with myself if I hadn’t. But Ginny, with the Malfoys, any exchange with them should be finite. Purposeful.”

“So you think what Draco did today was for some kind of –”

Harry’s brows lifted. Ginny realised she had used Draco’s first name.

“Look, Gin, again, I’m thankful Malfoy was there. I won’t say you shouldn’t be his friend. But look – he can lie in the bed he made. And all I know is, the Malfoys have never been nice people, they’ve never done anything that wasn’t ultimately about looking out for themselves. They’re not like you. Or your family. I’m scared for you – that you give so much of yourself without realising that some people can and will just take.”

Harry sighed. “I don’t like that he’s already gotten you so caught up with him that you’re keeping things from me.”

He reached out, brushing her hair back gently, his fingers lingering against her cheek. Then he leaned in and kissed her – soft, slow, chaste.

There were times when Harry could feel like the answer to a question she hadn’t known she was asking.

“I don’t want him to see you the way I see you,” Harry said quietly. “I don’t want the next time I see you to be about anyone other than the two of us.”

Ginny swallowed. Her heart felt like it was aching, but she didn’t know why.

“I promise I won’t keep secrets from you, Harry,” she said. “Not anymore.”

***

It hadn’t been the best day for Draco Malfoy.

He had endured nearly an hour of the Slytherin Quidditch team’s ire (well, mainly Cameron Urquhart’s, who did enough shouting for the rest of them), before retreating to his room. Now he was just sitting in the bath, staring blankly at the tiled wall across from him.

In the grand scheme of things, Draco knew this wasn’t devastating. Perhaps the silver lining to having lived through a war was to gain some perspective. He wasn’t dead. He wasn’t being tortured. No one he truly loved (a pool thankfully limited to his parents, plus or minus Lucius Malfoy on the given hour) was in any danger.

Yes, there was public humiliation. Yes, he’d thrown a match. But someone out there was going to argue that he’d done the right thing. Granted, that someone who could point that out, was unlikely to be a Slytherin, and was also likely to go back to being confused given it was Draco Malfoy who had done the right thing for once.

Vaguely, Draco wondered if he could spin it – frame his actions as part of some long game to ingratiate the Malfoys to the victors of the war. This seemed like a stretch, even if it was the Gryffindor princess he had saved. Surely no sane Slytherin would expect losing to Gryffindor as a reasonable price to pay.

Then again, he’d lost matches for Slytherin before, and those were entirely due to his temperance and/or ability (as much as Draco would never admit that aloud), so really, was this actually worse?

More disturbingly – now that he was alone, Draco was beginning to realise that something had happened. Happened to him.

He knew that in the past weeks he’d grown fond of Ginny Weasley. She was his friend. The person he looked forward to talking to – who could make him laugh with a sharp line or stop him cold with a devastating observation. The person he looked out for at mealtimes, in classes. After long days, the one he wanted sneaking him out of the castle to fly under the stars, just the two of them.

He hated to admit it, what with her being who she was, but she had become special to him.  

And now, he was circling back to the fact that all of that had added up to him literally throwing a game for Slytherin – because he’d chosen to save her, instead.

Draco sighed, pressing his knuckles up against the back of his neck, trying to ease the tension.

Well, that was one way for Potter to find out that he and Ginny were friends.

Draco wasn’t even sure he could find it in himself to get some small satisfaction out of that.

Even so, he found himself wondering whether he should visit Ginny in the Infirmary.

Draco’s first thought was to ask himself if it was really going make things worse if anyone saw him visiting her. Probably not. He’d already saved her in front of the entire school. Visiting her now would be like pouring a teacup of water into a sea.

His next thought was to wonder how Ginny would react to him now, after what had happened.

More importantly – how did he want her to?

If she simply accepted what he did – as a Gryffindor could, given their penchant for running into burning buildings to save complete strangers – as a natural extension of their friendship, would that be enough for him?  

What if what he had done for Ginny Weasley was simply ordinary to her?