I glanced up across the table at Piran. He was looking down at his plate stubbornly and pushing his food around. Perhaps it was just my imagination, but I thought I saw him looking at me not two seconds ago. Now he refused to even move his eyes.

 

Sighing, I tried looking at Mum. Nothing. She simply stared out of the window to her left, watching the world on the other side of the glass.

 

But there was nothing out there, I knew – it was the middle of a horrid April and any new growth that could have possibly survived the almost solid onslaught of rain was now shrouded in a heavy, smoky mist. Piran and I had taken the brooms– special Easter presents – out this morning to the field, only the find we lost each other within seconds.

 

Mum’s eyes moved, watching the birds maybe, or just something else playing inside her head.

 

And Father, he was just sitting there, chin resting on the heel of his palm, doing absolutely zilch - though somehow he’d eaten more than any of us. His eyes were glazed – no pretence like my mother of actually looking at something – and the pads of his fingertips tapped the table. Without really knowing him, I knew all he wanted to do was get away.

 

*

 

Draco walked into the library, having shirked off his companions, in search of some information.

 

As he walked further towards the back, feeling the air cool and smelling the odour of old books overtake that of the students milling around.  He scanned the row heads. He didn’t know what he was searching for, but he was hoping that this time it would jump out at him.

 

History of Magic – No damn way

 

 Charms – Already looked

 

 Herbology – Useless

 

 Transfiguration…

 

He paused for a second and turned in. There was someone already sitting at the table at the end of the aisle. He watched her shrewdly for a second. They seemed harmless, and would hopefully go soon. He needed some privacy.

 

And then he begin filtering all the possibly books with relevant information from the shelves. There turned out to be even less then he thought possible, and he was already over half way…

 

“Will you please stop tapping!”

 

Draco glanced sharply at the source of the noise.

 

“Yeah, you-”

 

He stared at the person at the table. She was the girl from earlier on. But, instead of moving on, they seemed to have settled in further, the books around the table stacked ever higher.

 

“-stop that bloody tapping. It’s really distracting.” They trailed off, muttering something about OWL revision and the cheek of the lower school…

 

Incensed, Draco stalked over to them, and realising too late who it was, was unable to turn back.

 

Red hair. Long legs. Gryffindor

 

But her eyes were already on him, and he was left with no alternative but to smirk.

 

“What do you want, Malfoy?”

 

He glanced at her work. “Intermediate Charms, Weasley? Really, I thought you were more of a beginner personally-”

 

However, he found it a little hard to continue with a wand aimed just below his waist.

 

“Keep tapping, and you’ll find out.”

 

*

My eyes returned to the food in front of me. I’d mashed it so much it was barely recognisable. Still, I put some on my fork and brought it to my mouth. I swallowed, feeling none of the tension in the air disappear as I did so.

 

The tapping stopped. I must have been the only one who could have heard it. I scrutinised my father for a moment longer than I normally would have. His face had seemed to change, for a split second, as something flicked and passed onto it. Just for that moment – and if I didn’t know better – I would have said it was deviance.

 

Then the tapping started again. Only this time his used his nails, the rhythmic little taps echoing horribly around our silent table. Piran’s head snapped up and I finally managed to catch his eye.

 

Each one of Father’s fingernails hit the varnished wood. T-t-t-t…pause…t-t-t-t…

 

On and on, not getting faster or slower, but always slightly different. Piran watched him closely. If there was any recognisable rhythm in those taps, I couldn’t find it.

 

Finally, oh finally, something happened.

 

Mum’s cutlery rang nosily as they collided with her plate. “Do you have anything to say, Draco?”

 

Father hadn’t moved, save for his eyes. Both Piran’s eyes and mine turned to him. His chin still rested lazily on his hand and he seemed to be almost considering not responding to her for a moment. Then he slowly straightened out again, flexed his unused fingers gracefully.

 

A small cough and then he spoke. “No, Ginny, absolutely nothing springs to mind.”

 

Mum rolled her eyes at this. Which might explain why Father…well, exploded.

 

I’ve never seen my father get angry like he was then. Never. Not even when my brother and I decided that his broom would make two mini brooms if we broke it in half. Then, he went a very odd colour (as it was a very new broom) and told us to stay in our rooms, separate, for the next week. He didn’t trust us with anything valuable for the next year or so. But his voice never, never, strained above the acceptable.

 

But now, he shouted, banging his fist on the table. “Don’t you…”

 

Everyone jumped – Mum included – and more knives and forks clattered, as well as Piran’s butter dish. In the background, I sensed rather than saw the House Elves retrieve all the fallen items.

 

The sentence hung in the air like a huge balloon, growing and growing under Father’s glower – it engulfed my brother and I who sat on the sides of the long table, making me swallow- and didn’t stop expanding. I seemed to be the only one who sensed its existence. It was about to reach Mum’s nose…

 

A deadly whisper. “Don’t what, Draco?”

 

Pop. The unsaid words scattered everywhere.

 

Don’t you roll your eyes at me!

 

If dirty looks and wishes were noise, the room would have been filled with shouts, screams and smashing. I could hear it – the blood rushing in my ears, the hairs on my arms tingling into life – and it made my head hurt. But all that really existed was silence. Until the last of Piran’s cutlery wobbled ominously before crashing unceremoniously to the floor.

 

Mum and Father jumped, clearly startled.

 

“Oh, Piran. Be careful!” Mum snapped, first to react.

 

“It was an accident, leave the boy alone!”

 

Slowly, Piran began sinking further and further down his chair, until there was barely a mop of sandy brown hair visible. And as Mum and Father’s petty argument raged above, our eyes met. They’d been moments like this for as long as I can remember – something small would just spark up the biggest row.

 

Then something penetrated the mental hands I had put over my ears with a sharp, cold stab.

 

“You wouldn’t have done this if it was Elizabeth’s knife on the floor right now!”

 

Before I even recognised Mum’s voice, tears were welling up. Dad didn’t even miss a beat, starting to rant about something else, vaguely related to me, but everything to do with Mum.

 

And after he had finished… more silence. I could feel my mother’s eyes resting on me as I furiously studied my lap, trying to swallow the lump that had sprung up in my throat.

 

Eventually, and to my eternal surprise, Piran spoke. His quiet voice filling the room easily. “Can we be excused?”

 

I still didn’t look up but heard the patient smile in her voice. “Of course. Why don’t you and your sister take your brooms out again, I think the fog is clearing-”

 

Quite soon after hearing that we could, my brother and I were out of the room, shutting the door on my father’s next scathing comment…

 

“Why don’t want them to hear everything then, Ginny-”

 

“Oh shut up, Draco. You really need to get over yourself. Has it ever occurred to you to use a bit of thought?”

 

“Like your words of wisdom? Please, queen of knowledge, teach me your art!”

 

“Christ almighty, you’ve never grown up. You’re always going to be a total arse-”

 

Piran tugged me away. We walked in silence up to our rooms.

 

*

Rain. It rained and rained all day.

 

Ginny had laughed it off, saying she’d rather have a bad wedding day than a bad marriage.

 

Draco hoped she was right, but he had a bad feeling that it was an omen. Nothing in their lives would ever end happily ever after. They both knew that, and yet they were still here, eloping.

 

Actually eloping.

 

Well, not technically eloping. Still, he felt the thrill of rebellion.

 

He felt a good kind of nervousness rippling up through his chest and making him suppress so many smiles.

 

In front of him, people milled around the room aimlessly, while other’s kept to themselves. There were about twenty guests in the room, at most, and he could not imagine a drabber place to get married. Nor a drabber selection of guests.

 

All her friends. None of his could be trusted. 

 

And yet he didn’t feel comfortable.

 

*

 

“Ignore what Mum said…and Dad for that matter,” he whispered as we stopped outside my room. I just nodded, not trusting myself to speak, and opened the door. The bed called to me, its pillows waiting for me to cry. “They’re just going through a sticky patch.”

 

“Another one.”

 

A weak and fake smile appeared on his face. A nod and he walked off. A door slammed somewhere down the landing and I was alone with my thoughts.

 

*

 

Lizzie ran through the sand dunes, hiding from her father. Risking a look over her shoulder, she giggled as he sunk in the soft sand, scrambling after her.

 

“You’re going to put  sun cream on if it’s the last thing I do, Elizabeth Malfoy!”

 

Short of breath from running and laughing she collapsed behind a big pile of sand, panting. A grin plastered over her face. She peered over the side, and not seeing her father, she fell back down. Sea gull’s wheeled over head, and she squinted up at them for a moment, watching their slow movements until they were out of sight.

 

“Boo!”

 

She squealed as her father appeared in front of her.

 

Escaping through his legs, and laughing at his outraged yelp, she galloped and stumbled through the sand, falling out onto the beach.

 

To her left, a little way along, her mother sat on a rug with her brother, sorting out the shells they had found earlier on in the day. But Lizzie ran on, she was not going to wear sun cream!

 

Behind her, there was a distant thudding as her father ran after her, his feet making a noise as they hit the wet, hard sand as they drew closer to the sea.

 

Lizzie’s breath was disappearing now, all of her energy being taken up by her unstoppable giggles…

 

A pair of strong arms wrapped around her middle and swept her clean off her feet.

 

“Gotcha, tyke!”

 

Immediately, she began wiggling like an eel, trying to hit him. But her only reply was a laugh that she felt through his bare chest as he tickled her.

 

Her peals of laughter must have caught someone’s attention, as Lizzie vaguely saw through the tears of hysterics, her mother standing up with her hands on her hips…

 

“What are you doing to my poor girl?!”

 

Somehow she managed to squirm her way out of his arms, half falling onto the ground and still trying to get away from the evil bottle that was in her father’s grasp.

 

But before she could draw a breath, she was being tickled mercilessly by some unknown force.

 

“St-Stop!” she gasped, trying to push his hands off her stomach.

 

It stopped, but he still kept a grip on her arms and kept her on the floor. 

 

Her eyes stopped watering, and she saw her mother smiling at her, with Piran holding her hand, looking down on his sister anxiously. Her father grinned, and nodded to the sun cream now in his wife’s hand.

 

“Gonna wear it, young lady?”

 

“Never!”

 

Another round of ruthless tickling ensued until she was almost paralytic with chuckles.

 

And then it stopped, so suddenly that Lizzie was still rolling around on the ground in a daze for several moments, before she realised the people around her were deadly silent.

 

Her father had stood up, holding his arm. Did she hit too hard?

 

“I’m sorry, Daddy-”

 

But he wasn’t paying attention to her, nor was her mother. Lizzie sat up indignantly. No one spoke, her parents simply looking at each other for a few moments before her father began to stride off.

 

She and Piran were left as her mother stalked after him. Grabbing her brother’s hand, Lizzie followed quickly, catching pieces of conversation like drops of water.

 

Her mother’s questions, her father’s silent replies.

 

When they all reached the camp they had made earlier – a rug, parasol and a picnic – her father began rustling around, looking for something.

 

“So you’re going then?” her mother asked, voice cold as he roughly pulled on a pair of trousers over his swimming shorts. Again, no reply. “Well?”

 

This time he grunted, avoiding anyone’s eyes. Beside her, Piran began making snuffling noises. His hat had been thrown off as soon as his mother wasn’t there to put it right back on.

 

“I’ll wear sun cream, Daddy,” she half-whispered. “I’ll even put it on myself.”

 

For a few seconds he looked right at her, and then sighed. He yanked on a sandy short over his arms and continued his search for clothing . Something was said, but she sensed it rather than heard it.

 

“You knew it would be like this. I told you. You knew.”

 

After a moment, Lizzie realised she wasn’t being spoken to.

 

Clearly ready to go, her father kissed her mother goodbye without any response. She wouldn’t even look at him, and was dutifully studying the sky. Then, he pecked the top of Lizzie’s head before ruffling Piran’s hair, telling him to wear his hat.

 

When he was gone, her mother heaved the biggest sigh Lizzie would ever hear. It was enough to invite a hug from her daughter, and followed implicitly by Piran, who seemed to be getting more sand than love on his mother.

 

She smiled a watery smile and asked Lizzie to retrieve her brother’s hat, while she set out the picnic.

 

By the time Lizzie had returned, armed with not only the sun hat but also the discarded bottle of the evil sun lotion. They ate their sandwiches and drank their juice in miserable silence. No one else made her put sunscreen on.

 

*

 

Sighing, I walked in slowly. But I didn’t go to my bed, or my pillows, but to the middle of the room where I lay down on my rug. I used to love lying on the floor, listening to the beat of the house. Plumbing, people walking up stairs, the house elves scuttling around… everything. And I would look up at the ceiling, my very own white sky above me.

 

I lay there then, but I was unable to float away. Yet I stayed, listening and feeling the house. Along the hallway, I could hear (or feel, I never am sure) Piran walking around his room, the floorboards creaking slightly, until he put his radio on. Then he was lost in the music. I then concentrated downwards. The pipes underneath my floor rattled comfortingly as they wound their way around the house. Somewhere I could hear the distant buzz of the argument.

 

I closed my eyes.

 

Then I cried.

 

I sobbed so much and for so long my eyes were slick and sore at the same time. I wept so hard that I couldn’t breathe. I mourned for something I couldn’t understand.

 

It’s ridiculous, looking back, but I stayed on that floor, listening to the beat of Piran’s music and watching the sunlight on my walls move. At dusk, I finally moved. My back popped, but I simply wiped my eyes and hauled myself up. I felt so pathetic.

 

The hallway outside my room – and along to Piran’s – has no windows. It was wonderfully dark there, and it smelt so peaceful. It sounds strange, but it’s true. The smell of my childhood, the smell of what surrounded me for as long as I could remember. And the turmoil in my head just froze, lamely falling to the floor. As I walked downstairs, these thoughts, feelings, ideas somehow ran away from me, hiding in my subconscious, and leaving me alone for as long as I ignored them.

 

*

Piran’s squeal woke her up with a start.

 

“Lizzie!”

 

Regardless of the day, and the large stocking stuffed full at the base of her bed, Lizzie pulled the blankets over her head. She was just in time – a big bundle of ten-year-old boy jumped on her excitedly.

 

“Lizzie, get up you bit wellyhead!” – it was his new phrase from school – “You’re no fun anymore. Come. On. Get. Up.”  Every word was followed by a bounce, each bigger than the last.

 

“Bugger off.” The blanket seemed to muffle her words, and the noise was simply taken as a random morning grumble.

 

“Get up! Mum’ll do that water thing on you again!”

 

In the last few months, Lizzie had found it harder and harder to get up in the morning. Or the afternoon. All she wanted to do was dose in her warm blankets, and watch the sunlight play on the walls of her room. It got to the point that when Lizzie refused to get up to visit family friends before noon, so her mother conjured a waterfall above her bed.

 

But the cold water was a hazy memory, and the snug duvet around her blotted all the fear away.

 

“It’s a chance I’m willing to take.”

 

“Eh? I can’t hear you. Get up, you idiot!”

 

Somehow, she was dragged out of bed, downstairs and into the study, which was soon overflowing with wrapping paper and filled with excited squeals.

 

Lizzie watched on, smiling at her presents and watching Piran enjoying himself. She wished she were young again at Christmas; she hated being able to see all the bad parts. The wrong shoes. Her father cradling a strong coffee. Another book. Though her Mum and Dad brought her some beautiful clothes – with the promise of a thorough spree from Mum. Still, the flat feeling in her chest wouldn’t go away as she watched Piran practically overdosing on happiness as he flitted from one present to another, unable to stay still.

 

But Lizzie cheered up eventually, when her Mum mentioned something about visitors. Piran also emerged from his mountain of paper with a huge grin on his face. “Uncle Fred and  George?”

 

Dad  also looked up. “Do I have to be here?”

 

Mum just smiled – though this time it seemed alive – and kissed him. “Nope. You can go and sleep off your hangover.”

 

*

 

My feet took me to the study. Somehow I registered that there was no light under the doorway, so my father wasn’t brooding there, but I had the feeling I would have just walked in anyway.

 

The cool air hit my damp face in a wave of relief. The large windows looked out upon the dusky, mist-ridden gardens, and sent chills down my spine. The books on the shelves remained in the darkness, as well as anything in the shadows, but I was simply too over come with mindless serenity at this point.

 

I fiddled with the light switch long enough to get it on, and sat down in the chair behind the desk heavily. Slowly, I spun myself around, letting my neck relax, staring up at the ceiling.

 

It was dark. The soft yellow light barely lapped at its surface. Somewhere, from deep within, I had a horrible urge to laugh.

 

There was a wall in the study that was completely devoted to photos. It was the only place in the room that didn’t get any sunlight (not that it would affect the photos, but Mum was always a little funny like that) and was a weird little shrine. Not just photographs but stolen menus, newspaper cuttings, old school ties and badges, sweet wrappers, postcards… anything. The pictures though, were predominant – posed photos, quick (and slightly dodgy) snapshots, black and white, colour, moving, still, and then some photos that no one was quite sure who they belonged to…

 

Some of the faces, even in the still photographs, reminded me of my father, some my mother. Others I know that Mum has just randomly added, finding them when she sorted out the attics years ago. Obviously part of my father heritage, but he simply shrugged when asked who they were.

 

*

 

“Draco! For the love of Merlin, will you get your arse in gear!”

 

Running down the stairs and fastening his tie at the same time, made him forget about the low beam over the staircase. His head created a lovely sound as it connected with the wood.

 

“Oh!  Holy mother of-”

 

Ginny popped her head out of the kitchen. The damn place was small enough to stick your head out of a room and see what was going on everywhere on the bottom floor. To his annoyance, she was grinning.

 

“I hope you didn’t make a dent on my house.”

 

Draco sullenly rubbed his forehead and carefully made his way to the floor. He managed not to do himself anymore damage on his way down  though the towers of books and objects on the stairs made it a danger to even someone as agile as himself.

 

“It’s a sign,” he muttered, marching into the kitchen.  Angry he had to restart his tie… again.

 

Ginny was standing by a counter, idly wiping the surface. An image he’d never forget: scrubbing the top in the most stunning dress he’d ever see her wear.

 

“You sure we have to go?” he murmured into her ear, letting his hands wander down the fabric.

 

She smiled and put a bottle between them. “You make us late, and I’ll pour bleach over your broom.”

 

He smirked. “It wouldn’t make us late.”

 

Her nose scrunched up and her smile broke into another grin. “Don’t even think those things inside my mother’s house. You hear me?”

 

“Try and stop me.”

 

Ginny simply shook her head happily and continued to tidy up, as Draco fixed himself a glass of something to steady his nerves.

 

*

 

My finger drifted over the papers, I knew nothing about my family. Nothing. When I was younger, I thought my parents were my world – because they were – and by the time I was old enough to realise otherwise – that they had dreams and aspirations of their own, hopes that had long taken second place – I had made a different family at school, one I didn’t want to leave.

 

It was so much easier to start over, with these new people who would laugh at my jokes, share my fears and pick me up wherever I fell. At home, the arguments got worse. Or at least, I became aware of them. I noticed my father’s distance, my mothers increasing swings between apathy and anger and I had a sudden urge to get away.

 

There was something on the floor. Mechanically I bent down and picked it up, not even looking as I pinned it back in the board.

I went back to my chair, and my spinning vigil.

 

If I were one of those people, I would have gone outside for a walk or run, to clear my head. But I wasn’t. The fog and the cold and the dark were enough to deter me. And the mess in my head seemed to be quiet at the moment as I hardly had the energy to breathe, let alone think.

 

Still I kept on spinning.

 

Around me the house moved a little as someone came downstairs – possibly Piran – before they scooted quickly up again. A few seconds after that I heard a firm set of feet walk across the foyer, pause, and continue. The door opened. Silence. Then it shut.

 

Only my father walked like that.

 

From the desk, a picture of my parents when they were younger – barely old enough to be out of school – sat, mocking me.

 

*

 

Draco stared up at the canopy above him. The sun shone through the leaves, creating a dapple green world above him. He smelt grass, the hay fields over in the Muggle village being cut by tractors. But their presence was far enough away to seem calming. Beneath him, he could feel the odd pebble or jutting root on his back, even through the rug. The occasional cloud sailed past above, rolling in a flawless and endless sky.

 

The great tree behind him gave him more comfort than he would ever like to admit.

 

A beautiful summer’s day. A beautiful girl in his arms. An ugly world outside of the realm of the tree.

 

He looked down at Ginny.

 

She was knackered. Working nights, doing whatever she did – she never told him, and he never asked – and all the extra curricular activities she took part in were beginning to show. Her sleeping face was lax, devoid of the frowns and blissfully empty.

 

He swallowed, wondering, not for the first time, what his father would say if he saw him here now.

 

Here with a sleeping, Muggle loving, red headed, Weasley.

 

Draco just smiled, and watched her breathing for a moment. Sitting up, he stared out over the landscape, watching the moving vehicles slowly turn the vast swathe of grass into neat little rows.

 

*

 

I don’t remember when Piran came in, but he did. He looked so desolate that I wanted to start crying again.

 

“Dad’s left,” he whispered, crawling into the chair with me. “I saw him. He just walked out.”

 

My head felt like a wet sponge. This new information was simply absorbed but not registered. I just stroked his hair and felt him silently cry. His hair looked dark in the limited light, and could almost pass for red, unlike my pale light hair – which I was now starting to hate.

 

Piran kept asking when Dad was coming back. I told him I didn’t know.

 

If my numbed brain were honest with itself, I would have said that father had been gone for a long time. I was surprised he stuck around for so long.

 

“Where’s Mum?” I asked quietly, with no intentions of going to her. I would have rather stayed here with Piran, running my fingers through his hair and whispering comforts.

 

Piran shifted his weight slightly. “Who cares?”

 

“What did you say?”

 

But he wouldn’t repeat it.

 

Piran and father were a thick as thieves, which made me sick, as my mother and I were never as close as she would have liked. She was always offering to take me shopping, to the hairdressers, or to the theatre or something that required an unwilling girliness to come to the surface for extended period of time. I would rather help my uncles secretly in their joke shop, chatting with school friends as I labelled up their boxes, laughing at victims of the products.

 

But most of all, I preferred the company of my father to her – a father that barely knew I existed once Piran was old enough to be of interest.

 

*

 

Lizzie didn’t remember her Mum being pregnant much. But she did remember when she went into hospital to have Piran.

 

Her father was nervous. So nervous that he didn’t say anything, so nervous that he pretended to be perfectly normal. But while she sat on his knee, she felt his legs trembling, until he pushed her off, asking if she wanted to go explore around the hospital.

 

It turned out all the interesting wards in St Mungo’s were blocked off, and her father didn’t like walking around where people he knew worked. Which turned out to be everywhere.

 

So in the end they went to the back of the café, and Lizzie made her way through a rather large slice of cake.

 

“Don’t you want some, Daddy?”

 

He just shook his head. “I don’t feel like eating much, thanks.”

 

Lizzie shrugged and ate the rest in contented silence, sipping her lemonade like the ladies around her.

 

Her father ignored everyone and stared at the tabletop, then at a newspaper someone brought him, but his eyes simply glazed as the photos and headlines fought for his attention.

 

*

 

And then I had a brother. A brother that got my mother’s smiles, my uncles’ attention, Aunt Hermione’s pretty charms and Father’s knee.

 

We went to bed after that. It was some god-forsaken hour in the morning and the house was as still as death. I had barely closed my eyes and I was awake again, an odd feeling in my chest. Expectancy. Hope. Sadness. Apathy. Dread. Everything in life.

 

The duvet around me was cold in the morning, so I got out of bed without the aid of cold water. I poured myself a bath, and stared blankly at the white and blue walls of my en suite bathroom, as I sat on the edge of the tub. This was my sanctum – very few people were allowed in here. Posters weren’t allowed in my room – both my parents had actually agreed and categorically banned them for some mysterious reason that neither Piran nor I could grasp – so this is where anything remotely interesting was torn out of magazines and newspapers found itself.

 

A few Quidditch players, a beautiful tree on a summer’s day, clothes I wanted, boys my friends and I fancied from magazines; another attribute I somehow picked up from my mum.

 

The steam from the bath was beginning to swirl around my head, and catching in my nose. Dully, I opened the window. I would love to say I sat pensively on the windowsill, watching whatever romantic or dramatic scene was unfolding outside. Problem is that my bathroom has the tiniest window, and because the house is old, it’s near the floor. So I usually kick the window open as the latch is always off, and go about my business like a human being.

 

Unsurprisingly this happened that day, and it wasn’t until I turned off the taps, and the thunderous noise of water crashing into the tub stopped echoing around the room that I noticed anything. But there was nothing to notice. Piran wasn’t chasing up and down the corridors with one of his sugar addicted friends, father wasn’t swearing as he made a mistake on a letter downstairs and Mum wasn’t knocking on my door, asking me if I’d used her new shampoo. 

 

Sighing I sunk into the bath.

 

I have no idea how long I spent in there, but it felt wonderful. My fingertips turned all wrinkly and soft before I even thought about doing anything. Eventually, I dragged myself out, realising that I was probably going to drown if I fell asleep.

 

I was so tired, even after my night’s rest, and the fact I had done nothing but laze in the bath. My legs and arms were shaking because I hadn’t eaten but I didn’t make it to the door, I just flopped on my bed, my pyjama’s sticking to my wet body.

 

*

 

“I cannot believe you punched him!”

 

Draco stared at Ginny sullenly, swiftly reminded that she was like everyone of his teachers at school, his mum and relatives, all combined, when she shouted like that.  How could this have escaped his notice? Really it was incredibly disconcerting to have little Wease- Ginny shouting at him.

 

“Well? Do I get an answer?”

 

Definitely the teachers. But he knew this wasn’t the time for smart-arse comments or stupid thoughts. She was so angry she was pale, her soft eyes cold and shooting daggers at him.

 

“I was provoked.”

 

This did not seem to be an adequate answer. If he thought pale anger was bad, a mottled patch on her cheeks was worse.

 

“Provoked?” she repeated indignantly, in that god-awful tone that all women seemed to use when inflected with righteous anger. “And what in the hell would provoke you to hit him? This was the first time that you my parents had properly met you! I don’t need them on my case now, Draco. I know you were nervous but-”

 

“I wasn’t nervous.”

 

She looked at him, as if knowing better, but said nothing. Nor did she say much else. Her anger seemed to have disappeared and she was left sighing flatly, pinching the bridge of her nose. A sure sign of stress. And for some reason this just made flickers of irritation stir. Then she collapsed on the chair beside him, and touched something on his face. He felt nothing beneath her fingers.

 

“Next time please keep your blood in your head,” she whispered, indicating to the red stain now on her hand.

 

Draco’s teeth were grating and he stood up abruptly. “Do you even care what they said to me, Gin?”

 

Her mouth opened then closed. He didn’t need to know, her face had fallen guiltily.

 

“No, of course not, after all, Wonder Boy couldn’t have done anything, could he? No, not when I’m concerned.”

 

“Draco, you’re- You don’t know what I’m talking about…”

 

Her quiet voice, the undercurrent of remorse, was purposefully being ignored. On some level, on such a sick level, he felt glad that she was looking up to him, seeking his forgiveness. It was always his fault things went wrong, it was always his fault…

 

Feeling his fingers itching, he stormed out of the room, down the hallway, grabbing his coat, not caring when several fell to the floor. Ginny was right behind him.

 

“Where are you going? It’s late-”

 

Draco had already haphazardly pulled his cloak on by this point, and was in the process of throwing his scarf on. “Like you care.”

 

He ignored her face.

 

“What did they say to you?”

 

He ignored the way her voice seemed to crack in the middle of the sentence. He stared at the floor stubbornly. Now he felt like he couldn’t tell her.  She’d probably shout at them, and then they’d know it had bothered him enough. Not that getting into a fight was the subtlest way of expressing himself.

 

She was now closer, a fluttering hand on his chest. He watched it, concentrating on it so intensely, hoping it would block everything else out. But the fact he wasn’t sure whether he wanted her to touch him still permeated his thoughts.

 

“Please tell me…”

 

He brushed her off.

 

“You don’t want to know.”

 

And, just before he apparated out of her small, warm hallway to his large, empty house, the words echoed around and around his mind.

 

The hotel room he spent the night in was the only sanctuary he could find that night, away from her concerns and the conflicting emotions they created.

 

*

 

I went into my parent’s room.  It was dark, the curtains drawn haphazardly and the duvets all clumped over to one side. There was only one figure under the covers. I knew it was my Mum, I don’t know why. I think I smelt her. Sighing, I would have left right away, but I heard a tapping at the window. Careful when I opened the curtains, that none of the bright spring light fell onto my mother, I unlatched the window and let the owl soar into the room. It landed with more poise than necessary and stared at me. Nervously, I found a pack of owl treats from the dressing table and offered one. After it inspected the proffered gift, the brown-feathered bird gently removed one from my hand and flew back outside.

 

When we were younger, Piran and I used to watch the owls leave our father’s study as he sent his letters to… wherever they went. But now, I simply stared at the letter in front me.

 

G. M. W.   Ginevra Molly Weasley.   It was from family. Not Grandma or Granddad, or Uncle Fred, George, Charlie or Bill. They never called her Ginevra… they never called her Weasley.   Without thinking, I torn the letter up and threw it into the fireplace.

 

Feeling unsure what else to do, I wandered back down to the study. I had homework I ought to be at least looking at. But as I set everything up, my will to do anything constructive was pulled from beneath me.

 

I returned to spinning around in the chair. Stopping every so often, I would look around the room, and listen to the house, feeling for any movement. Nothing. 

 

I went on spinning until I felt sick, wherein I went back to staring at the wall, trying to follow where each layer went. A postcard I hadn’t noticed before – a coast line (not very exotic, and quite clearly somewhere in the country) with a sandy beach that turned into craggy rocks. A merry lighthouse painted red and white, and exposed sand dunes full of coarse grass. Next to that was a picture of my father, looking heart wrenchingly young with a huge grin on his face pointing to something on his arm. It was a cut near this shoulder, and, for some reason that I couldn’t comprehend, he looked mightily proud.

 

Slowly, I leaned forwards and carefully unpinned it, careful not to let a shower of whatever else was up there fall to the floor. I turned around, placing it flat on the desk, looking at it in a better light.

 

The man in the picture pointed again to the small wound, before laughing silently and saying something invisible to the person taking the picture.

 

“That almost killed me,” a voice behind me said genially. I didn’t look around, concentrating all my efforts on not screaming in shock. Father. “The great wound of 1998.”

 

I said nothing, unsure what I could say.

 

Uncomfortable silence dragged on before he leaned forward, tenderly taking the picture out of my grip. I felt him looking at it for a quiet moment, before pinning it back on the board. On some level I must have told my legs to move around, because I was facing the wall, staring at the panel once more. For something he so often moaned about, he was treating the picture and its friends with near reverence. With an odd noise – not unlike a chuckle – he touched his school tie, the green, black and silver glinting back at him, mixing and twisting with a gold and red one. When he had carefully placed the photo back in place, he leaned against the desk, parallel with me.

 

As far as I was concerned, he was here only out of necessity.

 

“Piran is in his room.”

 

He coughed, and perhaps my sidelong glance was not as surreptitious as I would have liked, but I thought I saw a smile. “I know. It seems that no one but us is awake at this ungodly hour.”

 

It was, now that he mentioned it, a trait that we shared. I had grown out of emerging post-noon on the weekends, and had found myself waking up earlier than anyone else. With the exception of my father. My mother and Piran were under no circumstances to be disturbed before half past nine, unless under the uttermost emergency. I smiled at this thought.

 

Unsure fingers began stroking my hair, still messed from my fitful sleep. “Your mother is right; we’re more alike than we care to admit.”

 

I kept staring at a particular ticket doggedly. The smell of my cleanly washed father was beginning to register, stirring so many thoughts, that I could only concentrate on one thing.

 

“You’re sixteen, aren’t you? I always forget. It doesn’t feel like sixteen years. You’re always going to be eleven years old to me, I’m afraid,” he laughed, and then sighed. “I bet things would be a lot easier if we all stayed that age.”

 

I looked at him but said nothing. An easy smile flickered onto his face, but didn’t reach his eyes. There was something wrong with my throat. My voice sounded all wrong when I tried to shout at him. “What are you doing here?”

 

But it came out as a whisper.

 

His hands left my hair, and touched my cheek briefly. He had the same eyes as me, the same nose (apparently) but I always thought he was too angular and pointed for my mother, who was so very pretty and seemingly sweet.

 

“It’s too late to watch you grow up. I missed every part of your life, your first day at school, your first birthday, your first-”

 

“You never miss anything of Piran’s.”

 

He stopped abruptly, and I knew I had hit something, though I was unsure what, very hard.

 

“Things were different when you were younger,” he answered, rather pathetically, but added when he saw me open my mouth, “When you’re Mum and I were first married we came under so much pressure get… unmarried.” A distant smirk. “But we didn’t. By the time you were born I was being put through hell-”

 

“By who?”

 

“People like the Parkinson’s or the Dolohov’s…”

 

And then I understood.

 

“Anyway. I didn’t have time.” Another sigh. “Not that words help much.”

 

We sat in silence for a little while longer. I followed the antics my mother’s brothers were up to when they were younger – how Grandma managed to rope them all into a picture together when they were that age was a small miracle- from what I heard about them.

 

“Are you staying?”

 

My father looked at me shrewdly, but this expression changed into something softer. I didn’t know why, it was a perfectly reasonable question. I couldn’t help it if my eyes were itching.

 

Somehow he managed to slip into the chair and I was sitting on his lap, listening to him breathe.

 

“Do you know how long you’re mother and I have been together?”

 

I shook my head. Guilt surged as I realised I honestly didn’t know.

 

“We’ve been married for twenty years, little girl,” he murmured, stroking my hair once more. “We’ve been going out for almost twenty-five. You don’t just leave someone you’ve loved for a quarter of a century like that. I love your Mum so much it scares me, but other times I just cannot stand to be near her. I don’t know if that’s normal, but we’ve always been like that. When it’s good, it’s amazing, but when it’s bad-”

 

“It’s bloody awful.”

 

His laugh reverberated through his chest. I allowed myself to smile.

 

“But you want an honest answer, which is that I don’t know. Did you know your Mum could have had a much easier life? Mine could have been so much worse. I need to talk to her. We need to talk.”

 

They had needed to talk for as long as I could remember. But I kept these thoughts to myself and continued to do so when he eased me off his lap and stood up. With a smile he started to walk out of the room. A nasty part of me wanted to call him back, scream at him. I’d tell him all the times I thought that I was the cause of the problems, the fact I wasn’t a boy, the fact I wasn’t as perfect as my brother, as good at Potions as my father or as good at Charms as my mother. The fact that whenever I had some grasp on happiness, it seemed to take my parent’s share of it away.

 

But I didn’t. I just watched him walk right out of the door, and listened to him climb the stairs.

 

The photograph on the desk still mocked me. 

 

*

 

Draco watched the morning birds fly in the looking-glass sky. A mug of hot tea was his only company by the windowsill but he didn’t mind. The vague shape of a human in the bed was the deep sleeping figure of his  wife. Unable to resist, he grinned and glanced back at her. All that was visible was a glimpse of red and a bit of an arm. Unperturbed, he returned to his vigil, slowly taking another sip of his drink.

 

Nothing could touch the happiness that had settled somewhere in his chest. It had been there for a while, now that he thought about it. He couldn’t remember when it had shown up, but he didn’t want to return it to wherever it had come from.

 

He had already had to pay for this feeling. So many people now despised him, maligned him and threatened him. He wasn’t a fool – he didn’t just laugh them off or wander around fearlessly. They were deadly serious. Yet he didn’t tell Ginny. She was still in a world of decentness, where everyone was fair. But her surroundings were just as dangerous to him. With no small amount of anger, he remembered the first time he had met her parents. It appeared that every large, male family member, old enough to wield a Beaters bat had turned up.

 

Don’t get too attached, Malfoy. You’ll be in prison before you ever have a chance with her.

 

He closed his eyes, and flexed his fingers.

 

But then someone’s warm arms were wrapped around his chest.

 

Ginny.

 

They stood beside the window for at least a lifetime less than he would have liked in silence, saying nothing, standing so close to each other.

 

But the spell was broken.

 

“Do you reckon this will work?” she murmured, kissing his shoulder.

 

That feeling in his chest twisted, and he re-arranged his position, feeling the soft skin of her back.

 

“I think so. I hope so.”

 

*