Disclaimer: Characters belong to JKR. This was just a gift.




Do not suddenly break the branch, or
Hope to find
The white hart behind the white well.

Once upon a time, in a past that now seems like a dream, there was a girl that loved a boy. She was a youthful chit, full of a fresh and fulfilling life that she could only wish for now. In that life, laughter could be found around any corner, her enemies were clearly marked and labeled, and this day would have been hers.

In half an hour's time, she would be on that platform with him, holding hands in an age-old symbol of home, protection, and fertility. The sun would cast its soft light on the world below it, illuminating at will the bright smiles on the guests' faces, glowing in the pure white flowers that peppered her hair and glinting off of the glasses sitting on his nose. The sweet smells of the flowers, grass and dirt beneath their feet would mix headily with the scent of the wine in their flutes on the far table. And at the end of the binding, when she looked up into those brilliant green eyes of his as she recited her vows to him, she would feel as though she'd finally found her place in the world.

While today was very like that imaginary day, it was not she who would be binding herself to Harry Potter. Her place was no longer here, in the sunshine and old magic that imbued the ground that she stood upon, for she had given it all up long ago.

In that same illusionary past, she had loved him dearly. Even now, when she heard him laugh or saw his smile, she could feel the stirrings of anticipation and contentment in her gut, physical memories of her feelings for him that time had tempered into affection. Though they had ended things on that lakeshore at Hogwarts all those years ago, her feelings for him had remained just as strong without the relationship. Afterwards, while Harry, Hermione, and Ron had searched for Horcruxes and prepared for the battle that would be the defining point in their lives, she had been content with staying in the background, baring her love and concern when he needed her. After all, theirs was a mutual agreement, an understanding that some things in life were far more urgent and pressing than the languorous ease of love. And though she hated it, she was reassured by the fact that she had a permanent place in his heart.

In hindsight, she could see that her brother's death, and her own reaction to it, was the point when everything that she'd held sure and safe in her fairytale life had turned on its head.

Ron, her beloved, loyal, stupid wanker of a brother, had fallen to his death in their search for the sixth Horcrux, leaving all who had loved and known him in shock and harsh bereavement. However, the Ron she had lost was not the best friend of the Boy Who Lived and Hermione Granger; he was her support, her ever-present comforter and protector. That wasn't to say that she idolized Ron; he was a prat to her most of the time, but his intentions and compassion were the purest she'd ever known. After her experiences with particularly dangerous Slytherins in her first year, Ron was always a reminder that she had permanent blood ties that would not waver the way that friendships did. And no matter how preoccupied he was with Harry and Hermione and no matter how infatuated she was with Harry, Ron was hers in a way that no one else could understand.

With him gone, her life had become empty; she was weary of the danger that hounded her and the ones she loved. There was no time for proper grief, with the final battle looming overhead like a particularly lovelorn Dementor. Though she had the rest of her family to rely upon in this time of need, she couldn't ignore the glaring gap in the chain of children, or the empty seat that accompanied every meal at the Burrow. She had been very close to Bill even when Ron was alive, but her oldest brother had been preoccupied with his new wife and more missions for the Order. Her nearest brothers in age were Fred and George but years as twins had made them an entity of their own, so that it was nigh impossible for her to talk openly and honestly with them. And when she did make the effort to reach for her brothers' help, she always felt a stab of guilt, as though she were deliberately reaching over Ron and not allowing him to do the job that was rightfully his. It was no matter that he was no longer present to take up his position; he had had it for so long that she knew of no one else who could fill his spot just as well.

After Ron's funeral, the war seemed to be speeding up to its final conclusion. The Horcruxes had been found and destroyed; now, all that Harry had left to do was to face his nemesis and defeat him. Sick of the tension that clouded everyone's lives, she'd packed up her meager possessions a month before the battle and left everything behind her with only a short note to alert everyone of her desire to be on her own "for a while."

For a week or so after she'd left, she had regretted her decision and wanted to return back to the home that she loved. No matter how far away she was from her family emotionally and physically, she could not change her surname nor could she ignore the longing that only the English mist and the lush green of the countryside surrounding her home could satisfy. But she had left because she felt that she needed time to decide who she was and where her family ended and she began.

So, she'd doggedly continued to travel across the Continent, teaching English in small German Wizarding school then taking on the role of secretary to a business magnate in Greece. In time, she grew more relaxed and comfortable with her life; on the Continent, her life wasn't in constant danger for no one knew who she was. She was free to do as she pleased and she took this opportunity to explore the rest of the Wizarding World and even the Muggle world. Her work was relatively boring and monotonous, though her students in Germany had given her some measure of amusement. She'd preferred it that way, for the past seemed more and more like a fairytale as the years passed on. Although she'd kept in touch with her mother and she was still a Weasley through and through, she was like a stranger in comparison with the young girl she had once been.

Of course, she'd known that her bliss was too ephemeral to last; and like the last time, she was completely unprepared for the event that shook her carefully reconstructed world apart.

It had been an ordinary day when she'd decided to Floo her mother. Things were quiet at work, leading to an equally pleasant evening at home. Sheer curiosity and that infamous Gryffindor impetuosity prompted her to pick up a pinch of her Floo powder and stick her head in her fireplace, calling out "The Burrow!" in a steady voice. The sight that met her eyes was not her mother's friendly smile, however.

Instead, at the kitchen table where she'd eaten countless meals, in the very chair that she'd commonly sat in during those meals, were Harry and Hermione, lips locked and in each other's arms.

Embarrassment and shock forced her to back quickly out of the fireplace, causing her to stumble a bit until she could find her bearings. Kneeling on her worn rug, staring unseeingly at her fireplace, she felt reality crash against her like a ton of bricks, forcing her to face herself and her past.

When she'd left England, she'd never said goodbye to Harry nor had she indicated anything in her note regarding their unspoken relationship. Now that she was being completely honest with herself, she could see that she wouldn't have cared to say anything to Harry even if she had remembered to do so. Inspecting her heart with mature eyes, she noticed that after Ron's death, she'd drawn away from Harry because she placed some of the blame on his shoulders. If Ron hadn't been friends with Harry, if he hadn't been so unerringly loyal to him all those years, she would still have her protector and confidante.

Over the next month or so, she had time to examine herself very closely. With these new eyes, she realized that her growing reticence following Ron's funeral hadn't been fueled by grief, but anger and resentment. If Hermione had pulled Ron away just in time, he would have missed the Killing Curse; perhaps he would have been injured, but he would still be alive. If her brothers hadn't left her and Ron together while they were growing up, she would have had a shoulder to cry on and a comforting presence in her grief. She was ashamed even as that thought passed through her mind, for her brothers and parents had offered comfort, but she had been too blinded by her pain to see it.

She had shed many tears that night and the following weeks, finally allowing herself to mourn for her brother and let go of the guilt that had driven her away from her fairytale life. In the absence of that guilt, she was filled with a sense of determination and longing: determination to rectify her mistakes and repair the rifts she had cause in her friendships and relationships, and only a subtle longing for the blue-eyed freckled boy that would never tease her again.

Giving notice to her employer and to her mother, she left the life she'd led in Greece and returned to the Burrow nearly four months after her epiphany. The day she Apparated on the door step of her childhood home, she almost fled again in shame. Her parents had set the wards so that her Apparition signature was still recognized, even after all these years. Who was she to return to the loving arms of people she had left so callously? How could she expect them to want her to refill her place in their hearts? But before she could even attempt to Disapparate, her mother had opened the door and engulfed her in her arms.

That day had taught her much humility, even more so than the day of her enlightenment. Her conversations with her family members were stilted at first, which was to be expected; she almost thought that the years apart were like a great river that just couldn't be forded. But familiarity and that inherent closeness through blood and similarity eventually bridged that gap between them, so that she was once again a part of her own family, in her rightful place.

Her reconciliation with Harry and Hermione was even more uncomfortable, if such a feat were possible. The bond that she had with Harry after the events of her first year was not enough to overlook the glaring differences between them now. They were still the only two who truly knew what it felt to be betrayed by their own emotions while under Voldemort's influence, but that was the sum of their shared experiences. Hermione, unlike her, had remained at Harry's side after Ron's death, and these past years had cemented their acceptance and understanding of each other. Their love had grown out of that bond, where experiences were shared and nightmares were mutually comforted away.

She saw all this and accepted it without question. In fact, the knowledge that she no longer loved Harry and that he no longer loved her was a weight off of her shoulders and heart. She would no longer have to live in his shadow, just as she had once lived in the shadows of her brothers and parents. With an unclaimed heart, she was free to do as she pleased and make the life she wanted to make. She would no longer need to marry Harry to feel as though she had found her place in the world.

Yet, as she stood idly before the platform where the binding was beginning, she felt a twinge of regret and jealousy. She wasn't upset that she wasn't marrying Harry, nor was she jealous of Hermione. However, she intensely coveted the love that was so blatant in their faces and body language. The inner fire that they shared between them, heightened by the magic of the ceremony and their heated looks, were what she craved most. That kind of emotional reciprocity she had never really had before in her life; when she was younger, she would have used a win in Quidditch or good marks in an assignment to feed that need. But now that she'd matured and changed, the simple solutions of her youth were no longer enough.

She needed love, a real feeling and commitment bred by familiarity and accord. She ached for the type of tension and nonverbal communication between two people that was tangible, filling a room or even this clearing in the middle of nature. In the light of this longing, her once-intoxicating freedom had become a bitter omen of a life of loneliness. Already, only four months since her return, she'd become reclusive; when she wasn't working at her brothers' store in Diagon Alley or whiling time away in her flat, she was sitting in her room in the Burrow, staring out the window at the blue sky which had once beckoned her away. Her family didn't notice her listlessness but she hardly expected them to, what with the flurry of wedding preparations.

The sound of Harry's voice broke her reverie, and she turned her attention back to the ceremony. But when the binding was finally done and the guests had moved on towards the refreshments, she stood staring at the platform before her, facing the dream of her past and regretting the reality of her life.

Before she could get lost in her memories again, a cultured voice that she hadn't heard for ages spoke, "Odd how the tables turned, isn't it?"

Not believing her ears, Ginny turned around slowly and found herself face-to-face with Draco Malfoy.

Glance aside, not for lance, do not spell
Old enchantments. Let them sleep.

Once upon a time, Draco Malfoy lived a life of idyllic refinement. He had money to purchase whatever he desired, from designer robes to political connections. In this materialistic environment, friends were an inconvenience; business partners and connections required much less loyalty. As his parents were prosperous, indulgent, formidably powerful, his future stretched out invitingly before him, full of promised pleasures.

His perfect world disintegrated before his very eyes before his sixth year at Hogwarts. With his father in Azkaban and his mother left with her hands proverbially tied, he was forced to take on an impossible task. Predictably, he’d failed and found himself a fugitive at the ripe age of sixteen.

It was a matter of months until his parents died in retribution for his actions, or lack thereof. After they were gone, his last links to his past was the tattered robes on his back and the friendship and protection of his former Potions professor. Every material convenience he once enjoyed was gone.

He might have survived in such a sorry state if his family’s former allies didn’t find him and Snape. Snape put up a good fight, but it was too little in the face of so many. Instead of fighting, panic spurred on Draco’s old survival habits, so he managed to escape.

Desperation and a healthy sense of guilt and inadequacy for the way he fled forced him to seek asylum with his former rivals at Hogwarts. Yet, instead of allowing him to exact his own revenge, they left him in Azkaban while they used his information to win the war.

For nearly a year, Draco spent his days in a cold, dank cell, wishing he were still a fugitive or simply dead. His only company was the occasional visit from Aurors and the painful memories in his head. It was little comfort to know that the war was just outside of his cell bars and he could do nothing to help.

Once the victory celebrations, which Draco was also absent from, ceased, he was finally released. It was then, during that blustery boat ride away from Azkaban that he fully realized the world he knew prior to his imprisonment was vastly different from the post-Voldemort one.

Ministry officials met Draco when he was on the mainland, and promptly informed him that the Ministry had seized the Malfoy accounts at Gringotts. They would allow him to keep a little income from his father’s past business dealings, but only from investments in the British Wizarding community. Additionally, he had the responsibility of paying whatever outstanding debts the Malfoys still owed.

Draco was left with no choice. He promptly sold the Manor and freed the house elves. He used what money was left after the debts were paid to purchase a flat in Knockturn Alley, the only place in Diagon Alley whose landlord didn’t object to his last name. He also purchased new robes from Madame Malkin’s as though he were a commoner.

His family’s old political connections were nonexistent, for no one wished to sully their reputation with the once-shining star that had been the Malfoy name. In fact, it seemed to Draco that then entire Wizarding World were bent on forgetting him and his family just as hard as they were trying to push the memories of the war behind them.

Scrabbling for any sort of foothold in the rapidly downward slope of his new, not-so-bright future, Draco humbled himself to working. His first job was in the mailroom of the Ministry, doing whatever he could to make enough money to feed himself.

So things continued for two years until one day, an irate Hermione Granger barged into the room and demanded to know where a missing contract from the Philippines was. That meeting between them was very awkward, for Draco seethed in humiliation in the face of his former enemy and Granger could barely contain her amusement.

She visited him a few more times, claiming that her coworkers were ‘dunderheads,’ and she dearly needed to converse with someone slightly more intelligent. Draco would merely sneer at her and think of appropriately cutting remarks in retaliation. He would never admit it, but he gradually began to look forward to her visits, for his days in the mailroom were more frustrating than he’d originally thought they would be.

Those sparse visits turned into scheduled meetings, in typical Granger fashion, on Tuesdays and Thursdays. It was on a Tuesday that she floated in with an excited look. She’d just secured him a promotion to working in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Department, recently deserted by a certain man named Perkins.

Draco’s scowl had been fierce and his attitude even steelier than ever when he’d refused the offer.

When he returned to his pitiful flat that night and found himself lacking in food and most other necessities, however, he grudgingly reconsidered.

Many at the Ministry, especially those who knew how much he’d once hated Muggles and Muggleborns, found the situation entirely too humorous to be true, and frequently said so to his face when they weren’t shunning him. The only ones who didn’t laugh aloud were Granger and the Aurors. Granger just found ways to keep him distracted when she could, while the Aurors kept a wary eye on him.

Determined to recapture the glory of his earlier years, Draco resolved to do his new job as well as he could. He swallowed his pride and immersed himself in a study of Muggles, especially their literature, art, and customs. He went so far as to pick up smoking, and was often in his office puffing on a cigarette while poring over the London Times.

When Granger found out how ‘lonely’ he had become – which was a ludicrous opinion, for Draco appreciated his solitude and spent a lot of that time alone convincing himself of this fact – she cajoling him to spend time with her and her friends. He tried to discourage her, but she simply redoubled her efforts. Finally, he could no longer deny that he wanted to go to those parties she often invited him to.

That was how Draco found himself at Granger’s wedding on a warm June day. Sitting in a comfortable wooden chair in the grass, surrounded by the rustling dresses and whispers from about fifty other well-wishers, he watched the binding ceremony taking place on the platform before him.

Granger was dressed in cream-colored sheath, similar to the more simplistic Binding dresses of the past. Draco was surprised to see that she’d reverted to Wizarding tradition in this respect, for all the Muggle advertisements in the Times featured elaborate gowns and implied a bit more pomp than what was currently taking place. In fact Draco felt overdressed, and his latent Pureblood sensibilities were very disturbed that a muggleborn had ‘bested’ him once again.

Potter stood to her right in a homespun shirt and trousers, his hair as unkempt as ever. Facing them was a man from the Magical Contracts and Marriage Licenses Department, regal in black robes and surplice. There were none of those bridesmaids as the Muggles called them, nor were there groomsmen.

After he had catalogued the differences between the current wedding and a Muggle one, Draco’s thoughts drifted off. The Ministry fellow was droning on in Latin, the skin on his nose was blistering from being under the bright sun all day, and his robes seemed bent on suffocating him by absorbing all the heat. Settling himself further into his chair, Draco picked at the cuff of his robes and prepared for a longer wait.

Suddenly, the monotonous sound stopped. Draco’s eyes shot up to the stage, where he saw that Granger and Potter were now facing each other. As his chair was set in an angle to the stage, he could only see the back of Potter’s ridiculous hair. Yet his position offered him a brilliant view of Granger’s face, and the expression on it made him stop his fidgeting.

In another life, Draco would have called the look in her eyes the sort of rot that fed the romantic fantasies of idiotic girls everywhere. However, years of self-doubt, distrust, and numbness had changed Draco, so he could recognize the look for what it was and not instantly sneer at it.

She was in love with Potter.

For some odd reason, the thought of her loving Potter of all people bothered him. He wasn’t interested in her in that way, for he still found her irritating even if she was slightly more attractive and easy-going than he thought in the past. But they were friends now, and Draco had found some admirable qualities in her that made her more than ‘Potter’s girlfriend’ in his mind. The knowledge that his former rival could see those qualities and appreciated them just as much as he did irked him.

Not to mention, her smile, her eyes, her entire being radiated the knowledge that Potter was meant for her. Draco had never seen her so vulnerable in such a public setting before; in fact, he’d never seen her vulnerable at all.

His throat tightened as he thought about his own vulnerability. The only people he’d trusted so greatly were his parents, for he’d always known that they wanted the best for him. Yet, watching how his parents acted had taught Draco to be skeptical of that flighty mystery known as emotion.

To the old Draco, emotion was too easily manipulated and twisted. Emotion could make a boy plan to kill his Headmaster for the sake of his father’s life. It could turn a master against his servants, hunting them down and killing them without compunction. Worst of all, emotion could bring a man to betray himself and attempt to regain some honor by sacrificing his own dignity.

For his own defense, Draco had learned from an early age to keep his emotions in check. But as he watched Granger begin to exchange vows with Potter, he suddenly felt an overwhelming wave of disappointment in his past and his present lives.

It was easy to be disappointed in his past, because Azkaban had given him the time to recount everything in vivid detail. Draco had resolved to change if or when he was released, but he still hadn’t. During his meeting with the Ministry officials, Draco found that some old habits died hard, and had kept his face neutral. Since then, he still pretended to move on with his life and never complained about his current job or flat. The only person who’d come close to disturbing his cool demeanor was Granger, but even she didn’t know the extent of his true feelings.

Draco was more displeased with his life than anyone would have expected, and he could finally admit it to himself. Every day, he woke with the knowledge that had his parents still been alive, he wouldn’t be working with Muggles. Every time he returned from work and found his flat in the same mess that he’d left it in, he was hit anew with the fact that he would probably never be able to afford a house elf again. Every night, nightmares of what his mother must have sounded like before she died, her aristocratic, bloody hands reaching out for him, left him wide awake.

Shuddering in the warm sunlight at the memory of his nightmares, he suddenly realized that everyone around him was standing and applauding. He stood up hastily and did the same, plastering a fake smile on his face all the while. Mid-clap, he realized that he’d done it again.

After the last claps died down, the couple stepped down from the stage and mingled with their friends and family as the audience crowded around them. For a moment, Draco watched them from outside the circle, but finally decided not to join. Instead, he decided that what he needed was a cigarette.

Trying to make as little a distraction as he could, he turned and began walking towards a nearby clump of trees. He collapsed with a loud sigh at the foot of a particularly shady tree with a wide trunk. Swiftly, he lit a cigarette and closed his eyes. From this vantage, the voices from the wedding party sounded like murmurs of insects in the haze.

His breathing slowed into a steady intake and exhale, his chest moving effortlessly in time with his heart’s beat, as he found the first peace he had had in days. Here, it was easy to forget that every thing he’d become would have been labeled as failure in his parents’ eyes. It was even easier to ignore how he’d watched the last breath leaving Snape’s body, too startled and helpless to move. The filth of Azkaban, the humiliation of his work, and the guilt that he still lived with eased its weight as he relaxed.

However, his reaction to Granger’s expression was sharper and stronger than it had been earlier.

Draco wanted what Granger had, and what Potter had. He didn’t only want to be noticed, he wanted to be loved. He wanted the trust, confidence, and understanding that resided in Granger’s face when she looked at Potter. He wanted one person, just one, to make an effort to see through his posturing into his mind and heart and not despise him for what they found.

Most of all, Draco wanted to trust someone in return. He wanted to know that, no matter what happened, someone would have his best interests at heart and would not betray that trust.

The cigarette moved automatically from hand to mouth and back again for a moment as he struggled to accept this surprising revelation. When he did, he could only snort at his idiocy.

Above all things, Draco was pragmatic. What he wanted was impossible, for no one would ever make the effort to see through him. Granger had, but hers was a passing interest; in her mind, he was simply a puzzle that hadn’t been solved. Once she did solve him, he knew that she’d grow disgusted and cast him aside.

That nonsense of wanting to trust someone in return was just his regrets about his past resurfacing. He was allowing his guilt to sway his emotions, and soon he would begin thinking that another chance at it all would be the perfect solution. Draco knew better; there was no way to edit the past without a Time Turner, and even with one so much would change that he would probably end up in Gryffindor as Potter’s best mate.

The truth was that the Wizarding world had left him to his own defenses and resources, and not a finger would ever lift to help or acknowledge him. It was a prison constructed of nothing but human opinion but it was far stronger than the physical bars of Azkaban, and he could never escape it.

Suddenly, he yelped in pain when the cigarette stub burned his fingers. With a bitter twist of his mouth, Draco Vanished it and reached into his pocket for his handkerchief, pushing all of those thoughts out of his mind. Azkaban had evidently left him soft.

He was startled when his hand encountered nothing but the fabric of his robes and tried not to panic. That handkerchief had been one of the few he’d recovered from Malfoy Manor before he sold it. It was one of his last tangible links to his parents and his past.

Springing to his feet, Draco began retracing his steps. The crowd had now moved to a different part of the clearing where the tables were set up, enjoying their wedding feast. The sounds of laughter and tinkling glass grew louder as he slowly made his way to the platform where the wedding had taken place. Luckily he found it, still folded neatly, by the chair he’d sat in during the ceremony.

A sigh of relief escaped his lips as he leaned down and pocketed it. When he straightened, he was surprised to find that he wasn’t alone. Ginny Weasley stood only a few feet away, her back to him as she stared at the stage, lost in her own thoughts.

Draco stood paralyzed for a moment as he watched her. The sunlight had turned her once-carroty hair into a river of copper down her back. The dress she wore was presentable, clean, and not at all fashionable, as expected. But she was oblivious to the way the breeze ruffled her simple dress and how the pins in her hair were coming loose.

Frowning, he remembered the headlines in the Daily Prophet from a few weeks ago, screaming that the lost Weasley girl had returned to her family at last. The paper had gone on to talk about how she was once involved with Potter, and speculated over how her reappearance would go over with Potter’s involvement with Granger.

When he’d read the stories, he’d smirked to himself as he thought about how the Weasleys must have been upset over this sort of publicity and immediately forgot about it. Draco had never liked the Weasleys before, and he still didn’t. There was too much bad history between them that couldn’t be apologized away.

But something about her stance appealed to him, so much so that he made his way to her without realizing that he had done so until he was inches away from her.

He knew he should go in the opposite direction, congratulate the bride and groom on a beautiful wedding, and instantly leave. No one except for Granger wanted him at the reception, and he was sure even Ginny Weasley would object to his company right now.

Well, Draco had never been one to follow what he knew was right, and he wasn’t about to start now. He opened his mouth to insult her, like he had done in Hogwarts. If she reacted as she used to, he would feel just a little bit better about being here.

However, Draco never got that satisfaction. Instead of a quip about her hair, what left his mouth was, “Odd how the tables turned, isn’t it?”

Shocked at what he’d just said, Draco didn’t have time to move before she turned around slowly.

“Malfoy?” she asked, in disbelief.

Gently dip, but not too deep.

“Odd how the tables turned, isn’t it?”

Not believing her ears, Ginny turned around slowly and found herself face-to-face with Draco Malfoy.

“Malfoy?” she asked rather stupidly. The man in front of her had the same blond hair, the same better-than-you look that used to rile her until she couldn’t see straight. He was still as angular as he’d once been with that ridiculously haughty appearance of an aristocrat, but his face was no longer smooth with youth and his eyes had new shadows. In all, he was an incongruous sight against the backdrop of the wedding reception taking place in the distance behind him.

Though she wasn’t entirely sure it was him, his name fell from her lips out of instinct. But Ginny wasn’t worried about his appearance as much as she was by her own reaction, for a very familiar sneer had formed on her face. She couldn’t stop herself from demanding, “What do you mean?”

Malfoy favored her with an unreadable expression, and Ginny was struck by the realization that despite that familiar look of him, this boy – no, man – was far different from the one she knew at Hogwarts.

She was so disturbed by this turn of events that she almost missed his reply. “I know you Gryffindors, with the exception of Granger, were never reputed to be geniuses,” he smirked, “but I think you understand very well what I meant.”

Thankfully, the mention of Hermione was enough to break the spell his appearance had cast on her. Ginny physically shook her head in an effort to clear it. She could feel her lips twist in a grimace as she squinted against the sunlight and asked warily, “Harry and Hermione invited you?”

“Bloody annoying, isn’t it,” Malfoy said pleasantly, as though he were discussing the weather, “knowing that your friends approve of me, yet they’re still upset that you left?”

Ginny could feel her face go hot at his words. Really, she should have known Malfoy would perceive her most obvious weakness, since he’d been so adept at it when they were younger. Ginny’s tone was arch and her expression cool as she attempted to hide her emotions. “I suppose your time in Azkaban has tamed you enough for public appearances, then?”

His smirk gave her a disconcerting sense of relief. She could deal with this Malfoy. “So the kitten has claws,” he mused as his smirk widened into a smile.

Ginny stared at him, not believing her ears. This wasn’t the game of words that the old Malfoy loved; yet why did it seem that he was genuinely enjoying this new game more than the old?

When his expectant pause went without answer, he rolled his eyes and said, almost out of duty, “I suppose your time in the Continent has given you a false sense of confidence, then?”

“How did you know I was on the Continent?” she asked before she could stop herself.

“Come now, Weasley,” he said in a bored tone, his hand gesturing his dismissal. “Surely you’ve noticed that your little sob story has adorned the front page of every paper in the Wizarding World.”

The blank look on her face must have betrayed her ignorance, because he began laughing. It was an unaffected, truly amused sound, one that she’d never expected to hear from him, particularly when in conversation with her. “Really, thank you for that,” he said once he was done laughing. “I didn’t think I’d have the opportunity to laugh today.”

Ginny flushed, hating the fact that he still enjoyed laughing at her expense. But she noted his words. “I’m amazed you decided to come,” she stated, ignoring the amusement still in his eyes as she looked away towards the stage again. Someone was laughing loudly in the distance.

“I’m sure you can see why.” She looked back to him quickly and saw that his amusement had turned smug. “In many ways, attending this wedding was as important as attending the Ministry’s Christmas Ball,” he continued with a shrug.

Ginny nodded; she did see how advantageous it was to please the Boy-Who-Lived and his bride, particularly for someone who had always been considered evil. But he seemed far too relaxed to simply be there for networking. “A Slytherin to the end?” she asked cautiously.

“Of course.” His smile was flinty and Ginny suddenly wondered if it really was that sharp. “You are still a Gryffindor, I see,” he commented casually. “Naïve, bold, and too hot-headed for your own good.”

His words weren’t earth-shattering, but Ginny could feel their effect like a blow to the stomach. The sounds of the party in the distance faded away, until she could only hear her own breathing. She looked away again, not wanting him to gain more pleasure at her expense. “If you knew me,” she said in a soft voice, “you’d know I’m no longer that way.”

“Yes, too naïve for your own good,” he muttered under his breath, almost as though he were speaking to himself. Louder, he said, “That’s where you’re wrong, Weasley. Circumstances change, but you and I – we don’t change.”

His serious tone brought her eyes back to his in sharp focus. His face was earnest in his belief, which Ginny found endearing. “Of course we do,” she replied, as though to a small child. “You cannot deny that Azkaban has changed you.”

His mouth settled into a straight line and his shoulders were rigid in defense. Ginny could see that she had obviously struck a nerve by mentioning Azkaban.

“I learned from it, yes,” he gritted out, “But I haven’t changed because of it. It takes more than steel bars to cage a Malfoy.”

She raised an eyebrow at the ancestral loyalty in that, squinting in the late afternoon sun as she studied him. From the way he’d been acting so far, Ginny assumed that he’d become a pragmatist. If he had, then he apparently kept his pretences up for a few things. “Malfoy, if you hadn’t gone to Azkaban, you wouldn’t have come today. You would have seen no use in it – your money would have been enough to buy you whatever contacts you needed.”

“I already have enough money to buy whomever I need.”

Someone was ringing a glass with a utensil, probably to give a toast. Ginny belatedly realized that she wasn’t there to join in the festivities, but she couldn’t ignore the temptation to go past the obvious façade he’d created. Malfoy’s eyes were spitting fire and she knew that she was treading dangerous ground, but she replied anyway. “Then why are you here?”

She watched with detached fascination as a cool mask slipped over his eyes, hiding the hurt and resentment she’d seen only moments before. His voice as calm and a little teasing as he responded, “Why are you here?”

“Don’t be daft,” Ginny grinned defensively, even though she didn’t consider this a joke. “Harry and Hermione are my family.”

Malfoy’s eyes were still blank. “Yes, but why are you here?” He gestured back to the reception behind him and continued, “Why haven’t you joined the happy couple over there, toasting and eating?”

There was bitterness in his voice when he mentioned Harry and Hermione that caught Ginny’s attention. She watched his face carefully as she replied calmly. “I wanted to think.”

“Right.”

The finality in his tone infuriated her more than the triumphant smirk on his face. “You don’t believe me?” she asked, her voice shrill with defensiveness.

“No.” She opened her mouth to defend herself, but he held up his hand to stop her. “Don’t give me that look,” he sneered. “I know very well that this is your tame way of running away from the awkwardness of seeing Potter married to the girl who you thought would marry your brother. Not to mention your stilted relationship with the rest of your family.”

Ginny could feel the blood drain from her face. “You’re wrong,” she whispered, even though she knew she was lying.

“In fact,” he continued as though she hadn’t spoken, “I’ll wager you’ll run away again in a year or so. That taste of freedom has shown you a convenient way to avoid all of your problems.”

Ginny’s anger was coursing through her veins like a heady wine, blurring her vision and loosening her tongue. “Oh yes,” she bit out. “I’d forgotten that you were so adept at facing your own demons, Malfoy. That was why you ran from Hogwarts after Dumbledore died, isn’t it? That’s why you ran back to the Ministry when the Death Eaters came hunting for your blood, isn’t it?”

Her voice had taken on a tone that she’d never experienced before. It was bitter with the desire to finally lash out at someone or something instead of herself, for once. And as she watched Malfoy’s face pale in effect, she felt the triumphant surge of a hunter who has finally caught her prey. Her more rational side was powerless to stop her.

“You still labor under the delusion that you’re the same prat I went to school with, yet we both know you aren’t. And you’re here with me because you want me to think it as well, is that it?” She stepped closer to him, emboldened enough to point a finger at him. “So what changed, Malfoy? You’re still power-hungry and obstinate. You’re still the same boy who tried to kill Dumbledore, but was too much of a coward to do it.”

Cocking her head to one side, Ginny asked, “Tell me, have you ever admitted that you were a Death Eater?”

If looks could kill, she would have been dead three times over. There was a twitch in Malfoy’s clenched jaw that she’d never noticed before, and it was obvious just how much he was restraining his own emotions. “There was no need to,” he finally replied sullenly. “The mark is there for all to see.”

“That’s not the same, and you know it,” Ginny insisted. Pausing, she said in a mockingly inquisitive tone, “In fact, I don’t believe I’ve heard you mentioned anywhere since I returned. It’s as though the Wizarding World has forgotten that you exist. Have you been hiding, Malfoy?”

A sudden silence fell between them, heavy with the echo of her words. Silverware clinked in the background, but neither of them cared.

Suddenly, Ginny came out of her thoughts like a swimmer coming up for air. Her eyes widened in horror at what she’d just said, but the hard glitter in Malfoy’s eyes were already promising retribution before she could apologize or excuse herself.

“And what of you, Weasley?” he began in a deceptively conversational tone. “Have you told your family why you left them all those years ago? Does Potter know why his girlfriend left with no note and no explanation? In fact,” he imitated her pose, “do you know why you left?”

“You – Ron’s death,” Ginny could only stutter helplessly.

“Yes, that’s what you told them,” he said as he tipped his head towards the wedding party, “and I daresay you believed it yourself for a while. But the Weasel’s death only showed you that everyone else ignored you, didn’t it? You knew that you had nothing to offer Potter other than your body, so you sulked.”

He inched closer and bent to look into her eyes as his voice lowered. The sunlight flashed on his hair, but his face was shadowed so that Ginny could only see the steely brittleness of his eyes. “And when you left, you discovered you were worthless. So you decided to return, where you would be loved despite the fact that you were a waste of flesh and breath.”

Ginny closed her eyes, willing him to end, wanting his words to be lies. It seemed that Malfoy wasn’t the only one who enjoyed his pretences once in a while.

“I… why I left…” her voice was soft, croaky by the emotion that lumped in her throat.

“Save it,” Malfoy said brusquely, moving away from her so that the sun was in her eyes again.

She blinked and shielded her eyes, only to see that he had already turned his back on her and was walking away. But Ginny couldn’t let him go. She had to say something to make up for the selfishness of her past retreat, anything to silence his words repeating in her head.

She moved quickly and grabbed his arm. He stilled immediately at her touch; Ginny almost expected a sneer about her Muggle-loving germs or something else as equally inane and biting from their past. Instead, he turned to her with eyes like a flat iron sea and watched her impassively.

She floundered in the face of his silence, and realized that there was nothing she could say. They’d both dug too deep to escape the truth behind their lies.

“Go away, Weasley,” he whispered softly.

That spurred her to speak. “You– you only have to deal with what others think of you,” she insisted, still holding on to him as though he was her life support. “You’ve changed – don’t deny it – and if you’d show the others how much you’ve changed, you’ll find some peace. I don’t think you’d be here if Hermione didn’t like you in some way and if you didn’t reciprocate.”

Letting go of his arm, she dropped her hand to her side and fisted it in the material of her robes. “She, at least, is one person who is willing to give you a chance. I– I don’t think I have the same. I’ve betrayed them, and I know it – they know it! – every time I look them in the face. I can only deal with the mess I’ve made, but they never expected you to do what you did!” She paused to straighten her back and look into his eyes with the boldness of a woman marching to her death. “You still have a chance to make things right.”

Her eyes dared him to reply with a sarcastic joke, but she really wasn’t expecting a reply at all. So when he finally did open his mouth, she stared at him.

“Weasley,” he began in a gentle tone. She shivered.

“Weasley… don’t you think I have demons of my own making, as well?” His eyes were like a clear looking glass, straight into the stormy depths of his soul. “You said it yourself,” he grinned wryly. “I tried to kill Dumbledore, but failed to. I wanted to save Severus, but I cowered instead. I wanted to help the Order, but then I could only give them specifics.”

He pulled up the sleeve of his robe so quickly that Ginny nearly jumped back from the movement. The look on his face was bitter as he held out his arm and showed her the ugly serpentine brand. “This is my demon. This is the mess that I’ve created. I’ve done my own string of betrayals, Weasley. You, at least, found a way to escape – if only for a little while.” He pulled down the sleeve slowly. “The only escape for me is death.”

“Malfoy –” Ginny began with a horrified look on her face.

He laughed bitterly as he looked down, brushing imaginary wrinkles out of the fabric. “No Weasley, I’m not about to off myself. I’m far too obstinate to do it.” When he looked up to meet her eyes again, his were weary and disconsolate. “Whatever you may think of me, I am not here for appearances. And I am the same boy that you knew from Hogwarts, because I’m such a coward that I hide myself to survive.”

“But Malfoy,” she interrupted, “the people you might have betrayed are dead!”

She felt more horrified at her outburst than he looked. He just shook his head and said, “Do you honestly think that the dead don’t leave their burdens to the living? You, at least, took a chance to do what you wanted. I’ve only ever had ‘what ifs’ and ‘maybes.’”

He suddenly looked away in the direction of the woods, as though he couldn’t bear looking at her. Ginny idly noted that the sun peeked out from behind his head like a tiny halo before he turned back to her. “Unfortunately, Weasley, you don’t have the luxury of being the only martyr for your past. Remember that.” With that, he turned around and made his way straight to the reception.

This time, Ginny closed her eyes and turned her head away from the glare of the sun as he walked away. She attempted to process what had just happened and failing miserably. This insight into the soul of a complete stranger left her numb. But, after sharing such intimate details of each other, Ginny knew that they would always be inextricably tied. That thought warmed her far less than the sunshine could.