One – Beginnings from an End


Just past the southern edge of a small, insignificant village named Ottery St. Catchpole, there stood a giant black alder tree, towering over the rolling countryside, its topmost branches stretching like contorted fingers grasping at the heavens. It was an old thing. The bark was gnarled, the branches twisted, and the leaves drooped miserably as they weakly shuffled about in the wind. Undoubtedly, there were times when the tree reminded one of a stooped old man, hunched over his walking stick and carefully hobbling his way down the street. Yet despite the many years it carried on its knotted, grey trunk, the tree stood straight and proud – prevailing over any other ordinary alder tree, wise from the passing ages to which it stood witness – and every few years, it would muster up that old sap and produce forth a magnificent explosion of catkins and flowers, dusting over the entire countryside with shimmering gold pollen.

This remarkable black alder tree stood alone in the middle of a field of wild barley, where an especially high stalk would sometimes reach up and brush the tree’s lowermost branches as the breeze gently swayed the barley back and forth. The field was found just southeast of a particularly dense ring of trees which circled a little orchard, sweet-smelling from its hidden trove of fruits and flowers. There – once upon a time – a gaggle of red-haired children used to zoom about on brooms, laughing and calling to one another, screaming from delight in the manner that children tend to do when they are extraordinarily happy.

If one were to climb to the topmost branches of this particular black alder tree and sit, leaning back against its warm sunlit trunk, one would hear nothing but the rustle of green leaves in the wind and the joyous calls of birds as they flitted across a summer sky, see nothing but undulating meadows, endless trees and the general splendor of Mother Nature. There was no sign of human life or the loud, smoky pandemonium that generally accompanied those abrasive beings, save for a cluttered jumble of a house that made a small crooked blot on the eastern horizon. But the tree didn’t mind the family living in that crooked house – no, indeed at times it was quite amused as it watched them go about their daily lives – working in the garden, reading outside in the sunlight, the children shrieking at each other as they ran around on their short, stubby legs. And as time plodded on, the tree came to realize that it actually enjoyed the company of the red-haired family as they lived and changed and grew.

The father and mother would go on walks together at dusk through the fields and they always paused to admire the black alder tree’s convoluted branches, twisting up and over one another unto eternity. The tree generally found the boys to be unbearably loud – the whooping as they chased one another around the field, their noisy yells that ensued if one got his broom stuck in its branches, the general crash and clatter that always seemed to accompany these rambunctious, redheaded boys. The one with glasses would sometimes sit against its trunk and read, something the black alder tree didn’t mind, though the other boys would always turn up not long after his arrival, shattering the compatible silence with their stampeding feet and hollering for their brother to join the never-ending stream of games.

But it was the girl that the tree liked best – the freckled, brown-eyed girl with a slight bump on her nose and strawberry hair that shone in the sunlight. The girl had a habit of strolling down to the field on windy afternoons, singing to herself as she idly wove a path through the barley, her hands buried deep in her pockets. She had her favorite perch on the tree’s uppermost branches – sixth from the top –and there, in her own little niche, she would lean back against the tree’s weathered trunk, glimpse the dappled sunlight pouring through the tree’s sparse canopy, and watch the days pass her by.

As the years lumbered onward, following the lazy, swathing trail on which time treads, the brown-eyed girl’s visits to this extra-ordinary black alder tree dwindled until it was only in the summertime that she plucked her way across the countryside towards that familiar, twisted trunk. The tree found itself looking forward to the time when the world grew warmer, when the sun hung lower in the sky – because then the tree could whittle away its days in the girl’s soft-spoken company.

Then one summer came when the girl didn’t visit at all. That spring, the black alder tree had brought forth its most magnificent batch of flowers yet – golden catkins dripped from its blossom-laden branches, blue-white buds bloomed until the tree blended in perfectly with the perpetually azure sky, and delicate pollen covered the entire field, brushing over the barley and wildflowers with a soft, iridescent gold. The tree was disappointed that the girl did not visit and see it in all its flowered glory. The days lengthened, then shortened again, and still she did not come. Then the time arrived when the tree’s leaves turned red as the curls that spilled down her back, the barley white-gold as sunshine, and the skies black as night from the flocks of birds flying south in search of their winter roosts. The tree resigned itself to the fact that she would not come that year and began to withdraw into itself, preparing for the cold and barren winter ahead.

Then, one day, she appeared.

________________________________________

Ginny sat on one of the uppermost branches of the black alder tree that stood in the field behind her house, just past the orchard where she and her brothers used to pass the summer days away in their endless games of Quidditch. She swung her legs back and forth, relishing the sensation of the cool autumn air rushing in between her bare toes, just as she had relished it when she was younger – one of the few things that did not change with time.

She sighed and slumped back against the worn trunk, feeling the tree’s knotted bark dig into her back. She had hoped that visiting her old childhood haunt would calm her down, wash the memories away. Instead, it just gave her a silent place to think, dwelling and obsessing, each sunlit moment reminding her of all that had come to pass in the last year.

Everything should have been fine. The evil psycho-maniac was dead and the Wizarding world was being put back together again by those who would do it right. Life was slowly returning back to equilibrium – and yet, nothing was fine. Ginny had spent all summer watching her father work himself to exhaustion as he endeavored to fix everything that Voldemort had broken, watching her brothers struggle to track down the remaining Death Eaters, watching her mother attempt to draw their lives back into a state of normalcy. They all tried to ignore the hole left behind by Fred.

A squirrel scampered across a branch overhead, dislodging a couple of amber leaves and a single orange one that reminded her of glowing embers. Ginny watched the leaves flutter downwards, drifting lazily towards the earth. She wondered what she would have been doing at this very moment, had she not decided to take a year off before completing her seventh year at Hogwarts. Classes would’ve been over for the day by now – she probably would have been making her way down to the Quidditch field for practice, chatting with Demelza and Jimmy, her broom balanced jauntily over her right shoulder.

It would have been amazing to captain the team this year – they had worked together quite well last year and probably would have won the Cup had it not been for the blatant Slytherin favoritism yielded by the Carrows – and McGonagall had offered the post to her. The stern professor had even paid a personal visit to the Burrow one drizzling afternoon in early August to appeal for Ginny to return to Hogwarts, but even an appearance of the professor whom Ginny respected the most wasn’t enough to tempt her back to the school that had sheltered her and given her a home for the past six years. She loved Hogwarts – it was her second home, after the one in her rickety old Burrow – but Ginny couldn’t bear to return to the place, knowing that he wasn’t also somewhere inside those towering stone walls.

Her brothers didn’t understand – she hadn’t expected them to. They all thought she had quite literally lost it and made a point of telling her so every time she saw one of the big stupid lugs. Her mother was disappointed, frustrated and understanding all at once, agreeing to the plan only if Ginny stayed at home with her, and only after she made Ginny promise that she would return to finish her schooling the following year. Her father was the only one who had accepted it without any protestations. He had just smiled that worn, crooked smile of his and wrapped his warm arms around her shoulders like he always did when she was troubled – never asking questions, never critical.

It was madness. Ginny knew that and still she couldn’t bear to return. All because of him. She should have just – no, she couldn’t. Ginny hated it, in a way, hated how a boy – especially that boy – had overturned her entire life, caused her to be unsure and tentative of everything. And she hated how he had done it all with that insufferable smirk plastered across his face.

Ginny screamed in frustration, digging the palms of her hands into her eyes, covering her face. She had stayed home to get away from it all. She had come to her old spot on the black alder tree to be in a place where she had been happy before she knew him, before she had ever looked at him and wondered if there was someone else below that cold, stony exterior. But she couldn’t escape, couldn’t escape the images now swimming before her eyes – glinting grey eyes framed by a set of surprisingly-long lashes, a narrow and aristocratic nose set above lips that almost never smiled, smooth and barely curved collarbones jutting out of skin so pale that it fairly glowed in the moonlight. Every time she closed her eyes, he was there, whether it was the sound of his soft chuckle or the lingering scent of his skin twisting across her body.

Ginny inhaled sharply, shaking her head violently back and forth, trying to dislodge the memories like they were cobwebs clinging to the insides of her skull. She hated this, hated how she couldn’t get away from his cool, calculating gaze – judging her, condemning her.

The memories she had suppressed deep inside her mind came rushing up again, swelling to the brim. Unbidden, a brief sensation overtook Ginny – icy fingers gently caressing her scarred palm, a long arm winding lazily around her waist, soft lips pressing against her shoulders, her back, her mouth, tender and damp and scorching every surface of her skin. Ginny buried her head in her arms as the memories spilled over the edge, bubbling as they ran across her mind, taking over her thoughts, overwhelming her.

Two – First Impressions


Dark storm clouds wheeled in large, twisting corkscrews above the Great Hall. Streaks of lightning played across the churning grey, cutting through the gloom and illuminating the vast room with its pale, electric fingers. The candles flickered, throwing long shadows against the back wall as students trudged through the towering entryway. In the dim light, their faces looked haunted – the hollows of their eyes shadowed and the angle of their cheek bones gaunt. Rainwater dribbled down their craned necks and trickled from the bottom of their drenched black cloaks. The water pooled on the uneven floor, forming puddles that ran across crevices of the cool stone like miniature, winding streams.

Ginny stopped at Neville’s side, taking the time to pull her red curls up into a sloppy, dripping bun. A chilly draft wafted upwards as she passed the stairs that led down to the dungeons, and she couldn’t help but shiver, ever so slightly, from something other than the cold.

She slid into her usual spot between Neville and Seamus at the Gryffindor table and waited for the rest of the students to file in. So much had changed over the summer. Seamus was not his usual cheerful, charming self. Dean had not been on the train this year although, hopefully, it was because he had made a run for it and not because the Ministry had gotten to him. Seamus’s brow was furrowed in a deep crease – he was worried about his best friend. They all were.

Ginny looked around the room expectantly, only to see a multitude of faces missing from the crowd – Harry, Ron and Hermione, of course, but also many others like Eliza, the girl who always sat next to her in Herbology, and Thomas, who sometimes would take her study spot in the library, and even the fair-haired Ravenclaw whose name she always forgot but who could perform the best Wronski Feint she had ever seen. The faces that were present were mostly tightly-drawn and anxious, fretting over the terror that controlled the world outside the castle walls or keeping close track of friends inside. The professors, too, were troubled, and Ginny couldn’t help but notice how McGonagall’s eyes darted across the room as she silently took stock of which of her students had returned and, more notably, which of her students hadn’t. Hagrid was also missing, but he was most likely still battling his way across the windblown and stormy lake.

Ginny kept her eyes averted from the plain yet regal, tall-backed chair sitting at the very center of the High Table where the rest of the professors had congregated, overlooking the Hall.

There was a brief commotion at the front doors before the first-years finally straggled in, their eyes huge as dinner plates as they took in the floating wax candles, the assembled rows black-clad students, and the rolling mass of dark storm clouds swelling overhead. A sharp crack of thunder suddenly rang out, rattling the gold goblets, and one of them shrieked, the sound echoing across the Hall. The others merely huddled closer together, shivering as they slowly made their way towards the front of the room. Hagrid tramped in after them, shaking his head and throwing great beads of water over an unfortunate huddle of Hufflepuffs off to his left.

Ginny was surprised at the decently large class size of the first-years – with everything going on, she expected parents to keep their little ones closer to home – and she leaned over to tell Neville so. But just as she opened her mouth, she saw his drop wide open, his brown eyes round as dinner plates as they fixated on something behind her. His face was white as a sheet. Ginny whirled around.

Snape swept into the room, his black cloak billowing out from behind him as usual, flanked on both sides by two hulking, vulture-like individuals – a man and a woman. Ginny’s stomach gave a sickening lurch. She recognized both of them from pictures published in the Quibbler, which she had taken to reading due to a suggestion on Luna’s part. They were Death Eaters, both of them – brother and sister, the Callows or the Carries or something like that.

But her attention was merely momentarily diverted. Ginny’s spine stiffened as she watched the hulking form of Severus Snape stalk its way towards the High Table. She repressed a wave of anger and hatred that surged upwards at the sight of the man who had so recently injured her brother, who had killed one of the greatest wizards she had ever known, who had betrayed them all and caused so many people pain and grief and suffering.

The Hall quieted quickly. It became silent as everyone’s eyes followed Snape stride across the room – some eyes widening in fear when they saw the hook-nosed man, many narrowing in hatred. Snape seemed oblivious to all of this as he approached the High Table, his face devoid of any expression. Then, without a word – without even sparing a glance at the gathered mass of students watching his every move – he lowered himself onto the Headmaster’s chair, the Carrows settling themselves on either side of him.

The Hall erupted in whispers, cries of outrage and, from the Slytherin Table, some unrestrained cheers of victory. Ginny sputtered, her mind unable to put together a complete, coherent thought as she tried to grasp the concept that Snape – Snape – had been chosen to succeed Dumbledore. Snape, the man who had murdered the greatest headmaster – and the greatest wizard – that Hogwarts had ever seen, now honored to follow him? Was this really what life would be like now that Voldemort was in control – the good people dying, the bad usurping and leeching and taking over?

McGonagall approached the stool sitting at the center of the hall, Sorting Hat in hand, tight-lipped and determinedly ignoring the loudening clamor. Ginny stared at her professor, at the spectacles perched on the end of her nose, so much like another pair – a pair shaped like two half-moons – perched on the end of a different, much longer nose that she had seen not so long ago. A nose with a slight bump in the middle, as if it had been broken at least twice before and hadn’t healed properly.

Ginny looked down at the table. Her own image – the golden reflection from her dinner plate– stared back at her, her hair tangled and her eyes hard. She couldn’t take this anymore, couldn’t take being here at this school that was no longer the one she had loved and had called home for the past five years. It was something else entirely – certainly, this wasn’t her beloved Hogwarts. Dumbledore wasn’t here and her brothers weren’t here and Harry wasn’t here. Her entire family was out there, fighting for their lives and instead of being there to help them, she was in here, trapped by the immense stone walls of this wretched school that she no longer recognized, that was run by a murderer and –

She bolted. Without even thinking about it, Ginny was up off of the bench and shoving her way through the crowd of tiny first years, sprinting across the Entrance Hall and out onto the front lawn. Overhead, the wind screamed and icy raindrops splattered onto the wet ground, tears fallen from unforgiving heavens.

Ginny huddled into a ball on the front steps of the castle, wrapping her trembling arms around her knees. Her robes were already soaked, her hair dripping, but she paid no mind. She just sat and stared at the tumultuous clouds above, feeling the rain wash her tears away and wondering how the world got to be this way.

She didn’t know how long she sat there, gazing up at the blackness until – there, over the howl of the wind and the rush of unceasing rain – footsteps. She turned her face to the side, not caring to speak with whoever decided to take a walk on such a terrible night.

“Oh, are you sure this is safe?” The voice was soft but pinched with nervousness, maybe even a bit of fear. It did not sound like the voice of someone Ginny would expect to hear sneaking out across the grounds on a night like this, not until she heard the second voice reply.

“Stop whining. I couldn’t stand another moment in that room with those imbeciles. It’s just a little rain.” The second voice was cold, flat – Ginny would have thought emotionless, had there not been a hard and bitter edge outlining every word. She knew that voice.

Another flash of lightning illuminated the dark scene, where Draco Malfoy was standing on the front steps, his blond hair plastered to his face by the pouring rain, a slight girl with wide, doe-like eyes fluttering tentatively behind him. Ginny recognized her as a fifth-year from Slytherin the same moment that the girl saw Ginny. She raised a perfectly manicured finger, tapping Draco on the back and directing his attention towards the sodden redhead shivering on the steps not a meter away. The customary sneer crossed Draco’s face. Of course – what else would a Malfoy do but sneer in the presence of a Weasley?

“What are you doing out here, you stupid little girl?” he said dismissively, not even bothering to look at her as he addressed her.

Ginny said nothing, instead just glaring at him from behind her curtain of sopping copper hair. He paused for a moment, waiting for a response, and when she didn’t reply, he snorted.

“Go back inside,” he all but spat at her, “inside where you’re surrounded by your pathetic friends and sheltered from the big, bad world.” He turned away. “It’s where you belong.”

She didn’t know what it was. Maybe it was the fact that she was drenched and freezing, or that her best friends had run away to try and save the world, or that the school that she loved was now under the control of a murderer, or that anyone in her entire family could be killed at any second, or that some deranged and spiteful supremacist was basically destroying everything that she had ever known – but something inside Ginny Weasley snapped. All of the anxiety and the fury and the terror that had been building up inside her over the past two years suddenly broke out and manifested themselves in a deep, bone-aching hatred for Draco Malfoy. She hated him for everything that he had done and everything for which he stood, and now was the time when she would make him pay for it.

Without thinking, she was on her feet and in front of him, breathing heavily, her nose inches away from his. She clenched her hands into fists, imagining what it would be like to punch him in his slick, pointed face and surprising herself with the amount of satisfaction that came with the thought.

“I despise you,” she growled, her voice quivering with rage. “Don’t ever tell me what to do again, or believe me, I will hurt you.”

Draco didn’t even flinch, instead raising an eyebrow at her. “Little Ginny Weasley, are you threatening me?” he asked softly, his voice barely audible above the lashing rain. “As if you could even touch me.” Another bolt of lightning played across the shadows in the sky, throwing its strange light on his pale skin.

It was the contempt in his voice that did it. Ginny thrust her fist upwards, yearning for the gratifying crack that would come when her fist connected with his slimy face. It never came. He caught her fist – albeit with both hands – and when he spoke, his eyes had turned hard.

“I don’t think you want to do that,” he said calmly, though his grey eyes flashed. Ginny saw, just for a moment, the despair and wrath that burned within those silver orbs and suddenly, irrationally, she thought of a sun-filled morning over the past summer when Remus Lupin had sat down next to her during breakfast and they had discussed the death of Albus Dumbledore over buttered toast and coffee.

“He had to do it, Ginny,” she remembered Lupin saying, his soft voice coated with sadness and something that could be described as pity. “You-Know-Who was threatening to kill his family – he had had no other choice. Dumbledore knew that, and he never condemned him for trying to murder him.”

A sharp crack of thunder brought Ginny back to the present and the bitter, steel eyes of Draco Malfoy. She remembered how weak and exhausted he had looked at the end of last year – how defeated he had looked – and her sudden hatred for Draco Malfoy ebbed away as quickly as it had appeared.
He felt her relax, felt her rage fade, and when he dropped her arm she saw the scorn twisted into every feature on his face. “I knew you didn’t have the courage.”
Ginny didn’t say anything back at all, instead wondering what lengths she would have gone to if someone had threatened to hurt her mother, her father, any one of her exasperating, idiotic brothers. And in her heart, she knew that she would have voluntarily Avada Kedavra-ed Harry freaking Potter if it meant sparing the life of someone that she loved. What a terrible choice to have to make – and what a weight it must have been on his soul, given that Draco Malfoy had a soul. What must it be like to know that you could save to save your parents, but only at the cost of ending another innocent man's life?

Draco took a step back, and she knew that he was unnerved by the lack of response from her, someone who was usually so angry and belligerent. She saw him take in the look of almost-sympathy on her face and she knew that it confused him.

“Come on,” he muttered to the other girl, stalking off into the rainy darkness, not looking back. The fifth-year threw a fearful glance at Ginny and then bobbled after him, her footsteps light and skittish. Ginny sat back down on the front steps, feeling the torrential rain hammer against her skin and watching the pair until they disappeared from sight.

________________________________________

Ginny tilted forward, loving the feel of coarse bark underneath her fingertips. The black alder tree leaned against the wind, its limbs bending ever so slightly.

That rainy night on the front steps of the castle had been the first time anyone on their side had seen him since the disastrous events that ended her fifth year at Hogwarts. The subject of Draco Malfoy had undoubtedly been brought up over the summer within the Order – it was impossible ignore what he had done and what had happened as a result of his actions – but no one, not even Harry, seemed to blame him. No, that particular resentment rested with Snape, who had betrayed them all in the worst way possible.

A lonesome nightingale cooed in the distance, its melancholy song harmonizing with Ginny’s dark mood. She idly snapped a dead twig off of the branch, relishing in the sharp cracking sound it made as the twig broke in half.

Three – Truce


“Ow – Merlin’s balls!”

Ginny gritted her teeth and slowly pushed herself back up from where she had fallen onto the stone floor. Her ankle, which had turned inwards as she was hobbling down an unusually steep flight of stairs, had turned a nasty shade of purple and was swelling rapidly, not unlike a Bobotuber filling with pus. Crabbe had been feeling particularly vindictive tonight at detention, and Ginny’s head ached so much from his curses that she had not been paying attention to where she was going before she lost her step and tumbled down the steps.

Wearily, she pulled herself onto her feet, gripping the rough stones jutting out of the wall with bleeding fingers. She had gotten more cuts, bruises and broken bones in the past month than she had ever gotten in the rest of her life – which is saying something when a girl has six brothers. The nightly detentions with the Carrows’ band of vindictive minions were beginning to take their toll. But she couldn’t stop. Someone had to stand up against those vicious creeps, and if Harry wasn’t here to do it, well, then Dumbledore’s Army was going to have to carry on without him. And Neville was right: it did give all of the other students hope when someone stood up against those repulsive Death Eaters, so what were a few chunks of missing flesh here and there?

Besides, the pain was – well, not satisfying – but dulling, in a way. It numbed the anguish she carried inside, the torment of knowing there was so little she could do. The angry gashes scattered across her skin meant that she must be doing something right if her actions caused the Carrows such rage. And the others agreed that it was well worth the blood and the risk. It made them all feel a little less helpless, like they were accomplishing something other than sitting there and getting brainwashed while wizards and Muggles alike suffered outside the castle walls. The pain was worth the defiance, however small of a contribution they made.

Moving slowly, Ginny half-dragged, half-crawled her way down the rest of the stairs. This is going to take a while, she thought to herself, wincing slightly as her raw skin scraped across the rough surface of the wall.

It was silent here in the darkened hallway, the only source of light coming from the guttering torches that lined the castle walls. The windows were black and their wide glass panes reflected nothing but her own battered face back at her, her own drained expression. She could do nothing but trudge onwards, her slow footsteps echoing across the still and silent stone.

Keeping her head down to check how her ankle was holding her weight, Ginny turned the corner and didn’t notice the boy with the pale, blond hair sitting there until she tripped over him and tumbled – again – onto the cold, stone floor.

Draco scowled at the redhead sprawled out in front of him and swore under his breath, rubbing his arm where one of her flailing limbs had kicked him on her way down.

“Is it really so hard to watch where you’re going, Weasley?” he snapped, getting to his feet, the obligatory sneer already in place.

Ginny groaned, not moving from where she had fallen. The worn stone felt cool against her burning skin. “Go away, Malfoy,” she mumbled, her voice muffled by the fact that her nose was buried into the floor. “I feel like crap and am not in the mood to exchange barbs or whatever so, yes, I am just that stupid and incompetent to not know where I’m walking and trip over you. My family is poor, Gryffindor sucks, etcetera, etcetera. Leave now, please.”

Draco raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow, but did not move away. A condescending snort escaped his lips. “So, have the Carrows broken little Weasley so soon? What’s it been – four, five weeks? I knew you wouldn’t last.”

At that, Ginny forgot about her throbbing ankle and wrenched herself to her feet, jabbing an accusatory finger into his chest. “No, they did not break me, you arrogant, insufferable twat,” she snapped, biting back the urge to punch him in the jaw – it hadn’t turned out so well last time. “How about we subject you to three straight hours of the Cruciatus Curse? We’ll see how lively you are then.”

She spun on her heel and marched away, making it about six feet before her ankle gave out again. She caught herself on the wall, breathing heavily, trying to gather herself together. This was humiliating. She was going to have to crawl back to the Tower.

A hushed, shuffling noise came from behind her – the sound of retreating footsteps. She did not turn around. Good riddance, Malfoy, Ginny thought. At least he did nothing more – had it been Zabini or Parkinson she had tripped over in the hallway, well, she wouldn’t be standing up right now, that was for sure.

Ginny pushed herself off the wall, unable to keep a quiet whimper from escaping her lips as the jagged stone dug into a deep gouge on the heel of her left palm. Her ankle gave a sharp throb. Ginny sighed, and slowly began to limp her way back to the dormitories.

________________________________________

The next time she left detention, picking her way slowly across the empty corridors back to the portrait hole, she found him waiting for her at the foot of the stairs that led upwards, a winding ascension out of the gloom of the dungeons.

“What do you want?” she scoffed, trying her best to sound menacing. It was a futile attempt – her skin was nearly transparent and her lips were peeled back in pain from a bleeding gash that ran from her cheekbone to her collarbone. The last thing Ginny Weasley looked like at the moment was someone threatening.

Draco pushed himself up from where he was leaning against the wall and approached her. Ginny couldn’t help but flinch when he took out his wand, but she did not step back. Her gaze was steady, brown eyes unwavering as they stared into grey. There was really nothing more that they could do to her.

“Hold still,” he said in that flat voice, raising the tip of his wand to her collarbone and muttering some words under his breath as he traced the wound up towards her face.

Ginny lifted her hand and felt nothing but unbroken skin – a tiny ridge forming a faint scar across her face, but nothing more. “But how – no, why did you –”

“Sorry about the scar,” he interrupted, tucking his wand back underneath his robes, “I never really was any good with healing spells.”

“But –”

“Don’t,” he said sharply, startling her into silence. “Don’t make a big deal about this, all right?” He turned and stalked back into the shadows, leaving her behind, smoothing her fingertips over that faintly raised scar running across her skin.

________________________________________

A gust of wind swept across the barley field, stirring the golden stalks, making them bend back and forth, little by little, until Ginny looked out upon a writhing, rippling sea of gold.

She lifted her hand and again traced the faded scar that wound across her skin, cheekbone to collarbone. She never understood what had made him come back to help her that first night – she doubted that he did either. Everything that came to pass in the last year – they couldn’t explain any of it. Things just happened. It was like there was some other force – greater than the two of them, greater than magic, greater than the universe – and it was out there, pulling people apart and, other times, thrusting them together.

Four – Staggered Steps


After that first night, Ginny came to expect Draco Malfoy every time she hobbled out of the dungeons from her “detentions,” battered, bruised and bleeding from a myriad of gouges in her skin. He was always there waiting for her. Always. His face was blank, his expression carefully guarded, and he never had a pleasant thing to say. But he was always there.

The first time she broke her ankle – actually broke, as opposed to the usual sprain that resulted when one was thrown against a stone wall too many times – he had growled under his breath, irritated, but in the end had levitated her so she wouldn’t have to walk all the way back to the Gryffindor Tower.

“If you were smart – and I know that’s a very big if – but let’s pretend and say that if you were smart, you would be on your way to Pomfrey’s right now,” he said darkly, eyes darting from shadow to shadow as he trudged slowly through the empty corridors, Ginny floating a few inches off the ground at his side.

“Yes, Malfoy, because that is exactly what I want,” Ginny retorted, gritting her teeth as they rounded a corner a little too quickly, her injured ankle swinging violently through the air. “I’m dying for those nauseating Carrows to know that they’ve tortured me so much that I broke my ankle and actually needed help.”

Draco stopped walking, instead turning to the redheaded witch floating next to him. “Weasley,” he said wryly, “you do need help.”

Ginny stared at him blankly until he gestured to his wand hand and the fact that he was levitating her all the way back to her room. She sniffed and chose not to answer. Draco shrugged indifferently.

"Besides," he continued, ignoring her silence, "are you really that dense? Weasley, you had to crawl out of that room. I am positive that the dear Carrows are already aware that you are badly injured. And Pomfrey can fix you up a lot better than I can."

“Careful, Malfoy, or you might fool someone into thinking that you care,” Ginny snapped weakly, but her heart wasn’t in it. Her ankle hurt too much.

“Zabini must’ve cracked your head too hard against the wall,” Draco muttered, but dropped the subject. She knew that he knew that she had her pride.

Ginny always tried to thank him for his kindness – if you could call it that – but he always cut her off and threw an insult back at her as he walked away. In time, she learned that if she didn’t try to show him her gratitude, he would stick around longer. This was something that Ginny found endlessly puzzling – one, that she actually wanted to show her gratitude to Draco Malfoy, and two, that when she discovered how to keep him around longer, she took advantage of it.

“Why don’t you ever let me thank you?” she asked him brazenly one night, after they had reached the portrait hole of the Fat Lady.

“What makes you think that I want your thanks?” he replied coolly, again throwing up that smirk on his face.

“Why do you always answer my questions with another question?” Ginny retorted angrily, poking him in the arm. Draco, the smirk still on his face, chose not to reply.

“And,” Ginny said, thinking of something else, “maybe you don’t want my thanks, but what if I want to give it to you?” She watched how his grey eyes gleamed in the weak light.

“Perhaps,” he answered slowly in a voice so soft Ginny wondered whether he was talking to her or to himself, “perhaps I don’t deserve your thanks.” This was such a definitive statement that Ginny couldn’t think of anything to say at all, instead only blinking back at him stupidly as he began to back away.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Weasley,” he called back to her from the lengthening shadows. “Unless you gain enough brains to keep yourself out of trouble for one day. But no, I suppose that would be too intelligent of you, especially since you’re a Gryffindor and all.” Merlin, how was it possible that she could hear his smirk from the darkness?

And just like that, things snapped back to the way they always were. Ginny vaguely wondered if there was some other reason they never let the conversations get too serious between them as she shouted some form of “you are an insufferable, dim-witted prat” towards his retreating back.

But though it was rarely serious, the snarky banter that the two of them exchanged each night as he led her, bloodied and injured, back to her room was refreshing. There was almost no weight to their words and in his company, Ginny could forget who she was for a moment. She didn’t have to be Ginny Weasley: fearless leader of the mouvement de résistance against the Carrows, Secret-Keeper of the Order of the Phoenix and someone whom those scared of Voldemort could respect. She was just Ginny, the girl who trembled uncontrollably when she imagined what Voldemort could do to her – what Tom Riddle had done to her. She was the girl who loathed Draco Malfoy, exactly as she had when they were little, when the world was not so dark and everything made a little more sense. And when the two of them argued, jabbing each other’s metaphorical buttons, Ginny was able to fool herself into thinking that they were back in times when the worst thing in her world was that the Boy Who Lived didn’t return her affections.

But in the back of her mind, no matter how much she enjoyed quarrelling with him, Ginny never could forget that they were on opposite sides. Draco Malfoy was the enemy. His mansion was home to Voldemort’s headquarters. His friends tortured her friends – and herself – night after night, howling with laughter every time one of them cried or asked for mercy. His parents had tortured, even killed countless Muggles and wizards alike – indeed, his father had tried to kill her when he gave her that diary back in her first year. Draco Malfoy was everything that Ginny despised, everything she and her family fought against, and yet – he wasn’t. She couldn’t explain why, but for some reason, when they were together and just bantering about pointless, meaningless things, she felt herself relax, felt the strain and the fear simply melt away.

“What?” he demanded one night as she watched him wind a long, flesh-colored bandage around her left wrist, which had gotten bent in a direction that a wrist should never bend due to a particularly exuberant Pansy Parkinson.

Ginny realized that, as she had been thinking about how relaxed she felt around him, she had also been blatantly staring at him with an almost dreamy expression on her face. She felt herself go pink.

“N-nothing,” she stuttered, feeling for the life of her as if she was eleven years old again and had just dipped her elbow in the butter dish.

He studied her for a moment – taking in the flushed skin and nervous eyes – before replying. “I should suggest to Crabbe and Goyle that they stop banging your head against the wall so much,” he said, his voice dry. “You Weasleys don’t have many brain cells to begin with, and it looks like the loss of so many in those detentions is affecting your ability to maintain simple motor functions.”

Ginny wrinkled her nose at him and then soundly kicked out with her right foot, nailing him in the shin. He laughed – yes, he did that around her occasionally – and caught her foot playfully before turning his attention back to her sprained wrist.

It certainly was a strange feeling, looking at Draco Malfoy and realizing that he gave her some sort of peace. She was supposed to hate him – she was born to hate him. That was what she was meant to do. But he was the only one that ever helped her, the only one who was there, waiting for her, always, when she limped away from the Carrows’ torture chamber. He healed her wounds so she wouldn’t have to suffer the humiliation of going to the infirmary and proving that she was weak. He practically carried her home every night, certainly a shameful task for him as well as her, but he did it nonetheless. And the thing was – he did all of this in such a manner that she never doubted that he didn’t want anything in return. One might call her naïve, tell her that he was a Malfoy and a Slytherin and the son of a Death Eater, that he was doing this to gain her trust and that one day he would demand everything and more in payment, but Ginny didn’t believe it. He helped her simply because – well, because he did.

But needless to say, these encounters occurred only when they were alone, in the darkness, far past midnight. In the light of the day, he treated her with as much contempt and disdain as he always had. Not that he didn’t treat her with contempt and disdain when they were alone at night either, but those nocturnal interactions lacked that edge of suppressed hatred and violence that he showed her when his friends were around. Ginny found none of this surprising – if there was one thing to be said about Draco Malfoy, it was that he was immaculate about how he appeared to the rest of the world. But she found herself increasingly puzzled by this other side he grudgingly revealed to her every night as he healed her bruises, dipped her cuts into a small wooden bowl filled with essence of Murtlap, and staggered down the corridors, half-carrying her home.

Five – Momentum


“Why do you help me?” she asked him one night as she sat in one of the corridors, her back pressed against the jagged wall. The rough edges around the stone dug into her flesh, distracting her from the pain in her right thigh.

At first he said nothing in return, his only response a bowed head as he leaned over the ragged gash in her leg, pale hair hanging in front of his eyes as he dabbed essence of Murtlap on the wound. It stung, and Ginny hissed but said nothing. The pain was almost refreshing in the way that it was different from all the other kinds of pain to which she was subjected night after night.

A single torch guttered on the wall above where the two of them sat, crackling softly. The flame flickered to the left and then to the right in odd patterns. In its dance, the light wildly threw the shadows about, giving the dark corridor an aspect of unceasing movement, as if it were underwater.

"Draco?" she prodded, not realizing it was the first time she had called him by his given name. Somewhere over the past couple of months, when she thought about the boy that was Draco Malfoy, he had gone from "that bloody git" to just "Malfoy" and then, in the last couple weeks, to "Draco." Ginny froze when she realized what she had just said out loud, not sure what to expect of his reaction.

He paused briefly, raising his head to look her at her, eyebrow cocked. But when he bent over again – this time to apply some salve to her bleeding left hand – he spoke, and for the first time when he said something to her, his voice was devoid of both contempt and playful derision.

“I’m not really sure why I help you,” he said. “Most of the time I wish I don’t – and I wish that I hadn’t run into you that first night.” His voice was low, steady, but Ginny saw how his hand shook as it smoothed the icy salve over her scorching, scarred skin.

“It’s so easy to let everyone else suffer,” he continued, and by the tone of his voice Ginny wondered if he was talking more to himself than to her, “but you? I don’t know. I could just let it alone, but when I tell myself to stay away – and believe me, I tell myself to stay away every moment I think of you and your stupidity in practically asking for this plethora of bleeding cuts and purple bruises – I don’t. I– I can’t.”

Ginny stared at him, wide-eyed. She couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Draco didn’t look at her, instead focusing on the cut in her palm, his deft fingers cool against her burning skin. It was quiet, the only sound being the muted sputtering from the torch burning above their heads. Draco did his work quickly, skillfully. He had quite the practice by now.

He finished wrapping the bandage around her wrist and agilely got back on his feet. Ginny looked up at him. Draco hesitated a moment and then stuck out a hand to help her up. There was something unknown to her smoldering in his eyes. Ginny took his hand and he pulled her to her feet.

For a brief moment, neither of them said anything. They just stood there, eyes locked, their hands clasped in between them.

Ginny’s breath caught.

Draco shook his head once, as if to clear it, and dropped her hand, stepping back so his face was in the shadows.

He turned to leave but again he hesitated, pausing to look back at her standing there with all her bandages and bruises, her eye swollen, her face scarred.

“Look,” he said plainly, “I don’t know why I am helping someone on the other side at all, and I especially don’t know why it happened to be you. But it’s like – well, I’ve told you already. All I know is that I don’t have a choice in this.”

Ginny nodded once. She moved forward slightly, her intention to say something, but then she realized that there was really nothing she could say to a declaration like that. She lifted her hand and placed it on his shoulder, just for a moment, before spinning on her heel and making her way slowly down the corridor, alone.

________________________________________

It was through some sort of unspoken understanding between the two of them that they did not speak in daylight. Or at least he didn’t – Ginny, at times, caught herself slipping, opening her mouth to say something when she saw him in the Great Hall or out on the windblown grounds. Once, when he had brushed past her in the crowded corridor between classes, looking down his long nose at her, she had officered him a small smile. He had stiffened, his eyes turning dark, and that night he had not said a single word as he, again, levitated her back to her dorm, leaving her at the portrait hole after silently healing her broken leg.

No, it was only when the sun sank below the horizon, when the smoldering ceruleans and luminescent ambers in the sky faded to grey– when the shadows overtook the world and washed its blurred edges in darkness – only then would he acknowledge her existence. That was why she was so surprised when he sauntered up to her one windy afternoon and sat down next to her in the empty Quidditch stadium where she was staring at her sketchpad, chewing her thumb and agonizing over which plays to use against the Ravenclaws in their matchup next weekend.

“What do you want?” Ginny hadn’t meant for her voice to sound so sharp – she was just surprised. Draco, as usual, merely looked at her, unperturbed.

“Goodness, Weasley, such manners. What would your dear mother say? Can’t I say hello to an old acquaintance?” Ginny wondered whether he had been born with that obnoxious smirk stretched across his face.

“Sorry, Draco, it’s just that, well, we usually never associate ourselves with each other unless it’s at night and – wait, what do you mean ‘old acquaintance’?”

His eyebrows shot up into his hair. “Have we not known each other since the dawn of time, Weasley? I mean, yes, it’ a given that you made my boogies shoot out of my nose and try to eat my face at every chance you got during most of that period in time, but now –”

“No, you giant, oblivious prat. I mean, what are you doing calling me an acquaintance? Don’t you think by now you should be calling me a f-friend?” Ginny stumbled over the last word, realizing that she had just yelled at Draco Malfoy because he had not considered her a good enough friend. Draco Malfoy.

Oh, bloody hell.

At first he only looked at her, his face passive as he studied hers. She felt her skin flush under his intense gaze. A light wind swept across where they were sitting, ruffling the pages of her sketchpad.

“Well,” Draco said slowly, as if he were choosing his words extremely carefully, “I didn’t think that true friends would only talk to each other under the cover of darkness. And only when the two of them are alone. And aren’t friends not supposed to want to kill each other?”

Ginny shrugged, keeping her eyes trained on her feet. “I think friends help each other out when one of them is hurt,” she said softly, “and friends make you laugh, even sometimes when you don’t feel like it. And some of your friends might be immensely obnoxious gits,” she paused here, looking at him meaningfully, “but they are always there for you, which is more than I can say for other so-called friends.”

“Ah,” he said, grey eyes glinting in the afternoon sun, “and I suppose you’re referring to the elusive Mr. Potter?”

Ginny shrugged. “I wasn’t referring to anyone in particular,” she tried to say indifferently. She was lying through her teeth of course, and she knew Draco knew it.

“You know, I never really liked Harry Potter,” he said, bringing a smile to Ginny’s face. She turned to him.

“Really? You never liked Harry? That’s such a shocking surprise – I can’t believe you would reveal such a well-kept secret to me, your mere acquaintance.” Her voice was dry.

He chuckled. “I am a superior being of wonderment, Weasley, filled with mysteries and revelations.” Ginny rolled her eyes.

“No, but listen,” he continued, his eyes turning dark grey – meaning it was something serious, Ginny had come to learn by this point in their relationship. “I never really liked Potter, but I think somewhere deep down I had some sort of – oh, I don’t know – grudging respect, I suppose, for the arse. He always stood up for his friends and fought for what he believed in , even if what he believed in was a total load of dung.”

Ginny figured that it probably wasn’t a good idea to point out in the middle of Draco Malfoy’s admission that he actually respected Harry that she happened to agree with many of those “load of dung” ideas.

“But now,” he went on, a hard edge creeping into his words, “now when everyone – the school, our world, and – and you –” He paused, not looking at her. “Now is the time when you need him most, to do his stupid hero thing and, well, save the world, I suppose – and now is when he chooses to run out on everyone. He’s completely disappeared, leaving the rest of us to fend for ourselves. Not really something a hero – or someone you call your friend – should do now, is it?” His chest heaved, the air rushing out of his lungs.

Ginny opened her mouth to say something – to explain that Harry hadn’t run out on them, that he and Hermione and Ron were out there right now, doing some secret task that Dumbledore had sent them to do, something that would save their world. But then with a jolt she realized, not for the first time, that Draco was on the other side and that he didn’t know this. Furthermore, if she told him, it would put the three of them in even graver danger. So she said nothing at all, instead running a hand through her mess of copper curls and staring off into the distance.

A loud clattering noise sounded from the far entrance and someone laughed, a sharp bark ringing across the empty stadium. The two of them looked up, broken out of their silent reveries by the sound of approaching chatter. Draco stood up, readying himself to leave, and Ginny’s heart sank, just a little, when she realized that things would always be this way between them. And he might not see this as a friendship – and maybe he was right, because how can you be friends with someone when you can’t even admit to the world that you talk with them? – but she most certainly did. Ginny was startled to discover that this thing she deemed a friendship between the two of them had quickly turned out to be one of the things she treasured the most, even in the short time she had gotten to know Draco Malfoy.

He buttoned his cloak slowly, not saying anything, eyes trained on the edge of the field where students usually entered. But before he left, he turned towards her, placing a hand on the bench next to her and leaning over her right ear.

“We may only be acquaintances,” he whispered quickly, the air from his lips making her skin tingle pleasantly, “but nevertheless, can you keep one of my secrets?”

She nodded.

“Well,” he continued, his voice growing even softer so that Ginny had to strain to hear his words, “don’t tell Ginevra Weasley, because it would only go to her head, but I secretly consider her one of my best friends.”

She looked at him quickly, her caramel eyes widening in surprise. He looked back at her, that smirk on his face again and then, with a whirl of his black cloak, he was gone.

Ginny blinked.