She walked into the Great Hall, still rubbing the sleep from her bleary eyes; the whole house had been up late into the night celebrating their triumph over the very forces of darkness [Slytherin, naturally]. The first thing she saw when she entered the hall was the group of people clustered around one end of the Gryffindor table, all chattering excitedly. She didn’t pay attention to the low, dissatisfied murmuring from the Slytherin table, instead concentrating on the nearest mug of coffee.

Almost there; hopefully no one would see her drinking someone else’s coffee. She was just bringing it up to her lips, oh wait, ugh, there was a lipstick print on the rim! Nevermind, it was coffee…

“Hey, Ginny, over here!” Colin waved her excitedly over and pressed a fresh cup into her hands.

“Huh.” She grunted and dumped her book bag onto the bench beside him and slumped on the table (dimly, she heard the voice in her head that sounded alarmingly like Molly tick her off for ‘unlady-like behaviour’, but let the other parts of her subconscious knee it in the groin and beat it into submission). She snarled and waved whatever Colin was shoving into her face away.

“Look, I’ve developed the photos from the Quidditch match!” She managed to sit up and focus on the prints, aided in no small amount by several well-placed, helpful jabs of Colin’s wand.

She flipped rapidly through them, then stopped, arrested by one of the pictures in the very middle.


She reached out one arm, her fingers stretching out towards the gleaming Snitch, and suddenly the whole Pitch was a frozen tableau (and not just because it was a photograph, either); Draco, bearing down on the Snitch from the opposite direction, a look of perfect horror written over his look of last-ditch concentration as he tried desperately to urge his broom faster, faster, intent on the small gleam of gold, yet somehow obviously aware of her movements.

Her, red Quidditch robes and redder hair flying out behind her, never tearing her eyes from the fluttering wings but also intensely focused on his approaching form, looking almost absurdly like a parody of the latest Witches’ Quidditch League advertisement [minus, of course, the eye-shadow; but then again what was the use of having your eyes look shadowy and mysterious when you were covered with sweat and mud?].

Their two teams, clustered around one of the hoops far below, all focusing on their own strategies, not one of them noticing the two key players above them.

The audience in the stands, even further below, all eyes trained not on the main game but on the two of them, straining to make out the small slashes of colour against the unyielding grey of the sky.

And then time sped up again, she grasped the Snitch firmly in her glove, automatically pulling hard to the left to avoid crashing into Draco as he swerved reflexively to the right, face blank, and the audience erupted into screams.


She tore her gaze from the picture and dropped the stack on the table.

“Ginny?” Colin gazed rather worriedly at her; he’d thought she’d whoop at that perfect moment, caught forever, like the rest of the house had done.

“Nice pictures, Colin,” She gave him a brief smile, “But I think we’re late for Transfiguration.”

“Blast!”





Strangely enough, she didn’t get into any major altercations with any Slytherins that day, until, unfortunately, she ran into Draco.

She swore quietly as she checked the schedule for Prefect Patrols later that week, written out neatly in Hermione’s bold distinctive writing.

“Damn. And it just had to be that bloody ferret.”

“I’m not particularly looking forward to your company either, little Weaslette.” She almost jumped at the low voice, breathed in her ear from behind her, altogether too close for comfort.

“Afraid you might lose again?” She forced herself not to twitch away from him, or even worse, sway into him.

“I wasn’t aware that this was a competition.” His eyes had flashed briefly at the mention of the previous day’s ignominy as he involuntarily stepped back from the stiffness of her body.

“Everything is a competition.” She turned and brushed past him before he could get a word in and he scowled, striding after her.

“Unfortunately you never seem to win the ones that count,” His caustic tone belied the double meaning of his words, “Just say the word and maybe I might actually occasionally consider letting you.”

“Apparently, Malfoy, I don’t need your help to win.”

He sneered, although it seemed more reflexive than anything and they walked on silently.

“And anyway,” she burst out angrily, “What did you think I was going to do? Run back to you and say that yes, I do think we belong together? That no matter what you say, I still want to try this? That even though hell will freeze over before you consider me, that despite everything you said about us not being able to work, I still can’t sleep without you?” She spat the words self-deprecatingly.

He opened his mouth to say, “You obviously should have,” or “I think we should,” or even “I can’t either, please, I didn’t mean it, ” (thereby breaking his record of having gone six years without once using that hateful word), but she cut in.

“Well, fine, Malfoy, I agree! You win this time! We’re not going anywhere, we never will, and it was obviously a mistake. I don’t know what I was thinking, and I’m sure you can’t wait to forget it!” She glared at him.

His mouth shut with an almost audible snap.

“Fine,” he muttered rebelliously.

They turned to their respective paths at the fork in the corridor.

“And you’re wrong on one count, Draco. You don’t win the important ones, because this obviously isn’t that, is it?”

She stalked off, and he couldn’t decide whether having her calling him Malfoy or Draco was worse.







There was still residual cheering when she climbed through the portrait hole.

“Whoohoo, there’s the Seeker what won us the game!”

The occupants in the room were arranged in their usual manner; Dean and Seamus in a corner, chuckling about something or another, Parvati and Lavender on the sofas giggling over their diaries, and Ron, Harry, and Hermione arranged in the squashy chairs by the fireplace, very subtly at the head of the Common Room, in the best seats and the best position to survey the room.

It struck her with a slight pang that at this moment in the dungeons, Draco was probably lounging in the dark green velvet chaise lounge in the similar position by the fireplace, as he had been the last time she’d sneaked down to meet him.

She managed a twisted smile at everyone’s expectant looks and flopped into a chair by the fireplace, beside Ron and Harry.

“Hey Ginny, this picture’s absolutely brilliant!” Harry waved the picture that had caught her attention at breakfast at her, beaming, and her cheeks started to ache with the strain. She had to make a concerted effort not to let her heart clench painfully at the sight of Draco’s form on his broomstick.

“Yeah. Look, I have some homework to do. I’ll see you at breakfast tomorrow.”

She gathered her things and hurried upstairs as the three of them stared after her.

Harry cleared his throat. “Was… was it something I said?”

“No, I don’t think so, Harry.” Hermione patted him reassuringly on the knee.

“I dunno, has she been acting a bit strange to you lately?” Ron demanded, looking worried.

“Nah, ‘s probably leftover nerves from the Quidditch match.”

“Yeah, maybe. And about this picture, I don’t like it!” He snatched it from Harry and frowned at it, brows knit together. “It’s like… disturbing, the way they’re both so focused on one another up there all alone.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “They are the Seekers, Ron.”

“Yeah, I know, but how did they know which way the other was going to turn? It was scary the way she managed not to crash into him…”

“Ah, you know she’s always been good at manoeuvring on a broom.”

Ron started to protest again but Harry waved him silent.

“So is she still going out with Dean Thomas?” Harry asked, just slightly too eager, and Hermione had to prevent herself from rolling her eyes.





She could never figure out how it really started, ages ago.

They had been indulging in the usual trade of insults, alone in a corridor where they’d chanced upon one another sometime just before curfew, when suddenly he’d pushed off the wall he’d been leaning on, arms folded casually, and kissed her.

It had been hungry and desperate, and all too familiar for something she’d only ever wondered at, and hardly something to be called pleasant, but she’d surprised both of them when her mouth had opened and her tongue swiped into his mouth. He’d gripped the back of her head, hard, and pressed her in more deeply.

And then it’d been all slick tongues and warm flesh and sliding hands, hands pushing her until her back hit the wall, hands smoothing over robes to slip between robe fastenings and into clothes, then rubbing and grasping and hot breaths and jerking hips and suddenly it was all over and they stood in the hallway, foreheads leaning against one another’s as their breaths, coming fast, mingled in the space between them.

She hadn’t dared to look up at him, not wanting to see the derision in his eyes, until he leaned down and simply pressed his lips to hers with a surprising gentleness.

Then he’d turned and walked away, not looking back, and she’d thought that was the end of it.

Until, that is, the next time she saw him and suddenly his pointed nose wasn’t too bad when she thought of it pressing slightly into her cheek as their lips moved on each other’s, and his paleness less abhorrent when she thought of the few glimpses she’d caught of the skin under his robes.

He must have felt her looking, because when he swivelled his head and glanced in her direction, he didn’t look surprised to see her eyes on him, and simply gave her an indecipherable look before turning back to his pudding.

He followed her out of the Great Hall and into an alcove behind a suit of armour, and responded with all due enthusiasm when she pulled his head down to meet hers.

A series of clandestine meetings had followed; secret visits of the respective dorms, rendezvous in the Potions classroom. They’d never gotten caught; Draco had, after all, an Invisibility Cloak that came in quite useful, and her Silencing Charms were really rather effective, even if she did say so herself. They came across other couples quite frequently; once she’d even been severely traumatised by the sight of Ron snogging Hermione.

In public he was cold and indifferent; by a silent agreement, they’d decided not to let anyone know. She avoided him and in turn he agreed never to call Hermione a Mudblood (she’d had to soothe him with plenty of kisses just to secure his agreement on this one).

She always thought it odd that they only started really talking (other than, of course, everyday, cursory, run of the mill small talk such as “Did anyone see you come down?”), for the first time in the six or seven years they’d known one another, sometime into the third time they met.

When it first started they’d simply meet, and kiss and touch, until the explorations got bolder and bolder and she started considering that maybe he was the one who was worth the first time; they’d never got a chance to, though, despite the many other things they’d done.

She realised that her skin was just as pale as his, and was so enamoured with his skin that she often spent hours tracing out patterns on his shoulder blades, and his back, from his collarbone all the way down to his stomach. She loved his hands, and his strong square nails, so at odds with his elegant fingers. ‘Made to touch you with,’ he’d once whispered into her neck when she was playing with his hands, and she’d blushed and been buoyant for the rest of the week. It was one of the few sentimental things he’d ever said, and she hoarded them away like the few pretty things she owned, each one sparkling brilliantly in her mind’s eye.

She’d just begun to forget that he was, despite everything, still a Malfoy, when it happened. She’d begun teasing him about Pansy’s attachment to him when he suddenly told her, flatly, that fiancées generally were, and she’d stared at him open-mouthed before scrambling off him where they’d both been lying comfortably on his bed, and left his Prefect’s room, slamming the door behind her.

Even now, she couldn’t bring herself to believe that he hadn’t come after her.

The next time they spoke was at the first Quidditch match of the year, between Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw. It was two days after she’d stormed out of his room, and which had meant two days of insomnia for her. He sought her out in the Astronomy Tower where she’d once confided that she used to sneak to watch Quidditch games; you had a clear view of the pitch and were perhaps even closer to the players. Colin had offered to join her but she’d waved him away, telling him that she needed to be alone for a while.

He had dark circles under his eyes as well; from shagging Pansy senseless, she thought bitterly, as she stared malignantly at him.

“Here to explain yourself?” She felt a twinge of relief that she’d managed to prevent her voice from cracking.

“Hardly, Ginevra,” he answered coolly as he sat down beside her.

“So why are you here, then? Come to appreciate the play of light on the moons of Jupiter? Oh, wait, sorry, it’s in the middle of the day.”

“I’m here for the same reason you are. To enjoy the Quidditch Match. Rubbing shoulders with the crowd in the stands doesn’t agree with my constitution.” He shuddered delicately.

She snorted and tried to pretend he wasn’t inches away, just waiting for her to reach out and cure the ache in the bottom of her throat.

“You know, Weaslette, we could never have worked out anyway.” She was surprised by the faint note of bitterness in his voice.

She rounded on him anyway. “Yes we bloody well could have! If we’d just tried…” Her voice trailed off and all she could do was gaze miserably at him.

“No we couldn’t. Did you presume to think that my family would even consider allowing you to become a Malfoy? You might belong to a pureblood family but you don’t have a penny to your name! Potter might have defeated the Dark Lord but my parents think your family is filth, Weasley. I hardly think they’d look upon the alliance favourably. And how would my marrying you benefit the Malfoys?”

She had frozen in anger when she heard the term “Muggle-lovers”, but when he said that he thought her family filth bile rose in the back of her throat and she couldn’t speak. She tried to put the fact that he’d considered marriage to her, even just to see the disadvantages of doing so, at the very back of her mind.

“I received an owl from my father informing me of the engagement just recently. You and I are not going anywhere and we’re not going to last long; we might as well put this sorry excuse for a relationship to a humane end.” When her arm jerked involuntarily against his, he gazed down at her in surprise.

“What, did you think we belonged together? That we were fated to be? That this was something other than an error in judgment?” The sneer on his face told her just what he thought of that.

She got up and left, not turning back; she didn’t trust herself not to cave and tell him that she didn’t mind that they wouldn’t last, didn’t trust herself not to throw herself at his feet and grovel.

And that had been it, as far as their relationship was concerned. She had managed to avoid him until the Quidditch match, two weeks later; they had, after all, no friends and almost nothing in common. And even though her nocturnal sneaking out of the tower had ended, she was somehow getting much less sleep than before. Other than that, and the snapping at anyone who spoke to her, and the inattention in class she had to make up for by studying every minute of her spare time, and the odd crying fit which, if she was perfectly honest, came over her about twice a week, she thought she was coping with everything remarkably well.





Then Valentine’s Day drew alarmingly close on the horizon. She could only be thankful that they hadn’t survived to see this day; she told herself that the lack of presents, of romantic words, of any sort of confirmation from him would only be heartache for her.

Dean Thomas asked her to go to Hogsmeade with him, but she turned him down. So soon after someone as spectacular as Draco, she didn’t think she was ready to handle a normal pleasant Gryffindor boy.

She was sitting curled up in the Common Room brooding over it, a Potions book in her lap, when she looked around and noticed that it was late enough for the fire to have burned down low, and for almost everyone to be in bed by now. The only ones left in the Common Room were Harry and her. She glanced across at him and, starting, saw that he was watching her.

He moved to sit beside her on the sofa when he saw her look up at him.

“Hi, Harry,” She paused for an uncomfortable moment, “It’s late, we should be getting to sleep.”

She made to get up, but he grabbed her wrist.

“Could we just sit here for a while and… talk?” Harry mumbled, looking down at his lap.

She sat down, looking uncertainly at him. He didn’t let go of her wrist.

“Ginny…”

She looked at him. Her heart was beating uncomfortably and she had an awful presentiment she knew what was coming next.

“Would you like to come to Hogsmeade with me on Valentine’s Day?” He spoke fast, the words tumbling out in a rush, and for a moment she almost convinced herself that she didn’t hear him correctly.

She looked away from his searching eyes, which, though nice in their own way, weren’t that odd shade between grey and blue.

She had rejected Dean because he was too ordinary, but Harry was hardly that. Besides, he was the antithesis of Draco in every way. He was exactly what she had though she’d wanted; perhaps he might be able to make her remember what every good little Gryffindor girl was supposed to be looking for.

But maybe she needed some more time after Draco. She had just started to say so when Harry spoke again, hastily.

“I don’t mean to put you in an awkward situation. Just… just think about it, okay?”

The least she could do was favour him with a smile. She couldn’t bring herself to, but Harry didn’t seem to notice.

The next day at breakfast, she decided to turn Harry down. She told herself that this was in no way due to the fact that when she came in, Draco looked up at her and didn’t immediately turn back to his friends, instead gracing her with another one of his unreadable looks.

She couldn’t get much down. The milk was too thick, the toast too dry, everything else choked her. She went over to where Harry was seated on her way out of the Great Hall.

She opened her mouth to speak, but her eye was caught by the sight of a head of silvery blond hair inclining. She watched with dull fascination as Draco whispered something in Pansy’s ear, pointing at Ginny and Harry, and Pansy broke out into malicious laughter.

“Harry,” she was surprised by how firmly cheerful her voice sounded. He didn’t hear her.

“Harry,” she tried again. He was engaged in animated conversation with her brother and didn’t notice.

“Harry! I’ll go to Hogsmeade with you on Valentine’s Day!” she yelled, scowling. Draco had never ignored her.

Unfortunately, her latest attempt to catch Harry’s attention coincided with one of those chance lulls in general conversation level. Everyone in the Hall turned to look at the both of them, and she turned bright red, not daring to look at the Slytherin table.

Harry was beaming, oblivious to the stares. “That’s great, Ginny! I’m really looking forward to it!”

The whispers had started, with a few rude fingers pointing in their direction. She fled.





Ginny always thought that she had the worst of luck. She was proven correct when they had the misfortune of meeting Draco and Pansy on the way back from Hogsmeade.

The date had been awkward, to say the least. He seemed to have developed the habit of gazing admiringly at her with a gormless look on his face that she found exceedingly irritating, to say the least.

He seemed to have everything planned; first, they went to the sweetshop, where the proprietors kept winking at Harry and giving her knowing looks. Then they went to Honeydukes, where everyone gawked. He kept asking her where she wanted to go to, if she was fine, if she was enjoying herself, and she kept having to reply politely, non-committally. They ran out of things to say in the first five minutes, and he seemed content to gaze at her silently, so she had to keep a steady stream of meaningless small talk going. She couldn’t help thinking that Draco and she always had things to talk about, and sometimes they were content to lapse into comfortable silence.

They sort of hung around aimlessly for a bit, until Harry said it was almost time for them to be getting back, to which Ginny promptly gratefully agreed.

And that’s when they met Draco and Pansy. Pansy had been hanging adoringly off Draco’s arm, while Ginny had been laughing, slightly too enthusiastically, at a joke Harry had just made, glad for something to fill the silence with.

They rounded a corner and came upon each other. Icy silence prevailed after Draco and Ginny had caught sight of each other. Harry, not noticing the tension and thinking that the main conflict still involved him, huffed and took Ginny’s hand protectively. She willed herself not to tell him that she didn’t need protection from the Big Bad Malfoy anymore.

Draco’s mouth tightened when he saw Ginny’s hand in Harry’s, but didn’t say anything. She was just thinking that they were going to be able to get through this without saying a single word when Draco whipped his head round to face them as they passed each other.

“I see you finally caught who you’ve been meaning to, Weaslette,” somehow he’d never sounded so nasty.

“For your information, Malfoy, I asked her to come to Hogsmeade with me. And not that it has anything to do with you, but I’ve finally realised what I’ve been missing,” Harry valiantly stuck up for Ginny. She hadn’t liked him this much all day.

His eyes had narrowed; never a good sign.

“And while you were missing it, Potter, guess who’s been enjoying it?”

She gaped at him. Then she turned to Harry and pulled his head down and kissed him quickly, hopefully before he registered what Draco had said. He was clumsy, and she hoped that was due to surprise because it looked like she was going to be stuck with him for a while. She didn’t see Draco clenching his fist.

“You’re really sweet, Harry. Let’s go before this wanker,” Harry looked surprised even over his glazed look; he’d never heard her swear, “ruins our perfect date.”

She smiled sweetly at Harry, shot a dirty look at Draco, sneered at Pansy, and dragged Harry off, resisting the urge to wipe her mouth with the back of her hand.




‘Stupid idiot hasn’t even bothered to change the password of his portrait,’ she thought, as she pushed open the portrait and climbed into Draco’s room, carefully shutting it behind her.

Then she turned around and froze.

Draco was tucked into bed, but he wasn’t sleeping. There were two spots of colour dancing high on his cheeks, he wasn’t wearing anything under the sheets, and his hand was in a very, very bad place, where it had obviously been quite busy just a moment before. He stared at her, white-lipped.

“What the hell are you doing in here, Ginny?”

She noted that in times of stress, he reverted to ‘Ginny’ as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

“I came here to find you,” she said carefully, making sure to keep her eyes trained on his face and not… not lower.

She took his robe from his wardrobe, where it usually hung, and tossed it to him.

“I needed to speak with you.” She sat on the foot of the bed, watching him intently.

He took the robe and waited for her to turn around.

He coughed.

“Oh, sorry. It’s not like it’s anything I haven’t seen,” she sighed as she turned.

He got off the bed and put it on, making some discreet adjustments as he did so. Seeing her sitting on his bed as she used to was not helping matters.

“Right, what is it, Weasley?” He tried to sound long-suffering as he climbed back beneath the sheets, with a fair amount of success.

She pinned him with a look.

“We have to come to an agreement of some sorts.”

“What about?” He was never very good at feigning innocence.

“You know very well what! If you tell Harry, I will make sure everyone in this castle knows that you’ve been snogging a Weasley.” She hissed, well, hissily.

He looked alarmed.

“No need to get nasty, Weasley,” he said smoothly, “Let’s discuss this rationally.”

“No, what we have to do is discuss this quickly.” Her lip was still curled dangerously, but she looked slightly mollified.

“All in good time, all in good time. What exactly are you looking to get out of this?”

She thought for a moment, pulling her legs up to sit cross-legged on the bed.

“I want,” she said slowly, “for you not to tell anyone about us. I want to pretend none of this happened; no, actually I don’t want to go back to insulting you, I want us to ignore each other. I want you never to speak to me again.” She looked away, at the desk in the corner of the room, at the thick green carpet on the floor, anywhere but at him.

His heart clenched as he thought indignantly, ‘She’s trying to write us off.’

“All I want is for you not to tell everyone. Which I think means I get to demand something extra, just to be fair, right Weasley?”

She rolled her eyes as she shifted to the head of the bed so she could lean back on the headboard.

They ended up sitting almost companionably side by side.

“Whatever you say, Malfoy.”

“Right. I want you not to date Potter.”

She looked blank for a moment before a disgusted expression crossed her face.

“What? Sorry, Malfoy, but no.”

“Why not?” He realised, somewhat belatedly, that he was pouting, but didn’t bother to school his features into an expression more acceptable for a Malfoy. If she was going to be childish about this, then so was he.

She didn’t know why either. In fact, in all honesty, she probably would have gotten rid of him soon anyway. But it was the principle of the thing, wasn’t it?

“Why do you even care, Malfoy? It hardly has anything to do with you now. It’s not as if you weren’t just fantasizing about Parkinson just now.”

“Don’t tell me you actually want the lumbering idiot around!” He’d looked momentarily embarrassed at her last sentence.

She shrugged. “You haven’t answered my question.”

He cut in before she finished speaking. “Are you planning to snog him?” His voice cracked as it rose and she couldn’t stop herself from laughing, strained though it sounded.

“It’s not the sort of thing you plan.” She thought about it for a moment. “But I suppose that, if the eventuality came up, I would.”

His eyebrows rose. “He wouldn’t know where to put his nose! He’d probably end up biting your lip or… something,” he ended lamely.

“At least he likes me. At least I know he’ll take good care of me. At least he wouldn’t break up with me for no discernable reason!”

“Is that what you’re looking for? Someone who’ll hang off your every word and worship the ground you walk on? Someone who will take good care of you? I thought better of you.” He sounded slightly incredulous.

“No you bloody well didn’t! You…!” she forced herself to calm down, “No. Not that.”

“Then I’m afraid we haven’t got an agreement, Weasley.”

“Anyway what exactly is wrong with settling for Harry? Aren’t you settling for Parkinson?”

He shrugged and looked, briefly, annoyed. “That’s beside the point, Weasley!”

“Oh? Then what is the point?” She raised an eyebrow and he was reminded disturbingly of himself.

“That I don’t want you to date Potter! Anyone else but that smug idiot!”

“It’s really got nothing to do with you, Malfoy.”

She looked sideways at him and thought, simultaneously, how much she wanted to kiss his trembling lower lip and slap that stupid expression off his face.

She sighed. “Anything else that you want, Malfoy?”

He eyed her speculatively.

“And you can safely assume that any requests for sex will not go down well.”

“Oh, you know me too well,” he smirked as he replied absently.

She drew her legs up, hugging them to her chest, and leaned her head back on the headboard. They sat there in reflective silence.

“How did we come to this?” He sounded tired and put-out, and she felt impulsively like hugging him.

“Well, I think this was pretty much inevitably when you said you thought my family was filth,” she was unable to prevent herself from sounding petty.

“Quote me correctly, Weasley. I said my parents thought so.”

“Because we’re Muggle-lovers?”

“Because you’re poor. Obviously, Weasley.”

“As if that really matters in the grand scheme of things!”

“Parkinson has a twenty-thousand Galleon dowry.”

She looked disbelievingly at him.

“And granted, her lineage might not be quite as impressive as yours, but Malfoys just don’t marry Weasleys.”

“Lilith Malfoy married Samuel Weasley a hundred years ago, with the blessing of both their families. Stop lying, Draco! What is it really?”

There was a beat of silence.

“… My father says that he’ll cut off my inheritance if I don’t go through with the engagement.” Draco said quietly, so much so that Ginny had to strain to hear him.

“Oh.” He nodded, not looking up at her.

“Oh. Well if you don’t think that this is worth, what, a couple of thousand Galleons, then who am I to say anything?”

“I’ve seen how the poor live, Weasley!” He flushed angrily, almost yelling, “And you can call me a coward but I refuse to live like that! So it might have been you I was thinking about just now, but if it means losing you, then sorry, but I’ll take it! How do you know that in twenty years' time we’ll still want to be together?”

“I don’t,” she whispered, and got up to leave.

She was halfway through the portrait hole when she heard him speak.

“Alright, I’ll do what you ask,” he said dully, and she didn’t turn back.







[A/N I hate it when character's won't listen to me! They just go and say and do things that make the plot bunny's cry in pain and anguish!]

What annoyed her was that he wouldn’t meet her gaze in the hallways, not even deigning to give her the slightest, almost imperceptible inclination of the head that he had before the Incident (as she privately termed it; she’d wanted to think of some snazzy acronym, preferably to a swear word, something really profane, but didn’t have the energy).

And what really sent her into boiling rage was that it was what she’d requested, wasn’t it? But she stuck to it; it wasn’t worth going through all the trauma she’d had to get him to agree just for her to back down.

Plus, it would mean he’d won. (Which he hadn’t. No, definitely not. He had to date Parkinson, hadn’t he? Perhaps her end of the stick was better. At least Harry didn’t have a saccharine voice or plumped up knocke… Ugh. Strike that thought.)

Time passed. Her heart didn’t, surprisingly enough, wilt and die the hundredth day after they split (though it did, disturbingly, give an odd, alarming beat she’d never felt before when their eyes met once in the Great Hall, entirely by accident).

She tried not to think about the fact that she’d actually been counting the days since the split; it was already disturbing enough that she now had to sit on the other side of the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall to avoid staring at him during mealtimes.

One gormless look (Harry’s, of course) at mealtimes was quite enough, thank you very much.

Harry stopped being surprised by her flinching away from him when he tried to kiss her, but he was entirely allayed by her weak smile and her saying that she wanted to take it very slow.

Very. Slow.

She quietly wondered what it said about their relationship that he was so busy staring at her that he’d acquiesce or agree to anything she said.

Harry’s vacuous smile when he looked at her didn’t altogether disappear (if anything, it intensified as the time passed), but she told herself it would start to annoy her less. Eventually.

She did once have an odd dream which began with her slapping the look off his face, which satisfied her immensely, but the expression appeared to have all the sticking power of limpets dipped in superglue, and even in her dream she was unable to accomplish it.

Ron and Hermione and the rest of the occupants of the Gryffindor Tower did finally stop congratulating them, but that provided very little comfort.

The Bat-Bogey Hexes she dished out to achieve this did quite cheer her up, though, for a minute or two.

She sometimes thought she’d never heal. Perhaps when people said “Oh, him? I’ve gotten over him!”, waving their hands dismissively, as she’d seen Lavender doing just the other day when asked about Seamus, they merely meant that they’d gotten used to the constant ache in their chests.

She thought it was cured the day Terry Boot cornered her and kissed her, but then she realised it was because she could see his blond hair falling between them when she gazed through her half-closed eyes, and pushed him hastily off (hexing him for good measure, of course).

Harry’s leg healed from the nasty dragon burn (incurable with magic) he’d sustained when he accompanied Hagrid on his visit to Norbert, so he could take over Seeking duties again.

She spent the extra time from not having to attend Quidditch practice studying; her marks had never been better. Even Snape had bestowed a rare smile on her, the day she’d been the only one in the whole class not to botch the difficult Numbing Draught they’d been told to brew (which said a lot, really, that she wasn’t quite prepared to read into).

She couldn’t quite get to sleep at night, though. She took to wandering around the castle (really, she’d always had such a flair for the melodramatic; she was just like that mad woman from Jane Eyrie! Or Eye or Eir or something like that.)

Sometimes she’d bring some book or other when she sneaked around the castle after curfew; she’d sit there and pretend she was reading (if to no-one but herself) while she sat in abandoned broom closets or the Potions Classrooms and just breathed.

Occasionally, it sounded almost like it did when she used to curl up with Draco, when they’d breathe the same breath, share the same space.

That night, she hastily ducked into a closet to escape Filch, who was crooning to Mrs Norris (she always felt faintly disturbed at the twisted way he smiled at the cat).

She stood just on this side of the door, looking through the smallest crack in the door, until she heard the smallest noise behind her and turned.

It was Draco, propped up against one corner of the cramped cupboard (which was, in other words, just several inches away from her) with a book Levitated in front of his face and that special spell that she’d seen in her accidental reading lighting up the end of his wand; the one that no-one outside a delineated space could see, looking at her in the strangest way.

No wonder she hadn’t noticed him.

She stared wordlessly at him, then back around and faced the door. Filch seemed to be taking an awfully long time outside.

‘Probably too busy shagging his cat to leave and save you,’ her mind babbled inanely.

She heard him turn a page behind her, and concentrated on not twitching whenever his warm breath tickled the hair on the nape of her neck.

Ginny almost flinched, however, when she heard him put the book away, small rustling noises in the dark magnified by her nervous, sharpened senses.

She concentrated on the still warm presence right behind her, not even noticing when Filch’s footsteps grew softer and eventually faded into silence.

She could almost feel him just being there, not doing anything but existing, whatever it was between them palpable enough to tickle the skin on the curve of her back.

“Stop it, Draco,” she whispered after a lifetime of quickened heartbeats and even breaths, wondering for a moment what exactly she was asking him to stop, then really did jump when he pushed past her, opening the door and standing there for a moment looking at her.

Ginny watched, mesmerized, as he lifted a hand slowly, to touch her cheek, the weight of his fingertips cool against her skin.

She squeezed her eyes shut against the look in his eyes and heard him leave, the movement of air stirring her own robes in the silence.





Ginny thanked Merlin for the small mercies which took her mind off things as she made her way to the classroom the Duelling Club was conducted in these days, Colin by her side. Harry, Ron and Hermione were, thankfully, having Detention (something about Harry hexing Boot when he heard he’d kissed Ginny, the other two of course stepping up to stop him; it apparently resulted in the corridor being covered in slime).

Dumbledore had decided that with the advent of the war, the old Duelling Club should be started up once more, albeit not with a certified idiot conducting the class; this time it was Snape and Flitwick, who had indeed been a duelling champion in his younger days.

“Right, class, gather round,” Flitwick squeaked, gesturing at all of them, “Today we will be practicing the Noxious memorius spell mentioned in the last session. Pair up!”

Ginny winced; she wasn’t looking forward to this particular spell. What it did was plunge the victim of the spell straight into their worst memories, rendering them temporarily incapacitated. This was an acceptable winning stroke, although rather difficult to cast. Ginny was personally not looking forward to finding out whether her mind considered her time in the Chamber of Secrets, or the Incident, her worst memory.

She faced Colin.

“Alright, you can go first,” he replied to her look of mute appeal. She was nice enough not to mention the nervous tic in his left eyelid.

“Noxious memorius!” she shouted, swishing her wand in the rather complicated hand motion before pointing it at Colin.

He completely failed to go rigid, have his eyes glaze over, or scream.

“Fine,” she sighed at her failure, “You have a go.”

The last thing she saw was Colin pointed his wand at her, before she opened her eyes to complete darkness.

She could feel the cold stone pressing into her back, chilling her through the thin cotton of her robes.

“Lumos,” she heard someone hiss, then she saw Tom Riddle’s face illuminated with the light from her wand. She couldn’t help but feel a little insulted that the Incident wasn’t the worst memory she had, but let it pass.

Ginny stared, fascinated, as he slowly turned to point the wand at her.

She blinked, and was suddenly back in her own time.

“Hey, that worked!” Colin’s slightly rotund face was jubilant. “I even got the counter curse right!”

“Yeah,” she smiled at him, “You did.”

They practiced the spell a few more times (she got it right on the second try) before Snape interrupted the class.

“Professor Flitwick and I,” he said smoothly (she always thought that he managed to speak so smoothly because of his general greasiness), “have decided to let you experience a real duel.”

The murmur of excitement in the class was quickly checked when he continued.

“I will be assigning you opponents. Since you are in pairs now, choose one person to go first; the other will be your duel second. Don’t forget, now; the idea is to have your opponent fight themselves, not you.”

Colin gestured frantically at her, and she nodded, resigned.

She grimaced when she heard, “Miss Parkinson, I believe you will enjoy your duel with Miss Weasley.”

Parkinson came over, trailing clouds of sickly perfume.

“Wh… Where’s your second?” Colin stammered; he’d always been more than slightly intimidated by her.

“Oh, he’s just coming,” she said, crinkling her nose in disgust at having to speak to him, as Draco materialised silently behind her. Ginny turned her head away.

“You may begin,” Snape boomed, and they took up their Duelling stances.

“You’re not going to win this, Weasley,” Parkinson hissed as they began circling one another.

‘You already have,’ Ginny thought glumly, seeing Draco standing protectively behind Pansy’s shoulder out of the corner of her eye.


She struck, helpless fury speeding up her movements, while Parkinson was still raising her wand. Bright white light shot out of the end of her wand.

There was a beat during which everyone froze.

Parkinson felt the boils raising on her face with trembling fingers and let out a horrified scream.

“My face! What have you done to my ¬face, you… you toad!”

“That’s not very nice,” Ginny said coolly, casting a quick Expelliarmus and catching Pansy’s wand as it sailed out of her unresisting grip.

Parkinson ran off to find Flitwick, sobbing.

Ginny saw movement out of the corner of her eye, and turned just in time to raise her wand and defend herself against Draco’s own Expelliarmus. She snarled at the thought that he was more than ready to attack her.
.
“Just us, now,” he rasped after dispelling her quick Tantellegra.

A quick slew of curses and hexes followed, neither of them managing to get anything in. They kept having to dodge wayward spells from the other Duelling parties.

She noticed the slightest hesitation before every curse he cast, as though he had to steel himself to do it, and had to admit it was there in her movements too, slowing her down just that crucial bit.

“But if it means losing you, I’ll still take it!” she heard, her memory replaying, and suddenly moved, as quick as the time she hit him with the Bat-Bogey Hex, as quick as the time she hexed Terry Boot, as fast as she had ever cast a curse.

“Complaisantus,” she yelled, her voice cracking.

His eyes widened as he felt his arm moving of its own volition, then narrowed as he realised it was moving in the movements for an Obliviate spell.

She could see the muscles in his wrist working as he tried to stop himself, as he realised what she was making him do. His movements slowed, but still continued, jerkily.

His mouth opened, muscle in his jaw clenching and unclenching.

She watched as his lips moved. It looked painful. His lips started to form an ‘o’.

She doubled over as a spell hit her.

“Stop!” Snape yelled, casting a quick spell to dispel all the magic in the room.

Ginny straightened up slowly as she turned to look around at the disarray. It rather reminded her of Lockhart’s first lesson, actually.

Draco relaxed and started to massage his jaw.

She turned to Colin until she noticed that he’d been Stunned, probably by accident from one of the other groups.

The few groups that had continued to use their wands started to laugh at the large number of people engaged in tussles.

Snape eventually managed to sort it out to a minimum of fuss and injury and a maximum of outraged hissing.

“Ten points each of the people who did not engage in physical,” his lip curled, “sparring. Now get out of here.”

The classroom cleared remarkably quickly, the two professors levitating the unconscious to the Infirmary, the marginally injured trailing after them.

She stood outside the classroom for a long moment and felt dazed as the corridor emptied of people.

She didn’t protest when she felt someone guiding her away.

She looked up at Draco as he propped her against the wall in the alcove beside the Gryffindor portrait.

“Hello.” she said blankly.

“Hi,” he ran his fingers through his hair in frustration, “Look, are you all right?”

“All right?” she repeated, eyes focused somewhere through his head.

“Are. You. All. Right.” He said slowly.

“Am I all right?” she repeated softly to herself, clearly mulling over the question and pondering its deeper intricacies.

“Well?” he was obviously getting annoyed.

“Well.”

“Stop. Stop bloody repeating what I say!”

“Bloody repeating,” she rolled the syllables over her tongue, relishing how they sounded. “Bloo-dy reee-peeaaaa-ttinnnnggggg.” She giggled.

“Argh!” he thumped the wall beside her and she flinched away, looking at the opposite wall in fright.

His rage deflated.

“Okay. We’ll just bring you to the infirmary, okay?”

She dragged her eyes up to focus slowly on a spot slightly to the left of his nose and he sighed, taking hold of her wrist and started pulling.

The Infirmary, when they eventually got there, was packed. He managed to get Madam Pomfrey to attend to her by looking very important and Head-Boy-ish. Ish.

Then he left. Quickly, with a sneer firmly fixed on in case anyone noticed him.





She opened her eyes to utter blackness and an odd rustling sound and had, for a moment, an awful feeling of déjà vu. Then memory came rushing back.

Madam Pomfrey had fixed her up with a quick swish of her wand, then wanted to sent her back to the Gryffindor dorms.

Ginny had fixed her with her Puppy-eyed Look of Doom, as her brothers had termed it, and Pomfrey’d melted and allowed her to spend the night at the Infirmary.

Ginny didn’t particularly feel like going back to the dormitories and letting Harry rest an arm over her shoulders while she did her work, or listening to the prattle of the girls, excitedly discussing the day’s events. Nor did she feel like being interrogated by Ron about what had happened at the Duelling Club in his absence.

She left it at that. Some things didn’t bear too much looking into.

She heard the door click open and suddenly remembered the noise that had woken her up.

Draco, looking wretched, pale skin barely showing up against the darkness of the room.

“All right, Weasley?”

She nodded carefully. Her head still ached, slightly.

“I. I just thought I’d come check up on you.”

She didn’t say anything. If she concentrated, and looked hard enough, she could just see the movements of his throat as he swallowed.

She saw him force the tension out of his muscles and drape himself into a nonchalant position, balanced on the edge of the chair by her bed with his legs propped up beside her.

“So, Weasley, where did you learn that spell from? It’s powerful Dark Magic, it is. Something little Weaslettes shouldn’t be playing with.”

She chose her words carefully.

“I’ve been… doing a lot of reading.”

“But the Complaisantus curse? That’s a step away from Imperius.”

She shrugged.

“At the risk of sounding clichéd, I’d have to say that there are still things you don’t know about me, Malfoy.”

“Indeed.”

They stared at one another for a moment. Ginny turned her head to look out of the window.

“Look, if you want me to do it, I will.”

“Mmm.” She didn’t bother pretending not to know what he was talking about.

“Well, do you want me to or not?”

“Don’t you ever listen to your professors, Draco?” she sighed, “Snape said to win, make your opponent struggle with themselves, not you.”

“My, my, does the little weasel read people well. First you managed Pansy, then me.”

“You know, it says a lot that when you don’t know how to react, you sneer instinctively.”

He tensed.

“Anyway, it’s not as if Parkinson was hard. You were, quite, but then I realised that the last thing you’d want would be for me to forget the huge impact you had on my life. It’s not particularly difficult to see that your ego is the only thing you care about.”

His mouth opened violently, but then he closed it, instead taking her hand and inspecting it in the dim moonlight.

“But I managed not to, didn’t I? I didn’t curse you. You were hit by a curse from that Irish git.”

“And Malfoy’s ego survives to enjoy another day.”

He laid her hand gently back onto the bedspread.

“Have it your way, Weasley.”



(A/N They really don’t listen, you know. Please review?)

She was sitting next to Harry on a bench. They were surrounded by trees; maybe they were in the Forbidden Forest?

There was a curious texture to the air – or was it liquid? It was like honey; it had that same thick, sticky feel to it, only infinitely more nauseating. It mangled the shapes of everything around them; the bench, the trees, the clouds all bent into shapes that were slightly, subtly wrong. Only the both of them remained untouched.

She noticed that he was holding her hand. His lips were moving, but she couldn’t hear him; his words apparently muffled by the same thing that weighed her movements down. The foliage around them was moving almost ominously, slow, thick rustling.

All she could feel was that muffling pressure; Harry didn’t seem to feel it, judging by his gestures, economical and clean cut as always.

She flexed her fingers and watched in fascination as they sent slow waves through the heavy liquid they were in. The leaves beyond his shoulder, warped in the odd movement of light through the fluid, shook sluggishly.

She looked up in time to see his lips shape her name.

She could see the moonlight (was it?) reflected strangely in his eyes. Peering up, she noticed that even the moon was distorted; now the man’s face that the Muggles were always on about was clearly visible. She noted through her growing, awful dread that now it looked more like a death’s head than anything else.

Someone burst through the leaves, movements indicating that they had as much trouble moving through the viscous fluid as she did.

It was Draco, the lines of his body also uncontorted by the honey-air. He reached out to shove at Harry, but Harry, reflexes that were originally sharp trained far beyond that, spun around to point his wand at him.

The both of them, outlined in the bilious light of the not-moon, wands pointed at one another. Standing there for an eternity, a second, an age, one quick beat of her fluttering heart.

The pressure on her lifted.

They shouted curses, but she was moving.

No time to think, to get her wand, just ACT!

There was a thump. She felt an impact as she flung herself at one of them, the one of most import, covering him with her body.

Silence.

She raised her head to look at him and

flung the blankets off.

Ginny lay there, recovering.

She was panting and drenched in sweat; evidently realistic nightmares, no matter how inconsequential, did take their toll on other parts of you than your mind and subconscious.

She shoved the bundle of warm blankets aside (so that was what had weighed her down!) and padded over to the window, where a clear beam of moonlight spilled over onto the floor.

She shot a quick glance at the moon to check that the skeletal face wasn’t still leering at her (no, safe there) and leaned out.

The sharp breeze outside chilled her and raised goose pimples through her thin nightclothes, but its coolness was refreshing (rather like a slap in the face, really, her mind supplied inconsequentially).

The grounds were steeped in essence of moonlight. She was distinctly reminded of the liquid in a Pensieve; bright, white light, almost tangible.

She could see the Forest clearly, beyond the lake. Ginny shuddered and looked away.

The moon was reflected in the surface of the water. She looked at it, bright white and unforgiving even in its reflection, vivid glow touching everything.

She reached out, mesmerised, fingers almost shrinking from contact with the bar of pure luminescence shining down from the break in the rafters just above her head, and was momentarily disoriented when they slipped into the light, becoming, briefly, brightly illuminated before she snatched them away, feeling slightly foolish for having been taken in.

She turned around and went back to bed, snuggling into the warm hollow her body had left. When she closed her eyes, she could still see the light from behind her eyelids.

She faced away from the open window and pulled the bedclothes over her head.

It always surprised her how the moon, basking in the light from something else, could shine so brightly.









“Morning, Ginny,” Colin chirped as Ginny hurried into the Great Hall, dragging her book bag behind her. She’d had trouble finding her favourite quill, so was slightly late for breakfast.

She flashed him a surprised look; Colin usually knew never to say anything to her in the mornings unless it was of vital importance.

Training him had been so easy when he was already pliant under constant, if unspoken, threat of having his head chewed off.

Apparently he was better at reading moods than she’d thought, though. She greeted him with a smile and hefted her bag onto the seat beside her.

Ron slid into the seat beside her, all freckles and effusiveness and Weasley jumper and carroty hair. She felt the usual rush of affection, this time accompanied with more than the slightest twinge of irritation.

She shot him a distinctly unfriendly look and he jumped.

“Look, I’ll just… sit over here, all right?”

He rather thought that he’d had enough experience being at the wrong end of a wand she was holding, thanks.

He inched away and she gave him a sweet, if slightly malicious smile, before turning to greet Harry.

“Ginny!”

“Good morning, Harry.”

She stood up to give him a small hug, then sat him down beside her and heaped his plate with food.

“Grub’s up!”

She tucked in with a small noise of contentment.

Ron stared at her open-mouthed, Hermione treated her to an intense look of scrutiny, and Harry looked dazed.

She managed to make it through the day without letting up her cheeriness or general good-will towards man-kind (not extended, of course to any of the following: Slytherins, Draco, Snape, bumbling first years who bumped into her when she obviously had right of way and caused her to drop all her books, even if they helped her to pick them up, Filch, Mrs Norris, and Draco).

Not that he tried to talk to her, of course.

Of course. She’d told him not to, hadn’t she? Quite firmly, too. Perfectly understandable.

That night they all sat in the Common Room and basked in the warmth of the roaring fire; there was still the slightest nip in the air from spring.

She sat with Harry in one of the armchairs by the fire, snuggled together. It was one of the rare times they’d had physical contact since they began their relationship; Harry would walk her to class when convenient, and they always sat next to one another at meals, but that was it, really.

Harry and Ron were engaged in a gripping game of Wizard’s Chess, and Harry was losing abysmally. Much more so than usual, actually.

If that was even possible, the Draco part of her whispered.

Hermione was in a chair nearby, alternating between watching, and reading her book.

“You two look like you’re two halves fitted together!” Lavender gushed from across the room, smiling across at Gryffindor’s Golden Couple.

Hermione’s head snapped up. Ginny looked at her questioningly.

Her mouth formed a perfect ‘o’, understanding beginning to dawn in her eyes, as Ginny watched in considerable interest.

“I’ve got to go to the Library,” she muttered to no one in particular, and practically ran from the room.

Ginny shrugged and turned back to the game, snuggling her forehead into Harry’s neck.







Of all the things she’d ever been through, Ginny tried her most never to think about the Struggle, the second war with Voldemort and his Death Eaters.

Then the insidious darkness had been everywhere. Corruption had already been rife in the Wizarding World, of course; witness Lucius Malfoy’s clout with the Ministry.

But this now it wasn’t just corruption (despite Arthur Weasley’s private opinion that it was never just corruption). Now when people eyed you on the streets, when someone behaved suspiciously, you could never quite tell.

Was it a Death Eater there, true visage of cold black countenance hiding behind the mask of living flesh schooled into blank expressions?

No, you could never tell.

Even Snape had only been able to provide them with so much information about who was Dark, who was still hiding in ambiguous shades of grey, who the next target was.

Voldemort, after all, wasn’t a fool. He who was master of espionage, who had a hand in every pie, was hardly going to discount the possibility of spies in his own inner circle; he only disseminated information essential to the part a particular Death Eater had to play in his plans.

It had been during the holidays of Ginny’s Fifth Year that everything finally culminated.

The Order had been at the frontline for the better part of two years; they’d worked covertly, neither helping or hindering the Ministry’s own half-hearted efforts.

Neither side had sustained very much substantial damage, but the war, however much cloak-and-dagger, was taking its toll on each of them.

Snape regularly missed classes. Hermione told them once, almost shivering in fear, that when she’d dropped by Snape’s office to collect a reference book when he’d been ill, that he’d been tucked up in bed, swathed in bandages, and had called her by her first name!

The dark rings under McGonagall’s eyes were much deeper now; instead of looking a well-preserved early-fifties, she now looked a rather tired late-fifties.

Even Lupin, now hired as Defence teacher again (the Wizarding World had been in too much turmoil over Voldemort’s return to make more than a feeble protest) but living at Grimmauld Place, was showing more wear and tear than his monthly affliction could account for.

When Harry saw Lupin tiredly rubbing away the crease between his eyebrows, he remembered that Sirius’ death had taken away more than his godfather, but had taken away Remus’ last true friend, the only other Marauder left.

It was, perhaps, more his anger abut Sirius having been taken away from him that spurred Harry to throw himself, heart and soul, into researching and practicing ways to get at Voldemort.

They spent the whole holidays doing it; Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and Neville, who’d been entrusted to Dumbledore by his grandmother.

The old woman had turned up on the doorstep of Grimmauld Place one day, had thrust the shaking Neville at Dumbledore.

“Take him,” she had said fiercely, “And he will, for his parents, become so much more than they will ever be.”

Dumbledore had understood. He always did.

Neville had lived with Ron and Harry in one of the old bedrooms in Grimmauld Place, while Ginny and Hermione shared a room.

Neville had done some growing up very quickly. Or, the other four realised, his maturity had always been hidden from them under his… wibbling, for a lack of a better word.

He’d actually been capable of so much more than they’d thought. Knowing that someone was responsible for your parent’s mindless stares, for them looking straight through you, unrecognising, tended to toughen you up a mite.

And, of course, his Herbology skills often came in quite handy during their compilation of useful spells.

They often stayed up late into the night checking up the old arcane spells from the Black library.

Harry had stayed up later than all of them. That summer, he’d managed to bottle up his needless, pubertal tetchiness, and had instead focused it into one pinpoint of burning hatred; he’d turned his angst, all his existential anger, at the one thing that mattered; getting back at the creature responsible for the death of his parents, of his parent’s best friend, of his own childhood.

He’d been all strong presence, brooding anger, controlled fury, and they were all treated to glimpses of the forceful personality he was well on his way to becoming.

They didn’t know Ginny often stayed up with him, though, researching, reading the dusty books by the lights of their wands.

He wasn’t the only one Voldemort had wrenched childhood away from, after all.

And then all their plans had gone to pot before they could come to fruition.

Voldemort had launched an attack on them while they were in Knockturn Alley, buying ingredients for the newest potion Harry wanted to try his hand at.

Remus had been there, indestructible snarling man-flesh of hatred, but someone had made the terrible, terrible mistake of forgetting that there were many Dark Creatures in Voldemort’s ranks as well.

Tonks had been accompanying them as well; there was only so much one witch could do against two opponents however, and she had been hard put to hold them off.

Neville had managed to get in a lucky shot in at one, effectively knocking him out before he’d rushed over to help Ron who had been dodging spells from the another Death Eater.

The air was thick with dust and spells, thick with the sounds of children being stripped of their naiveté, of the hopelessness of it all.

Hermione was the first to go down.

She’d just cast a Befuddlement Spell over her shoulder as she’d run for shelter behind a shopfront, temporarily handicapping a Death Eater so Ron could Stun him, when a flash of light hit her in the back.

There wasn’t even time for a scream before she went down, brown hair flying out, looking strangely like something from a badly-shot Muggle movie.

And the worst thing, the absolute worst thing, Harry reflected later, was that he hadn’t noticed.

That was the thing about battle. It wasn’t at all like how they’d described it in books; there was no time to think and consider, choose between this stroke and that.

It was all in the here and now, and if you couldn’t make split-second decisions or move instinctively then you went down.

It wasn’t that suddenly the hero was transformed from a clumsy oaf to a nimble swordsman, that suddenly he noticed everything around him, but rather the opposite; fear narrowed what you saw, giving you tunnel vision. Suddenly all you could see were details; the exact pattern of the brick wall opposite, the acrid smell of battle, the precise feeling of hope extinguishing.

And if you turned out to be the hero, that was just because you’d managed to keep your head and had won, whichever side you were on.

And he’ll always remember that when Hermione was hit by a Cruciatius Curse, all he’d been focusing on was the way the smoke in the air parted as he moved his wand through it, cursing the Death Eater advancing on the barrel of dead rhinoceros beetles he’d been hiding behind.

Then Harry had seen him. It. His face had been unmasked, snake-like slit eyes glowing red.

Smoke had bellowed out in front of his black robes.

‘Very theatrical,’ a distant part of Harry’d commented dryly, while all the other bits had been instructing his body to get to its feet, to hold its wand-arm out, face Voldemort.

They’d advanced on one another.

“This is it, boy,” he had hissed, “Now you’ll be joining your parents and that sorry excuse for a godfather.”

Harry’s lips had tightened.

“Avada kedevra!” he had shouted, voice cracking in desperation.

But Lord Voldemort hadn’t been the most feared wizard in five hundred years for nothing.

In that split second, he’d taken his wand out, pointed it at Harry, uttered the exact same curse.

And it had been fourth year Triwizard Tournament all over again. Single beam of light connecting the tips of both wands, both putting in their all.

The beads of light in the beam had begun to move towards Harry.

Sweat was beading on his forehead. The one vein in the northwest of his face began to pop out.

The first bead had reached the tip of Harry’s wand.

Pop! had gone his wand. Not sound, but feeling.

He had felt it shudder.

Pop!

He’d tried harder. The movement of the beads’d slowed, but didn’t come to a halt.

Pop!

His wand had begun to shudder. The light in Voldemort’s eyes had been maniacal.

Pop!

It had started to glow intensely, and he’d looked away from the terrible brilliance as the last trembling bead moved ever closer.

Then he’d seen Ginny.

She’d just looked up from her epic battle with Wormtail, who’d held off as if on purpose to allow her to watch.

She’d screamed, “Now!”

He hadn’t understood.

Then the wash of pure energy hit him, he’d thrown himself behind the beam of light, the curse shot backwards through Voldemort’s wand and hit him in the chest, and Voldemort crumpled.

There should have been a thousand trumpets, fanfare, the cheers of a million people.

Instead there had only been only one or two thin screams, dull thuds and thumps, as the battles around them continued.

Harry’d turned around to face all of them.

Then the backlash from Voldemort’s death had hit the Death Eaters and every last one of them had doubled over, clutching their arms.

Harry had walked over to Voldemort’s corpse, rapidly crumbling without the preserving spells on it. He’d rummaged in the thick robes and taken his wand, broke it in his two hands.

Just like that, with a small snap.

The members of the Order had stood there, staring at the two thin pieces of wood in Harry’s hand.

Then Lupin had shook himself.

“We should get Ginny and Hermione to St Mungo’s,” he had said in the voice that’d aged ten years with Sirius’ death.

Harry had felt an immense wave of guilt. How hadn’t he noticed the two bodies sprawled on the ground?

Then the Ministry lackeys had arrived and had taken care of all the details.

And that had been it, really.

Ginny’d recovered, eventually regained the energy she’d transferred to Harry.

What had always seemed unbelievably ironic to her was that she’d cast the very same spell that Tom Riddle had used to drain her of her energy; she’d hadn’t only learned how to slaughter chickens from that episode.

Everything comes full circle, in the end.

Hermione had been weak and shaken for months, but after plenty of recuperation and Ronnie-love, had recovered as well.

They’d all expected Harry and Ginny to be especially close, after that. Sharing magic, one of the most personal things a wizard can do, would be expected to nurture intimacy, wouldn’t it?

And for a while, they had been, actually. For a while they could only bear to be in the company of one another, whether in opposite armchairs or seated on opposite sides of the huge table in the ballroom at Grimmauld Place.

But then she’d gotten increasingly irritated with Harry’s new dazed look when he was with her. She became, unfathomably, increasingly on edge around him, so she stayed away, and put the memories in a tightly locked cupboard in a corner of her mind.

And the Wizarding World had gone on semi-permanent holiday. All the Order members present that day were cried up as heroes, even (or perhaps specially) Lupin, for standing up to fellow Dark Creatures, for listening to his rational mind against all other instincts. And for Tonks, who’d stood up for Muggles despite being of Pure Blood heritage.

Eventually the media hullabaloo had died down, except for the occasional article run on the ‘Saviours of the Wizarding World’.

Ginny had tried to forget about it as well, one of the darkest periods of her life.

But when Harry’d had smiled down at her, and told her to ‘think about’ going out with him that very first time, he’d suddenly sparked a recollection of the rush of absolute trust she’d had as she’d cast that spell.

And now, being with him, seemed to dredge up unwanted memories.

But it didn’t matter, she told herself, as she slid her arm around his shoulders, it was going to be her conscious governing her actions, not her subconscious, if it was the last thing she did.

Dreams, scheams.

Hermione stopped her after breakfast the morning after she’d run out of the Common Room.

“I need to talk to you,” she sad quietly, making sure she wasn’t overheard by Harry.

Ginny didn’t argue with the look of urgency framed by bushy hair.

“After your last class. Library.”

Ginny had a bad moment as she remembered the last time someone had passed her instructions for a covert meeting and blushed furiously (it’d been with Draco, before they’d broken it off) but recovered quickly enough.

“Alright.”

So she made her way there after class, Harry following her, carrying both his own textbooks and hers.

She stopped at the entrance to the Library.

“Thank you, Harry, it was very sweet of you to offer to carry my books for me.”

He got the hint and turned to go to the Gryffindor dormitories.

“Harry, wait.”

Ginny, suddenly engulfed by a wave of affection, reached out to give him a brief hug.

“Really, thank you.”

He beamed and wandered off.

She walked into the library, fighting the skittish feeling she often got when she got too close Harry, and got a nasty shock when she saw Draco glowering at her. He turned back to his books the moment she came in through the door, obviously hoping she hadn’t seen him watching them.

Hermione waved her over from a discreet table hiding in a corner.

She sat down, shoving her book bag under her chair and trying to ignore the distinct feeling she had whenever Draco watched her out of the corner of his eye, and stared expectantly at Hermione.

Hermione cleared her throat nervously.

“It’s about Harry.”

Ginny raised her eyebrows and wondered how she could already tell this wasn’t going to be good.

“Um. This is all a bit odd. Look, I’m going to ask you some questions which might seem a bit off, but bear with me, okay?”

She shrugged.

“Have you noticed that sometimes when he’s around you, he looks a bit, well, dazed?”

Ginny stared.

“Just answer me, alright?” Hermione snapped, then looked down, briefly penitent.

“Sorry,” she breathed out, “This is very important, and I’m feeling a bit… edgy.”

“It’s okay. And, yes, I suppose he does, sometimes. Actually, most of the time.”

From where she was, she could see Draco subtly leaning out over his chair, trying to catch what they were saying.

“So did you notice when this started?”

Ginny thought, unwillingly going through memories she usually kept locked away.

“Well, he wasn’t always like that,” she said slowly, “It was… sometime after… sometime after the war.”

Hermione looked rather, Ginny thought, like a bloodhound intent on a fox’s trail. And she felt alarmingly like the fox.

‘Shame her nose doesn’t twitch,’ she thought vaguely, before concentrating on what Hermione was asking. Draco had moved his chair around to the other side of the table, so as to hear them better.

“When you’re around him, do you sometimes feel,” Hermione paused and checked something she’d written on the scroll in front of her, “um, agitated? Like you’ve been charged?”

“How did you?...” Ginny started, trailing off, then nodded. Draco was leaning out dangerously far.

“Ha! I knew it!”

Madam Pince looked over at Hermione’s loud exclamation just as Draco overbalanced and fell out of his chair.

“Perhaps we’d better go to my room. I don’t need these books anymore.”

They packed up their books and got up.

They passed by Draco, who was brushing out his robes, trying to look nonchalant.

“Tsk, tsk, Malfoy, looks like you don’t even have good balance on land. No wonder you can’t fly well,” Ginny opened her mouth to say, but then remembered that she wasn’t speaking to him, and pushed past him.

She jumped as his hand brushed hers, turned to shoot him a filthy look, and hurried after Hermione.

They reached her room without bumping into either Ron or Harry.

“I always feel so glad that I get my own room as Head Girl,” Hermione sighed as she dumped her books onto the table and flopped onto the bed.

“Hmm. Now I don’t suppose you’d mind telling me what all that was about?”

Hermione got her notes and passed them to Ginny.

“Well, you see, sharing magic with someone is always a very dangerous process. If you’re lucky, then your magics are different enough not to mix, like yours and Vol.. Voldemort’s, but if you’re unlucky, then they do, and what you get is a soup of two people’s magic in one person.”

Ginny nodded, looking through the notes.

“The person who cast the spell would, of course, be unaffected; they’d gradually regenerate the magic they passed on. But the problem lies with the person on whom the spell was cast. If the two magics are immiscible, then after a while, the foreign magic would fade and dissipate. But if they do mix, then their body is unable to dispel the residue magic.”

“So,” Ginny cut in, still scanning the scroll, “Every time they came into close contact, the magic of the caster would exert an attraction on her own magic in the him, and he would be dazed by some of his magic leaving him. And she would be on edge because she would be receiving magic from him.”

She didn’t notice the pronouns she was using. They both, after all, knew which situation they were referring to.

“Correct,” Hermione beamed, “and his body would produce some of her magic, as well, because it can’t distinguish between the two types.”

Ginny sighed and ran her hand through her hair in frustration.

“That’s just peachy.”

“Not to worry, all we have to do is isolate the foreign magic in Harry. I suggest we go tell Dumbledore; he’ll be able to help.”

“Wait, why didn’t he warn us of this in the first place?”

“I think he tried to, actually. He kept going on about how dangerous the spell was, and about how spells have their after effects, but I thought he was just being typical Dumbledore.”

Ginny threw herself onto the bed.

“Well, that certainly explains a lot,” she murmured, staring up at the ceiling.

They went to Dumbledore the next day, dragging Harry along with them.

Dumbledore had nodded sagely, liberally dispensing lemon sherbets, as they explained the situation.

“Yes, I did wonder whether that might happen.”

He pursed his lips and stared off into the distance.

Ginny, Hermione, and Harry looked at one another.

“Professor Dumbledore?” Hermione ventured timidly.

“Hmm? Oh, right. We’ll need...”

Dumbledore summoned McGonagall and Snape in the fireplace and they stepped out, brushing the soot off their robes.

He’d explained the gist of the situation quickly.

“Well, I suggest that we bring their magic into corporeal form, and work from there to separate them.”

Dumbledore agreed, and they decided to commence the spells in a week; they needed to brew the necessary potions.

As they were leaving, however, McGonagall stopped Ginny and Harry.

“Potter,” she said, brisk as always, “Melanie Graves is leaving Hogwarts. Her parents are migrating, and they have decided to bring her with them.”

Harry groaned and buried his head in his hands. Melanie was the Gryffindor Keeper.

Ginny patted him sympathetically on the back.

“I think, in light of recent events, it might be better not to hold an open audition. Miss Weasley, I believe, would do very well as Keeper. I don’t think any Gryffindor would contest her taking over Melanie’s position.”

Harry brightened up and turned expectantly to her.

She looked at his eager face.

“All right,” she nodded, sighing.

“And I might mention that I think you’re both handling this excellently well,” McGonagall said, resting a hand awkwardly on their shoulders and looking rather like she’d just swallowed a fly at the admission.

They smiled, murmured polite and meaningless things, and extricated themselves as quickly as possible.












Ginny sighed and threw herself onto her bed. She’d just come back from an intense session of Quidditch, and her body was feeling battered and bruised; the Quaffle was thrown with no small amount of force, and she’d been intercepting throws for the better part of the last three hours.

In top of that, the previous day had been spent with McGonagall and Snape, who’d removed her magic, turning it instead into corporeal form.

It had materialised in the form of a metallic copper liquid that moved and shifted constantly, glinting in the light.

Snape had bottled it, nose casting an alarmingly large shadow on the opposite wall, while McGonagall briefed Ginny.

“You’ll be feeling tired the next couple of days without your magic. We’ve also put a damper on you, so that you‘ll not be generating any more magic until we get this done, so that means no magic at all. Oh, and we’ve spoken to your other professors, and arranged it so that you’ll not be doing any practical wandwork during the next week or so.”

And there was Quidditch practice again tomorrow! Ginny moaned and burrowed her face into her pillow.

The next day was Harry’s turn to have his magic removed. (Ron had already made several unkind jokes about how it sounded slightly like he was about to become a eunuch.)

He left Quidditch practice early, leaving instructions for the team to follow and plays to practice, and went to meet McGonagall and Snape.

Ginny and Harry’s shared the same tight smile across the Quidditch locker room as he left, even if his was slightly confounded.

They mounted their brooms and flew up.

Ginny never allowed herself to feel regret that she was no longer the key player, no longer the Seeker, instead being confined to defending the hoop; she threw herself into Keeping with the same enthusiasm and focus she had Seeking.

That was why, two hours into practice, she only noticed the ruckus back down on the Pitch when Rachel Adams, one of the Chasers she’d been practicing with, motioned her to look down.

Her heart gave a funny little leap when she recognised the green flying robes of the Slytherin team, but she clicked her tongue in exasperation and gestured to Adams to continue playing.

“We booked the pitch!” Ron yelled angrily, Official Spokesperson Of The Gryffindor Team When Harry Potter Wasn’t There.

Draco’s lip curled.

“Signed note from Snape, Weasley,” he waved the piece of parchment in front of Ron’s nose.

Ron snarled and made a grab for it just as Harry jogged back onto the Pitch.

Then three things happened, in quick succession.

First: the two Beaters flew down to see what it was all about and whether they could lend a hand, or better yet, their bats.

Second: the Bludgers zoomed towards the other team members still practicing.

Third: Ginny Weasley turned to watch Harry and Draco argue.

When Adams screamed, prompting Ron, Harry, and Draco to turn around, the looks on their faces were identical ones of horror as they registered what it was falling out of the sky.

Red robes and red hair. Ginny Weasley. Bludger disentangling itself from her and continuing to pelt her.

Draco mounted his broom and zoomed up. Harry whipped out his wand, tried in vain to cast a spell, any spell to save her.

But just before she hit the ground, she slowed, though still hitting it with a sickening thud and several distinct cracks.

Ron ran to her, tucking his wand back into his robes.

Everyone gathered around, minus Adams who’d had the presence of mind to run up to the Infirmary to get Madam Pomfrey.

Ginny opened her eyes to see everyone crowded around, blinking away the blood from the gash above her eyebrow.

Through the miasma of pain, she could make out the concerned faces of Ron and Harry, with Draco hovering just behind.

She lifted her arm, stretched out pleading fingers.

“Harry.” She whispered.

The last thing she remembered before the cool relief of darkness overtook her was the feeling of warm arms wrapping around her.





Blaise watched in amusement as Draco systematically shredded the carpet in the Head Boy room.

“Draco, mate, calm down,” he couldn’t help smirking, despite it not being quite appropriate to the Lead Man’s Best Friend And Confidante.

He was the only person who knew about Draco’s relationship (or ex-relationship) with Ginny Weasley; apart from them of course, as it would have been quite quite weird if the both of them hadn’t been informed.

He’d happened upon the both of them in Draco’s room, once, and Ginny’d stopped Draco from Obliviating him.

Draco snarled.

“I honestly can’t believe you’re upset that she called Potter’s name and not yours. Besides, I’m sure she’s called out your name more than your fair share of times,” He wiggled his eyebrows in a distinctly salacious manner, then ducked to avoid the book chucked at his head.

“But why? I mean, why him? Just because he’s Saint Potter and goodness and light personified!”

Blaise shrugged.

“Not that I want to be rude or anything, Draco old buddy old pal, but have you considered that she might simply trust him more? It’s not as though you’ve never hurt her or anything.”

Draco looked briefly anguished before glowering at the carpet once more.

“Besides, wasn’t there a rumour circulating a while back that she helped him to defeat Voldemort the second time? That must have required a lot of trust.”

They both jumped as the portrait banged open.

“Malfoy, you arse!” Parkinson yelled as she stepped into the room and slapped him about the head, “Where were you? I was looking for you all afternoon! You could at least pretend to participate in this farce of a relationship, you know.”

Blaise winced as she hit him again.










Ginny was still awake when Harry slipped into the Infirmary that night.

She turned around as the door squeaked a little, half hoping and half fearing it might be Draco, then recognised the mussed black hair.

“Hi, Harry,” she whispered, trying not to move her head too much for fear that the little men trying to drill their way out of her skull might get angry and start doing some other damage.

“Ginny.”

He sat down on the chair beside her bed.

They watched each other in the pale moonlight. She was reminded of another time, not so long ago, when another boy had sat in that chair, and felt her heart knot.

“I’m sorry, Ginny, I really am.” Harry’s face was twisted up in wretchedness.

“What for?”

“I… I couldn’t save you.”

She smiled gingerly. It felt like the little men had stopped to have a cup of tea.

“Don’t be silly, Harry, it wasn’t your fault.”

He continued looking tormented, until she squeezed his hand where he’d been holding it.

“Truly. Besides, Ron saved me, didn’t he?”

He smiled sadly, then, and she was struck, all of a sudden, by how much better he looked when he wasn’t dazed.

He leaned over to place a gentle kiss on her cheek before leaving.

“You’ll always be my hero regardless, Harry,” she whispered to the darkness.






She was back in the Great Hall eating breakfast by the next morning, jostling elbows with Ron and elbowing Harry playfully in the side.

Her good mood vanished at once, however, when she saw Parkinson place a square of Honeyduke’s chocolate in Draco’s mouth, then, laughing, lean over and kiss him.

It was definitely disgust squeezing her heart unpleasantly, she thought as she waited for them to surface.

She watched.

She took a sip of coffee and nibbled her croissant.

She stabbed the butter knife into the pat of butter as she saw Draco’s tongue swipe into Parkinson’s mouth and tried not to remember how it felt like.

She thought she saw Draco’s eyes open to watch her before he threw himself into the kiss with even more vim and vigour.

Pansy broke off, still laughing, sucking on a square of chocolate.

Ginny pushed her plate away. She wasn’t hungry anymore.

“All right, Ginny?” Harry peered at her in concern. She could feel Draco’s eyes on her.

She forced a sweet smile and nodded.

Snape swooped down on them after breakfast, leading them to the classroom they’d cast the spells in.

McGonagall was waiting there, two vials in hand. She passed one to each.

Ginny peered at the copper liquid.

Essence of Ginny Weasley, that was.

How odd.

She touched her finger to the surface of the liquid, as McGonagall had instructed, and saw Harry doing the same out of the corner of her eye.

She jumped as she felt a wave of energy hit her.

“Oh, I forget to tell you about the aftershock,” McGonagall said as she took the bowls from them and removed the dampers, “Right, you may go to class now. If you notice anything more, you may approach either me or Professor Snape.”

They left, nerves tingling.






[A/N: I know, I know, there was barely any D/G interaction there. And it's short. Relatively. Sorry. Just wait! Next chapter. Oh it’s either one or two more chapters and a sequel or three or four more chapters and nothing, I guess. What do you think? I’ll have to see whether I have anything to put in the sequel besides the basic stuff I’ve worked out. Oh, and thanks for reviewing, darlings.]

He was kissing her, both their mouths opened wide so they could kiss as deep as possible, their tongues intertwining moistly, slicking over each other, pushing at palates, teeth.

He slid a hand up her arm and she felt it tingle, the sparks diffusing pleasantly through her.

His teeth just grazed the inside of her cheek, and that combined that with the thought he was exhaling air that’d just been inside his body into her mouth made her moan, the sound quickly swallowed up in their mouths.

She arched her neck up, eyes squeezed shut, as he moved his mouth down, trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses over her jawbone. She slid her hand slowly up his thigh in response.

“Oh, Merlin, I… ” he let out a breathy moan.

She frowned slightly; something wasn’t quite right.

Eyes still closed, she bent her head to snuggle at his neck; he’d always liked that. She breathed him in deeply, then gently blew in his ear.

He froze, obviously concentrating on the sensations at his ear.

She stuck out her tongue, gently touched just the tip of it to the shell of his ear; she could always make him twitch with that.

He moaned.

She frowned again and opened her eyes.

“Harry!”

“Oh, Ginny,” he breathed, his hair and eyes failing to turn back to the gold and silver they’d been in her mind’s eye. Now she realized why her eyes had shut of their own accord, although when she kissed Draco, both their eyes were always opened, fixed on each other’s faces.

She gave her head an imperceptible shake, to clear it of its images, before leaning in again.

‘Harry,’ she thought as she flicked her tongue over his lips, ‘This is Harry.’

His hand slid from her shoulder to cup the side of her face, to bring her closer to him.

Her mind was blank, but not in the pleasantly comfortable way it got after she’d had a satisfying snog. It was just… empty.

He moved up one hand to undo the clasp of her robes.

She sighed and gently removed his hands, pulling away.

“Um, Harry.”

He looked so endearing, sitting there with this hair even more mussed than usual, face slightly flushed, eyes heavy-lidded.

She resisted the urge to reach out and ruffle his hair.

“Harry, I’ve got a headache.”

Which, horribly, terribly clichéd as it sounded, was at least true; since she’d opened her eyes, the most awful throbbing and buzzing had started up between her temples and her stomach had started turning over.

He was instantly concerned, and she felt even more awful.

“Is it a side effect of the… spell-thing? Shall I bring you to McGonagall?”

He’d already almost risen from his chair.

She smiled weakly and pressed his hand.

“No, Harry, it’s okay. I think I just need to sit here for a bit, okay? And, um, you should probably take care of that.” She gestured vaguely in the general direction.

He blushed bright red.

“Right,” he coughed, “I think I’ll just go to the loo for a bit then.”

She nodded, face buried in her hands.

He came back no more than three minutes later.

She peered up at him, feeling a little better now, wondering how he could have taken care of it that quickly.

“Harry?”

“Hmm?”

“How did you deal with it?”

He blushed again.

“You didn’t… Um. Did you?”

“Ginny! Of course not! That would be disrespectful! You’re right here.”

She gestured for him to continue, not mentioning that, at her behest, certain other people had taken the opportunity more than once to do that for her, right in front of her. His blush was spreading from the tops of his ears and his cheeks to the rest of his face.

“Well, I just… I just think awful thoughts.”

She perked up, looking curious.

“Like what awful thoughts?”

He looked away. Even his nose had a reddish tinge to it by now.

“Well…”

“Oh, go on, you can tell me.”

“Um, once. Once I thought of you kissing Malfoy,” he said quickly.

She raised an eyebrow, managing to quell the unavoidable leap her heart gave when his name was mentioned.

“It’s really disgusting and it makes me really angry, you see, and then, er, it goes away.” He supplied helpfully.

It was her turn to blush.

“Oh. Right.”

She tried to stand up, but her stomach chose to turn over again at that very moment and she almost fell.

He ended up carrying her back to the dorms, despite her rather vehement protests.

She buried her face in his neck, praying they wouldn’t meet Malfoy along the corridors and yet somehow half-hoping they would.

But they made it back without much mishap, except for wild catcalls and Ron’s indignant yelp when Harry climbed through the portrait hole.










Their exams started to loom alarmingly on the horizon, so Ginny thankfully threw herself into studying and tried to avoid snogging sessions with Harry.

Why was it that after dreaming she was still with Draco, kissing him enthusiastically, she’d wake up, remember she was with Harry, and feel guilty about betraying Draco? But she stopped dreaming so much after she started pulling her curtains closed at night, shutting out the moonlight.

It must be her damn hormones; she’d also been snapping at everyone quite a lot lately. The other day she’d lost her temper with Colin and almost hexed!... Alright, truth be told, that’d happened many times before. But she’d almost cursed him with the Bat-Bogey Hex!

But Colin, dear Colin, hadn’t said anything. He’d just given her an infuriatingly understanding look, turning around to glance at Draco and Pansy cooing at each other in the corridor for some unknown reason of his own (why would they have anything to do with her bad temper?), and dragged her off to the Common Room to study.

Her nose was buried determinedly in the Potions Book (though she’d always been surprisingly good at Potions) when Harry flopped down beside her. She smiled at him.

“Had enough of studying for today?”

He shrugged, lower lip pushed out a bit.

“Hadn’t had enough of you lately,” he moaned, burrowing his head into her hair.

She laughed as he hugged her, but felt more than the faintest twinge of unease. This relationship was obviously not going to work, at least not now, and if Harry were like this after not even a week of not-having-more-than-ten-minutes-of-each-other, what more when she broke it off?

Face buried in her hair, he whispered, “I love you, Gin-gin.”

She hugged him tighter, barely trusting her voice not to give out and betray her.

“I love you too, Harry,” and at least that was true.






She put her quill down as Snape told them to stop writing and sighed, flexing out the ache in her wrist.

It was all warm, summer daisies and Quidditch match-perfect weather outside and they were stuck inside, with another paper still to go. She’d been cramming constantly the last few days (the dark circles around her eyes bore testimony to that) and really couldn’t wait to just shed her robes and run outside.

She grabbed her bag from under her table, sliding out her Transfiguration notes as she filed out of the classroom with the other students.

“Hey, did you get question nine…”

“What was your answer for…”

“I’m sure that it’d turn purple when…”

Colin joined her, slinging an arm over her shoulders.

“Let’s get away from here,” she said sharply; the press of people and the constant chatter was annoying her. Did they have to discuss it when it was obviously already over?

Colin laughed, and they made their way to their usual table in the Library.

Parkinson was sitting there, at their table, books piled high around her, bent over a piece of parchment. She had an old pair of spectacles, perched on her nose, disgustingly cute against her blue eyes.

Ginny scowled.

Throwing off Colin’s restraining grasp on her elbow, she marched up and slid into a chair opposite Pansy, taking out her notes and textbooks with studied nonchalance.

Pansy looked up slowly.

“What, pray, are you doing here, Weasley?”

Ginny couldn’t help but feel a twinge of admiration for Pansy at managing to keep her cool.

“Studying, obviously. I would have thought that that would be apparent even to you.”

Pansy laughed, lip curled in a smirk.

“Oh, I forgot, some people actually have to work for their money.”

Ginny’s blood boiled, but she simply took out her best quill and focused on her notes.

Colin approached the table slowly. Pansy gave him a death glare and he froze.

Ginny turned around and scowled at him, and he slid into a chair at the table as well.

“You too? What was your name again? Oh, Creevey.”

Pansy’s tone indicated she didn’t think very much of that name.

“And you must be the infamous Parkinson, of course. There aren’t many other pugs studying at Hogwarts, are there?” Colin looked surprised at what’d just left his mouth.

Pansy glared daggers, and Ginny gave him an approving nudge under the table with her foot.

All three of them bent over their work again, neither side willing to back down and leave.

There was still an hour left to the exam, and Ginny’d finished going over her notes, so much so that she didn’t want to look at them again. She’d be surprised if she got anything less than an Outstanding for this one.

She looked up to see Draco homing in.

She scrunched up her nose and turned in the opposite direction.

“Pansy.” And he leaned down and kissed her.

Wetly, Ginny noticed distantly. And with a lot of tongue. And little squelchy noises.

Then she smirked as Madam Pince gestured violently for them to Stop Making A Public Spectacle Of Themselves.

Pansy broke apart, and pulled him down into the seat beside her.

A table for four, two Slytherins on one side, two Gryffindors on the other.

“How’s the studying going, Weasley?” Draco asked, malice curling in his tone.

“Better than yours.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure if I were you.”

“Well it’s a good thing that you aren’t me, then.” Their banter was starting to remind her uncomfortably of how it’d been before that first kiss.

Pansy looked from one to the other. She obviously had more than an inkling of what was going on, but didn’t bother to stop it.

“Fine, Weaslette, I’ll make you a bet.”

“But to make a bet both sides has to have something that the other wants. And you don’t.” Ginny said, not bothering to look up from her notes where she was doodling.

It wasn’t easy sparring with someone who met rapier thrust with a blow of the cudgel.

“Oh, I think you’ll find I do.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. Pansy was looking at the entrance of the Library, where Blaise was coming in, with an odd look on her face. Colin’s head was still bowed over his textbooks, not wanting to get caught in the crossfire.

“Oh, do you?”

“Yes.”

She waited, then snarled mentally when she realised that she would be forced to inquire as to what his idea was.

“Good for you, then.”

He smirked, not wanting to let himself be drawn out.

“Go on, then, since you obviously can’t wait to enlighten me as to what your stroke of genius is.”

Catching the look in her eyes, he quelled the urge the remark that his strokes were actions of genius indeed, as she well knew, saying instead, “Alright. If you do better than I do in our next respective papers, I’ll buy you robes for the Leaving Ball. To which, I can safely assume, you’re going with Potter.”

It was just barely a question. She ignored it.

“And if I lose?”

“Then you dance the first dance of the Ball with me.”

Pansy turned back, a look of protest on her face, but Ginny laughed before she could say anything.

“I’m not that cheap, Malfoy. A dance with someone like you for a price of a set of dress robes? I’d rather go naked.”

Draco opened his mouth.

“Shut it, Malfoy. And besides, Harry’s already getting me a set.”

Which was a complete, bald-faced lie; Fred and George had gotten her a set for Christmas, with the gold from their joke shop.

She saw anger flash in his eyes as he looked up at someone behind her.

Colin nudged her foot as she heard Harry’s voice.

“Hey, Ginny. Being bothered?”

She turned and smiled at him.

“No, Harry, of course not. I doubt some present would forget the rather unfortunate Bat-Bogey Hex they suffered from in Fifth Year. They wouldn’t dare try anything again.”

Harry laughed.

“Alright, then.”

“Besides, Potter, what could you possibly do to me that she couldn’t?”

Ginny felt Harry stiffen at Draco’s tone.

“Oh, Malfoy, lots. But he knows that I can take care of myself, which is more than I can say for your girlfriend.”

They all glanced at Pansy. She was at that moment, unfortunately for her, staring vacantly at Blaise, mouth hanging slightly open.

Malfoy scowled.

“Well I think I’ll be off now,” Ginny said brightly, gathering up her books, “Coming, Colin?”

They were off, Ginny hand-in-hand with Harry, before Malfoy could even have time to formulate an appropriate retort. He had to settle for a quiet ‘damn’ under his breath instead.






After the exams ended, they ended up having an informal Quidditch Match.

Everyone had been lounging around in the sun, reading books drowsily or chatting, just winding down after the pressure of the exams.

“I wish Quidditch season was still on,” Ginny said sleepily, fingers scritching at Harry’s scalp.

“We won anyway,” he smiled up through her curtain of long hair, head pillowed in her lap.

“Yeah. But I wish we could play some more,” she sighed, then closed her eyes in contentment as a breeze blew past.

Harry climbed to his feet.

“Harry! You don’t have to.”

“You want to play,” he grinned, and disappeared to confer with the group of students under the neighbouring tree.

They turned out to be Slytherins, so Harry only managed to rustle up enough players for a game of two-a-team; a Seeker and a Beater on each team. (Ron and Hermione were off somewhere; snogging passionately, as Ginny and Harry decided privately, to much quiet laughter).

Terry Boot and Draco Malfoy were those two, unfortunately.

She’d sat there with her back against the tree, watching Harry walk over to them. She could see him strain to be polite.

Then two blond heads had looked up, looked over at Ginny, where Harry was gesturing, and agreed at once. The rest of the Slytherins jeered, immediately offering to referee and oversee the match.

Competition had been written in the lines of their bodies as they took up the offer, but hey, Harry and Ginny made a good team.

They Accio-ed their brooms, smooth polished wood flying into their grasps, before going to the Quidditch locker rooms and getting out their kits and the practice Snitch and the Bludger.

The rules of two-a-team were very simple, really. The Beaters would compete to manipulate the single Bludger, while the Seekers would try to find the Snitch. The first one to the Snitch, won.

It was quite a common game among Wizarding children, since four players were so much easier to find than the usual full complement.

They let the balls go, waiting the usual minute to allow the Snitch ample time to fly off, before kicking off.

Draco and Harry were Seekers, of course, while Ginny and Boot were the Beaters.

She hefted the bat in her hand; it seemed a long time since she played and she was suddenly overwhelmingly happy.

She zoomed up towards the Bludger, took aim, hit it as hard as she could.

It zoomed toward Malfoy, missing him by an inch when he was forced to do an ungainly wriggle to avoid it.

He glared, Harry grinned, Boot smirked, and the game got on in earnest.

They soon settled into a routine; Ginny would aim the Bludger towards Malfoy, Boot would block it and swing it toward Harry, and Ginny would intercept it and aim it at Malfoy again.

Her arms had just begun to tire when Harry swung into a vertical climb, aiming for something high up.

Draco threw one panicked look at Ginny before nudging his broom up, bending up over his broom to go as fast as possible.

Draco had just begun to catch up when Harry turned into a dive.

Ginny let go of the Snitch she’d caught in her glove just before Harry had feinted, allowing it to flutter in front of her before she smacked it toward Harry.

He caught it neatly in his glove as Malfoy only just managed to turn into a dive.

Then Ginny zoomed up to Harry, laughing, and they hugged each other hard, the Snitch clutched between her left hand and his right, clasped tightly together.

The audience below, now swelled to include Dumbledore, McGonagall, and many students from all four houses, whooped or boo-ed in delight.

Draco frowned at Ginny and Harry as they laughed their way up the steps, now joined by Colin, Ron and Hermione, but Ginny’s back was turned and she didn’t notice.





“Colin,” Ginny began, munching her way through the chocolate truffle laid out in front of her, “I’ve got something I want to ask you about.”

“It’s not Malfoy, is it? Because a week ago in the library the sexual tension was so thick you could have cut it with a… er…”

He trailed off, noticing that Ginny’d started to raise the very implement he was about to mention.

“No, it’s not about that. Honestly, Colin!” she brought the knife down through the cake rather viciously.

He shrugged.

“It’s Harry.”

“Ach, well if it’s not one it’s the other.”

“Shut up. Well, I… I don’t really feel as attracted to him as I do to Draco.”

She winced.

“Did, I mean. Slip of the tongue.”

“That’s perfectly understandable right? They’re both perfectly shaggable blokes; maybe Draco’s just more your type.”

Ginny snorted at that description. The house elves, interrupted in their nightly activities by Ginny and Colin’s kitchen raid, immediately rushed forward with water.

“Yeah but… Look, I can just tell, it’s not that. The thing I was going to ask you, is… well, do you think I should break it off?”

“The alternative being?”

She shrugged.

“There isn’t really another choice, is there? I think you should just do it. For both your sakes.”

“But he’s Harry!”

“Still.”

“But I do love him.”

“But not like you love Draco,” Colin commented shrewdly.

She opened her mouth to protest, then sighed and turned her attention to the walnut brownies.

She was doing rounds with Ron; they’d been scheduled for the same shift.

They were patrolling through the Astronomy Tower, when they heard muffled noises.

Ron threw open the door to the broom cupboard opposite them.

He yelled.

“Zabini!”

Ginny snorted; Zabini and Parkinson were wrapped around in each other in a rather passionate embrace, tongues down each other’s throats, completely ignoring Ron.

“Ten points from Slytherin!”

Pansy moaned and leaned over to lick at Zabini’s ear.

“Twenty! Each!”

Ginny was contorted in paroxysm of mirth at the look on Ron’s beet-red face.

Zabini held Pansy away only long enough to drawl an indulgent “Run along, you officious wanker,” before kissing Pansy again.

Ginny wiped her eyes, before waving her wand.

They sprang apart.

“Damn you,” Parkinson snarled.

“Same to you, pug-face,” Ginny said sweetly, before bringing them both down to Snape’s office to be dealt with.

The next day at breakfast, she followed Draco out of the Great Hall.

“Oi, Malfoy!” she hurried to catch up as he raised his eyebrow in surprise.

“Taken to stalking me, have you Weaslette?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be quite so smug if my girlfriend was banging someone else.”

“Oh, is your girlfriend doing that? You poor thing.” his eyes opened wide and innocent.

“Even you aren’t that thick, Malfoy. I just though I’d let you know.”

She turned to leave.

“I already knew.”

“Then why didn’t you do something?” she yelled, swinging back, irrationally angry.

“Well it’s really got nothing to do with me, is it. We’re not married yet; she’s promised me she’s not actually shagging him, so we’re really all fine with it.”

She sneered in disgust.

“Never though you’d take used goods, Malfoy.”

“I think you’ve seen what I think this gold is worth.” This part was said softly, almost to himself.

She rolled her eyes.

“Spare me your rhetoric, Malfoy,” she spat, and walked off to find Harry.









“You look stunning, Ginny,” Harry breathed as he extended a hand and she took his arm.

“You’d have to say that anyway, Harry,” Ginny laughed as they made their way to the Great Hall for the Leaving Ball, “I don’t, really. Not compared to some of the other girls in your year.”

She glared the Hall at Pansy, dressed in robes of resplendent blue.

“But you do!”

And it was, at least, partly true.

Her curled hair was just slightly on the frizzy side and her makeup was minimal and inexpertly applied, but her robes fit well; white robes charmed to remain so, edged with silver. And when she smiled, even Zabini, taken with Parkinson as he was, stopped to take a second look.

She placed her hand in his as he led her out to the dance floor, and they proceeded to twirl their way through most of the night.

Harry really was a surprisingly good dancer, she mused as she took a breather, waiting for Harry to get her Butterbeer (“From the barrel on the right, Harry, Hermione assured me that it was spiked only conservatively with Firewhiskey.”).

She’d actually managed to enjoy herself dancing with him. Harry was one of those rare dancers who could make you feel at your ease, forget about everyone’s eyes on you and lose your self-consciousness.

The one time she’d danced with Draco, when they’d come upon Blaise playing his violin in the Slytherin Common Room, she realised that he was the sort who would make you feel the attention, love it, play up to it despite your usual character. And that, she thought, said all there was to be said about the both of them.

Looking up, she saw that Pansy was rocking around the dance floor with Zabini. Draco was staring morosely from the other side of the hall.

He’d apparently managed to banish the group of squealing girls that’d followed him since he turned up, Ginny thought uncharitably.

He caught her eye, raised a sardonic eyebrow.

She quickly looked away as Harry came over with two goblets of Butterbeer.

“Thanks, Harry, you’re a dear.”

“Shall we go to the balcony?”

She nodded nervously. She’d been nerving herself to talk to him properly all night.

They walked out, goblets in hand, and stared up at the night sky.

The moon was completely hidden behind the blanket of clouds.

“Harry, I’ve got something to say to you.” Her voice sounded surprisingly quiet in the still night air.

“Yes, Ginny?”

“I don’t think this will work out,” she said, the hackneyed words tumbling from her mouth in her hurry to get them out.

He froze, then turned to look at her. She made herself go on.

“I really love you, Harry, and I trust you the most of everyone I know. Ever. And that whole fiasco with the shared magic only served to make me feel closer to you.”

He nodded, and she chanced a look at his face.

The terrible, closed look he had made her flinch, made her hate herself even more for what she was doing.

“But I don’t have any of those feelings for you, Harry.”

She reached over and grasped his hand, lying limp on the railing.

“I’m sorry, Harry. Please don’t hate me.”

He was rigid, unmoving, still looking at her with that devastated expression.

She could feel the tears spill from her eyes and brushed them away angrily.

What right did she have to cry?

Then she felt a warm hand on her cheeks, Harry’s thumb wiping her tears away.

“Don’t cry, Ginny.” He sounded as though the words were being forced out of him.

Then she started sobbing and threw herself at him and hugged him tightly.

“Oh, Merlin, Harry, please don’t hate me. I really love you, with all my heart I do, and I’ve tried so hard to fall in love with you and I’ve tried and tried but…”

He patted her on the back and her sobs gradually stopped.

She took another shuddering breath.

“Is there… is there someone else?” his voice was choked.

There was a long pause, and when she lifted her head to look at him she couldn’t tell whether the moisture on his face was his tears or hers. But they were one and the same, now.

“Harry, there was… someone else from the start. I’ve been trying to forget him, but I’m sorry, he’s all I can think about. But if I hadn’t known him first, I know you’d be it, I know I’d fall in love with you just like that.”

He nodded, jaw tight.

“I’m really sorry, Harry, I’m sorry, sorry.”

He hugged her and she could feel a sob wrack his body.

“But I’ll always love you best.”

And they both knew that it was true.

“Does he… does he know?”

She shook her head.

“He doesn’t matter, Harry. It’s all wrong, it’s not important.”

He nodded, stroked her hair, kissed her on both cheeks.

“Shh,” he whispered soothingly, then inhaling a choked breath, “It’s okay, I’m here.”

They hugged each other and cried, tears flowing down their cheeks silently, for all they could have been.

Later, when they remembered the Ball, their main memory would be the salty, slightly bitter taste of their tears.






“Oi, Harry! We’re going de-gnoming! Hurry up!” Ginny yelled up the stairs.

She heard the crack of Harry’s Apparition behind her and turned, grinning.

“What, were you doing your hair?” she ruffled its messiness.

He laughed.

“Oh, I was just leaving Ron a little surprise in his drawer.”

They walked out into the garden, still chatting animatedly.

Ron and Hermione had already begun de-gnoming.

“Ugh,” Ron grunted as he let go of the gnome at the top of his swing and it went flying over the hedge, “I could swear I threw that one only a minute ago. Damn buggers.”

“Ron!” Hermione said, scandalised.

“Ah, don’t worry, Ginny knows much worse words than that. Regularly uses them, too,” Harry said dryly.

They laughed, and then all got down to rummaging for another gnome.

Ginny bent down and pulled a gnome up by its arm, watching Harry out of the corner of her eye. Things had been awkward with him for quite a while after the Ball; they’d barely spoken to each other for the month of school following that, instead avoiding uncomfortable tête-à-têtes.

Then, just before Harry’s last train ride home from Hogwarts, he’d leaned over and chucked her under the chin.

“Almost all right, now.”

And they’d shared a brief, understanding smile and it had been almost all right.

They hadn’t told anyone else why, of course, but even Ron finally understood not to pry unless he wanted to be spitting slugs again.

They spent the rest of the afternoon happily de-gnoming the garden, and it was just like old times, before him.

When they’d finally left the balcony, at the Ball, she’d seen him standing just beyond the curtain, obviously listening in.

She’d been too focused on Harry to care about his pettiness.

They hadn’t spoken after that, though they had shared a number of glances at each other across crowded hallways or the Great Hall. Honestly, talk about clichés.

And it was, after all, his last year at Hogwarts, so Ginny was looking forward to never seeing him again for the rest of her life. She hadn’t seen him for three months, already.

She just wished he’d stop haunting her dreams, though.

“Dinner’s ready!” Molly yelled, breaking through her thoughts, ones that she thought almost every day.

“Ooh, is that roast beef, Mum?”

Mrs Weasley slapped the hand that Ron had been inching towards the roast.

“Yes, Ron. And go wash up first! That goes for all of you, too!”

They sat down and ate dinner after they’d washed up, cutlery clanking on china.

Mr Weasley was coming back late tonight; he had to finish an assignment due tomorrow.

They shovelled their way through the roast beef, baked potatoes and cream, and vegetables, then sat around, looking expectantly at each other.

“Right, whose turn is it?” Ron was the first to break the silence.

Ginny groaned.

“Fine, all right, it’s my turn!”

She sighed long and volubly as she went into the kitchen to get the cookies her mother had baked for dessert.

She looked up, startled, as she saw a pale, familiar face flash at the windows.

She paused, hands stilling.

Then she turned and brought out the plate of cookies.

“Well, I’ll just be going to the back for a bit then,” she said carefully.

Only Harry nodded; the rest were too busy attacking the cookies with enough gusto for it to be entirely believable that they hadn’t eaten for three weeks.

She went out to the garden, shutting the door carefully behind her.

He was lounging at the gatepost.

“Weasley.”

“Malfoy.”

She waited.

He was staring at her, eyes drinking in the sight of her. She wouldn’t look at him.

She sighed.

“If you’re just here to waste my time, I’m going back in.”

She made it as far as three steps when he grabbed her wrist.

“Wait.”

“If you’re here to humiliate me, you can jolly well forget about that too.” She didn’t bother to turn her head back.

She heard robes rustle behind her. He let go of her wrist.

“Weasley, marry me.”

She turned to face him.

The ring sparkled.

She gasped at its cold, multi-faceted brilliance, and reached out her hand; let him slide it on her finger.

She could feel him holding his breath; he wasn’t stupid enough to think it would be this easy.

“Oh, it’s really lovely; Draco, you shouldn’t have,” she breathed, gazing at it. The sparkle reflected in her eyes.

He started to let out his breath.

“But I suppose that now you’ll be getting the Malfoy galleons anyway, this is pittance to you.”

She tried to wrench it off, and swore when it wouldn't come off. She finally felt it give, rubbing her skin raw and red, and she took his hand and dropped it into his open palm.

“So you know.”

“Who doesn’t know that Lucius Malfoy died in Azkaban last week? Who doesn’t know that Bellatrix Black escaped from her cell, found her way to his, killed both him and her in a single spell? It was splashed all over the papers, for goodness’ sake,” she finished witheringly.

“Well, now we can be together and be rich!” but he looked slightly confused at her look of staunch refusal.

“What about Pansy?”

“Oh, don’t worry about her; the moment her father hears that the engagement won’t be fulfilled, he’ll marry her off the Zabini, the next on all mother’s lists.”

“So that’s just perfect! Everything works out to everyone’s satisfaction again, in another one of your little arrangements.”

He frowned.

“What’s wrong with that?”

“What, besides that you still chose the money over us? That you were ready to write us off because we didn’t fit into your perception of an ideal life? Oh, nothing, really. Everything’s just dandy.”

“But that doesn’t matter now! It doesn’t apply anymore; we can be together now, and not have to be poor.”

“You’ve already said that.”

She half-turned her head, wistfully inattentive; she could hear a burst of laughter in the living room, could see the warmth and light shining from behind the half-shut door.

He grabbed her hand in desperation.

“Ginny! Look at me!”

She turned back, absently. It was dusk and the sky had almost set. She looked at the sky; pale, cold blue, stuck between light and dark.

But there was still enough light to illuminate his face.

“Ginny. Don’t you want to have this?”

He leaned down, and shakily fit his lips over hers. She could feel him trembling the moment their skin touched.

She didn’t pull away, let him press his mouth over hers. He pulled away.

“Ginny, I’ve missed you so much,” he whispered, hugging her, “I haven’t been able to do anything without you, Ginny, please…”

“I’ve missed you too.”

She brought her hands up to complete the circle of their arms, briefly, before she gently pushed him away.

“Ginny,” he said in anguish. His face was crumpled and yet he was still so much her Draco. She could feel her face threatening to do the same, but managed, somehow, to hold off the tears.

“Then why didn’t you say something?”

“I couldn’t! But now it’s all right, it’s all right…”

He attempted to hug her again, but she quickly put herself out of distance of his arms.

If she let him touch her again, she would break.

“It’s not all right, and it very probably never will be. You chose your money over us, and now you must let me have the right to choose myself-respect.”

She looked at him, standing there, hunched against some internal pain, his features screwed up.

“I love you, Draco,” she said, smoothing his hair.

“Yes, I love you too,” he said eagerly, starting toward her again, desperate hope in his eyes.

“Oh, Merlin,” she heaved a dry sob. Her breath couldn’t come right.

“Please, Ginny,” he said, voice cracked and dry, “I was going to cave anyway! I was stupid; please, Ginny, don’t punish me like this.”

She put him away from herself again.

“But if I go with you, I’ll be punishing myself. Oh, Draco, why can’t you see that? The thing is that you didn’t come back, that in the end you didn’t choose us. And now it’s not your decision anymore. I would die, would kill myself, if I went back to you now. Don’t you understand?”

He shook his head, arms still outstretched pleadingly.

“This is it,” she said, breaking, shattering anyway despite him not making another move to touch her, “This is where we go. You’ve got your money, and I have my self-respect.”

Suddenly it didn’t seem worth it, and she almost moved toward him, before she steeled her resolve.

“Goodbye, Draco.”

She almost hugged him, but then she realised that she wouldn’t be able to stand it.

She turned and went back into the house.

He watched dully as the light from beyond the doorway flared briefly in his face when she opened the door. Then the door swung closed silently and there was nothing.

Above him, the sky darkened and the moon rose.
















(A/N I think that this was one of the most painful things i've written. I had to drag it, kicking and screaming, into the century of the fruitbat and i'm still not entirely happy with it. but the most i read it the more i can't pinpoint things to change so this is it. And this is my longest story ever! And it's ended. ENDED. Yay. Thanks to all you darlings who've reviewed!)