This story does not have a happy ending, as you’ll soon learn. It might have, once. I’m sure there was a point, along the way, that something happened, something that ruined everything. I’m sure. But the problem is, I can’t find it. It was something so small that I didn’t even know it had happened until what must have been months later. Or maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’m wrong and this was meant to happen from the start. And if that’s true, then it means that all this suffering, this pain – it’s all my fault.

---

“No, no, no, no, oh god no, no, please,” he muttered under his breath as he ran, hurtling up stairs four at a time, skidding around the corner so fast he hit the wall on the other side of the hallway. He dashed forward, one hand reaching back, into his jeans, pulling out a thin stick of wood that he hadn’t used once in this building in the entire four months he’d been living there. But the time was over for subtlety and secrecy.

He blasted the door in front of him with a jet of blue light, dissolving it instantly, the locks that had been holding it in place melting, and jogged through, his wand-free hand on his side now, clutching a stitch.

Suddenly, for the first time, he was glad of the cramped quarters, the broken-down three-room apartment, because it meant that there were only three places for her to be. And she wasn’t in the kitchen/dining/living room. He melted the bedroom door, too, just shoving his head inside enough to be certain, taking in the rumpled sheets, bile building in his throat. He spun on one foot, stomped the three steps to the bathroom door, and lifted his wand; before it was even halfway to a proper position, the familiar blue light escaped and hit the door. It melted almost immediately; they must not have cast a shield spell, or else they had been very weak. Neither was a good sign.

Suddenly, he slowed; though he knew time was of the essence, somehow he just couldn’t quite force his feet to run. His steps became heavy and slow, like he was walking through molasses, and suddenly, the world rushed to catch up with him. He’d been running ahead of it, ever since he’d heard, but now it had caught up, and it was laughing at him, taunting him with every drip, drip he heard from the bathtub.

He shivered, his wand-hand falling to his side, as he stepped through the thick, resisting air, heart thumping far too loudly in his chest. He was pretty sure that he wasn’t breathing properly, and even though holding his breath couldn’t be a good idea after all that running, he didn’t care. He didn’t think he could stop, anyway; he didn’t have control over his body anymore. All he could do was wait inside, watch his feet move across tile that was slick with water, stepping carefully over the neat pile of clothes.

He reached the bathtub, standing over it, and looked down.

He had been holding his breath; it left him in a rush and a soft cry, his wand dropping out of his hand at the same time as his knees gave out. They hit the bathroom tile at roughly the same time, his wand clattering away and rolling to a stop against the toilet; his knees jarring with pain that his brain distantly noticed.

She was pale, white all over except for the shock of her red hair, bright and waving gently in the clear water, looking like a mermaid’s. Her lashes were closed, charcoal swipes over her far-too-pale skin, freckles dotting her cheeks. She was curled up, completely underwater, a tiny bubble clinging to the web of skin between her thumb and forefinger.

He let out a cry, again, soft, like a bird in distress, and suddenly he was clambering over the side of the bathtub, splashing in, careful not to land on her, gasping at the shock of the cold water.

He huddled in there, though, nevertheless, and didn’t even bother to pull the drain; simply pulling her up to him, her cold (already cold), limp body flopping sickly against his own. Her head rested on his shoulder, face upturned towards the sky, her back across his front. Pulling her to him like this had shifted her, had bent her out of the water, and one foot had gotten braced against the tap, toes on the cold metal. It was only when he pressed his face into her shoulder, breathing in the wetness and trying to find the warmth, the scent of jasmines that had always hung around her like a cloud; it was only then that he realized she was naked, as her breasts came into his view, and his breath hitched. He remembered the neatly folded clothes on the floor. He had never seen her naked before.

He had never kissed her either, and he did this now, pressing his shaking forehead into her shoulder, kissing her bare back gently, shaking all over, hot tears slipping down her wet skin.

“Ginny…” the hoarse whisper escaped him without his permission, and he shivered harder in the freezing water, one hand wrapping around her abdomen, the other fisting in her thick hair, so long that even now some of it still dangled in the water, twisting like mermaid’s.

He did not know how long he remained there, shuddering in the frozen water, hugging the cold form of the girl he loved, crying, whispering her name, begging her to come back to him, sobbing.

All he was aware of was the utter cold; not the water, but the cold spreading through him, in his veins, the antonym of hope – and the heavy man’s ring on the middle finger of her right hand, clinking against the porcelain of the tub.

Harry Potter loved Ginny Weasley, had promised to keep her safe against the will of the world, had protected her this long; had failed her and was left with a body in a bathtub that broke his heart.

“What are you doing here?” Harry asked, frozen in place. Jennifer eyed him nervously, hand still waiting to pour coffee into his cup. The man who had just sat down across from Harry motioned her to continue, smiling charmingly.

“What, can’t a man visit an old friend?” he asked, pleasant, and Harry shook his head once, sharply.

“First of all, we were never friends, and secondly – how did you know I was here? Why are you even looking for me; are you insane?”

“Oh – no, it’s not me, who’s looking for you.” The dark-haired man looked amused, reaching up and plucking a stray thread from his expensive sweater, flicking it to the ground, looking entirely out of place in the dingy little diner; though Jennifer pouring him coffee did fit with his superior attitude, and once she finished, Harry half-expected her to bow like a house-elf. “No, I was just going to get a bite of lunch while Draco did all the hard work.”

Air rushed into Harry’s lungs in a sharp gasp, and his hand moved reflexively to his pocket, in which his wand always sat. “Malfoy’s here?”

Blaise Zabini shrugged carelessly, giving off the aura, as he always did, of a lazy jungle cat; seemingly sleepy, but always alert and deadly. “Around town.”

Harry gaped silently at Zabini for a long moment, then moved to stand. Zabini reached over, and pushed him back down into his chair. “Hey, there, don’t make me use… force,” he said, with a quick glance at Jennifer, who was clearly trying to eavesdrop from across the room. “We can just wait here for him. After all,” Blaise sneered suddenly, looking unnervingly like his best friend, “wouldn’t want you to leave in the middle of your shift.”

Harry felt heat spreading over his cheeks, but refused to get defensive about his employee apron he wore over his regular Muggle clothing. “It’s my lunch break,” he said in a low tone, angry. Zabini clearly had him trapped, and knew it; he and Malfoy must be aware that Harry was hiding among the Muggles, because he was wearing Muggle clothing himself, something Harry doubted was a personal choice rather than necessity. Any magic in this area was bound to attract some sort of attention, most likely bad.

Harry grit his teeth. “What do you want?”

Zabini shrugged. “Well… this was Draco’s big news, but as you’d probably just get into a fight and give everything away anyway… I’ll go ahead and tell you.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice, “There’s a battle, at Hogwarts, in two days – the battle, I should say. You-Know-Who is planning a raid, and we’ve prepared.” Blaise smiled nastily. “He’ll never know what hit him.”

Harry raised skeptical eyebrows. “You can’t be –”

“Oh, I’m very serious, Potter,” Zabini said, “and you had better have finished whatever it is you’ve been doing down here that will make it possible, because this is the only chance anyone’s ever going to get.” He paused, then added quietly, “the Ministry finally fell a month ago, and if He takes Hogwarts, then all of wizarding Britain will be under His command.”

Harry’s face paled. “I – I didn’t know it had gone that far,” he stuttered, before rallying. “And why are you – ”

“Everything is hanging on this battle, Potter,” Zabini said, “We’ve got most of the International Council there, waiting to help us, as well as all of the Order and basically every single wizard that opposes the Dark Lord in Britain, not that there are many left alive. All of our forces are centered there, and he’s sending all His forces to take us down; it’s all or nothing.”

“W-why are you telling me this?” Harry asked, suddenly suspicious. “I’ve never trusted you; you could be lying.”

“I could be,” Blaise agreed pleasantly, before his face turned hard. “Or it could be that Draco and I are the only ones who can safely leave castle grounds right now. Ever consider that?”

Harry, felled by logic, put a hand to his head, trying to absorb this new knowledge. It – really, it didn’t change anything, but – “Everyone is there? The Weasleys – Hermione? A-and you say that…”

“All of their lives hang in the balance, yes, so again, Potter, I bloody well hope you’ve done what you came to do.” Zabini eyed him carefully, but didn’t actually ask if Harry had succeeded. Instead, he stood up.

“Apparate in two days. The wards will be lifted.” Zabini took a wallet out of his pocket, and, after some hesitation, put twenty quid on the table. Harry neglected to mention that this was far too much to pay for a single cup of coffee, instead trying to comprehend what he had been told. Everyone – the entire Order – all of Britain – the students – all of their lives, dependent on him arriving to fulfill the prophecy. But if he did, he would have to – to murder her. He couldn’t do that, that was why he was here – but all of them…

Zabini, seemingly oblivious to Harry’s anguish, turned to go out the door, pausing before he left entirely. “By the way, Potter, when you get home, tell Draco I’m waiting at the train station.”

Harry shot to his feet so fast that his chair fell over. Jennifer, behind the counter, looked at him in alarm, but he didn’t spare her a glance, eyes trained tightly on Blaise’s face. “He’s at the apartment?” Harry’s voice squeezed out of his throat, curiously hoarse, and Zabini raised an eyebrow at the strong reaction.

“Yeah,” he shrugged, a mildly mischievous grin flitting over his face. “He was waiting for you to get home; he’s probably getting a bit frustrated, waiting for you. Wouldn’t hold hope for any knick-knacks.” With a final wink, Zabini was gone, strolling down the street in the direction of the tiny train station.

Harry stood still for a long moment, frozen in shock. He couldn’t seem to process the words he’d just heard; the whole world had slowed down around him, Jennifer’s interested face as she approached him a blur, her voice falling on deaf ears. Harry just stood there, blankly gazing forward, waiting for the significance to slowly filter into his brain.

And then it did, and his eyes widened, and Harry, still ignoring Jennifer’s now worried questions, shot out the door, sprinting as fast as he could away from the train station, towards home.

Draco Malfoy, in his apartment – meeting her, seeing Ginny again… It had been so long since he’d cast the spell; it might not last against such a powerful mnemonic as Malfoy. And if it broke, then she would – or he, Draco Malfoy would help her, would probably do it himself as soon as he realized, he’d never loved her; not at all, let alone like Harry had and did, and he was alone with her, right now, Harry had to run faster – if only he hadn’t warded Apparating within fifty feet, he had to run.

Down the street, slipping once in a puddle and nearly falling flat on his face, Harry ran, panting at the effort, expelling short little words of prayer, “No, no, please, no, god, no, please…”

He had to get back before it happened, stop it, stop Malfoy. He had to, before the bastard killed Ginny.

---

Curled in his embrace, warm in the sheets, she had her eyes closed and was pressing closer to his form when it came to her; the gasp at the sudden flash of clarity muffled against his chest, her whole world crashing to pieces.

“I’m here,” he murmured into her hair, “to tell Potter that they’ve set it up. It’s the only chance we’re going to get before He grows too strong. At Hogwarts, in two days; tell him he can Apparate. It’s going to work this time, Ginevra.” He sounded strong, a deep confidence radiating out from within, and Ginny knew that even though he had tried to resist earlier, even though he was cautioning himself and trying not to hope, he believed it.

She knew he was wrong, now, the knowledge radiating out in a memory of red snake-eyes, and her heart clenched, because Draco never had known, and now he most likely never would.

She slid upward, kissing his chin, up to his mouth, and then a quick smooch on his nose, before grinning and pressing her forehead on his. “I’ll pass on the message. You don’t even have to see him, if you don’t want.”

Draco smirked and agreed with a content “Hmmn.”

Normally, this was when he would get up, and start getting dressed. This was when his rationality would take over, and he would remember, and life would go on. But somehow something – perhaps the final impending battle, perhaps something in her face – stopped him, and instead, he just brushed his lips over hers once more, eyes closed.

Ginny let herself melt into him. Dark thoughts were rushing through her head, and darker solutions presenting themselves, but her fingers laced with Draco’s, and she snuggled up against his lean form in silence, soaking up last moments.

She didn’t know how long it was, but eventually, they both drew back. He looked at her, solemn, something in him knowing her deepest soul, seeing right through the emotions as he always had, even if he knew none of the particulars, and, after he dressed (in dark-colored Muggle clothing; he really had been cautious), he stared at her for a long moment.

“Here,” Draco said, and slid a ring off his right hand, the dark snake’s eyes gleaming green up at her in the dim light. He reached out and took Ginny’s hand, and slid it onto the ring finger on her corresponding hand. It was too large, so he took it off and slid it onto her middle finger instead, silently.

Ginny looked down at it, the solid, heavy, tangible evidence – something that would stay, would remain longer than words or dirty sheets, dark jade and heavy silver. Draco, in essence, she understood, remaining with her, an emblem of her love and his heart.

In that moment, she knew what must be done.

And in that moment, she knew that he did too. He couldn’t, of course, because he didn’t know of the events leading up to this moment; didn’t know why his last battle was going to fail unless she did this; even had confidence that the battle would be won this time – but somehow knew nonetheless, and left her with this token.

Ginny nodded, and dressed too, walking him to the door. He turned back momentarily, before he walked out, and she watched him hungrily, eyes devouring him whole. He smirked, confident again, the brief doubt and deep-knowledge he had shown when he gave her the ring dying out. “Goodbye, then,” he said, looking rather smug.

Ginny willed down the tears brimming in her eyes; but she couldn’t resist the temptation to lean close one last time, and whisper again, “I love you.”

He nodded, smug all over now, the same self-satisfied, spoiled Slytherin brat that she had fallen in love with in the beginning; “I know.”

Then he turned around, and walked away. He did not look back.

Ginny watched him go, and once she could no longer see him, she gently shut and locked the door. She pulled out a pen (they felt odd in her hand, after a lifetime of using quills, but she could write tolerably well with them now) and a piece of paper, and inscribed Draco’s note to Harry on it, short and to the point. She couldn’t bear to think of Harry himself at the moment, the mere idea of the Boy Who Lived souring her thoughts and filling her with a deep wronged hatred, whether or not he deserved it.

She walked into the bathroom, closed that door behind her, and locked it, too. After undressing, Ginny neatly folded her clothes and put them in a tidy pile in the middle of the floor. She stepped over them, and into the bathtub, putting in the plug.

She knelt down carefully, closing her eyes, remembering necessities and red snake-eyes, building up all her Gryffindor courage to save the world.

Then she rubbed the ring on her finger one last time for luck, and turned on the water.

“See you on the other side.”

She tensed at the knock to the door, dropping her book. It was soft, yes, not violent, but that didn’t matter; no one but Harry came here, and Harry never knocked. She wasn’t supposed to let anyone in. Ginny knew this; Harry had told her countless times, after all, drilled it into her head: he knew this place wasn’t great, but it was hidden and he wasn’t strong enough and just didn’t have the time or a Secret-Keeper in order to perform a better spell, and anyway the wards he had up would work as long as no one knew she was here, so she mustn’t open the door to anyone.

But the thing was, she’d been living in this place for four months now. It had three rooms and the ‘TeeVee’ was the only really interesting thing in any of them, and it didn’t really work properly, anyway. She hadn’t seen anyone but Harry in those four months, and she hadn’t eaten anything that couldn’t be cooked in Harry’s Muggle ‘mikerow-wave’, because they didn’t have a stove. And she hadn’t used magic, because they’d gone underground, and she had accepted all this, but despite the depression that still curled in the edges of her vision sometimes, she was starting to recover, and a large part of that was her hatred of taking orders and it had been four months, so she opened the door.

Draco Malfoy stood on the other side, fist poised to knock again. Ginny’s eyes widened in speechless shock.

“Wea – Ginny,” he said, surprise evident in his voice, and it was deep and familiar enough to have tears pricking her eyes as she shot forward.

He caught her easily, not even stepping back, instead just lifting a hand up to support her and stepping through the threshold, swinging the door closed behind him. Ginny laced her legs more tightly around his waist as he moved, and pressed her face into his shoulder, breathing deeply; his familiar scent filled her nostrils and she sighed contentedly.

For a moment, Draco just stood there, holding her in his arms, looking around the tiny room. Finally, he spoke. “Well, this is pathetic.”

Ginny felt tears slip past her eyelids as she giggled softly, pulling her face up from his shoulder. “How so?”

Draco lifted expressive eyebrows, gesturing around the room. “I thought Potter was supposed to be loaded. This room… it’s disgusting.”

“No, that’s just your aristocratic upbringing,” Ginny said, only to amend when he gazed disbelievingly at her: “Okay, so it’s rather awful. But he’s trying.”

“Right,” Draco drawled, and let go of her. Ginny slipped to the ground, only to take his hand and lead him to the couch. She sat down and patted the seat next to her. Draco eyed it suspiciously, then hesitantly sat down on the very edge, trying to keep as much weight off the dingy brown surface as he could.

Ginny laughed out loud, for the first time in a long time.

Draco watched her laugh, looking both confused and bemused, and possibly pleased to see her, but that she couldn’t be entirely sure of. Well, not without asking.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” She said. “Not that I’m not… happy, but we’re underground. No one is supposed to know where we are.”

Draco eyed her almost sadly. “No one does, Ginny. Just me. I found you on my own. I… I didn’t know you were here, though. I never thought that Potter was that… I’m glad to see you too.”

Ginny smiled at him. “I missed you, Draco.”

Draco closed his eyes for a second, and his hand twitched, as though he was going to remove it from hers, but she held on. It had been so long since she’d felt any friendly touch other than Harry’s. And Harry… Harry was different.

“I had wondered where you disappeared to, without any warning,” Draco said calmly, eyes open again. “At least until the owl. That cleared things up rather nicely.”

Ginny winced. She had been so alone in here, so lonely, and had had so much time to think – she had all but forgotten how things had ended. “I – ”

“Oh, no hard feelings,” Draco drawled. “I always expected it to come along, sooner or later. I admit I did expect the whole thing to happen face-to-face, but on second thought,” he grinned wryly, tilting his head to better display the small scar near his hairline, “this was better for my health; knowing our tempers. It’s true, we didn’t have a chance after the ceremony.”

Ginny blinked. This – this was too good to be true. Draco – just Draco, she would have taken that any day now, after being in here four months, after what preceded those months – but Draco was being kind, and understanding, and he had smiled at her and even though the cobwebs were still in her head, that was a constant these days and the lingering depression was gone, almost entirely.

Something was wrong; something had to be. Draco hadn’t known she was here; he’d come to visit Harry, who still shouldn’t be findable, because… Because they were in hiding, and why was Draco being nice to her now? It was entirely uncharacteristic. Something terrible must have happened, but what? Ginny didn’t know, she hadn’t had any contact with the outside world in so long; she wondered suddenly, with a jolt, how the war was going, and how her family was. She wondered if Fred and George were still running the joke shop, or if times had gotten too dangerous. Why didn’t she know this? Why had she kept out of contact with even them, her family…? It had been so long since she’d thought of them…

Ginny frowned, and brought a hand up to rub her forehead. Her headache was back, striking her down before she could wonder too long. Draco noticed, and raised an eyebrow at her. “Something wrong, Ginevra?”

As always, a slight shiver ran down Ginny’s back at the sound of her full name on his lips. She hated it when anyone else called her that (probably because so many pronounced it wrong) but Draco had always had a strange way of saying it. His lips formed the syllables slowly, as if tasting them on his tongue, and it purred out of his mouth, somehow always managing to sound seductive to her, even if she knew it wasn’t meant that way, like now. “No,” Ginny said, and shook her head in annoyance. “No, it’s just – this headache, it keeps bothering me lately. I can’t seem to get any thinking done.”

Draco nodded. “Ah.” Then, before Ginny could tell him not to bother, he had reached in his cloak and pulled out a small bottle, which he held out to her. “Here.”

Ginny eyed it distastefully. “What is that?”

“What, don’t you trust me?” Draco pouted almost convincingly, had it not been for the smirk escaping at the edges. “I’m not Snape’s assistant for nothing, you know. I promise it won’t turn you into a toad.”

“Yes, but what is it?” Ginny asked pointedly. Years with the twins had taught her never to – the headache stabbed again, and she scowled.

Draco waved the bottle in her face pointedly. “Nothing much. Just a basic head-clearing potion. Snape usually uses it to clear out any traces of aftereffects from the students after self-testing potions, but I’ve found that it works well for headaches too. It would probably take a while to start working properly since this is an old batch; but since you aren’t under the influence of any spells or potions, that won’t matter. Your headache will go away as soon as you swallow. Go ahead.”

Ginny sighed as if put-upon, but took the little flask and drained it nonetheless, smiling at the cherry taste. Her headache disappeared as promised, leaving her back where she was. Alone, with Draco Malfoy, and no blinding pain in her skull.

It had been so long since she had seen him. Why was she worrying about other things now? Draco was here, most likely for a limited time. And he was being nice, and Harry wasn’t due to get back for several hours at least, and just looking at him made her nostalgic and longing.

Ginny bit her lip, and looked at Draco.

He cleared his throat, suddenly uncomfortable once out of the role of Potions professor, and turned away.

Ginny took a deep breath, and began to lean forward, but Draco stood up suddenly, pacing away to the kitchen, then whirling back to face her. His features were hard and unreadable. “I’m looking for Potter. What are you doing here, Ginevra?”

Ginny opened her mouth, but no words came out. She just gave him a pleading look instead. Draco shook his head, suddenly bitter. “So it’s still like that, then? Can’t trust me with the slightest information, no matter what you say.”

Ginny was stung, and it showed on her face. “Draco – that’s not true. I would tell you if I could, you know I would – but I can’t, alright? I can’t. Trust me? Please.”

The past hung in the air between them, heavy and painful, in the long moments before Draco spoke. When he did, his voice was quiet and cold. “Do you want to know why I’m visiting Potter, Ginevra? Why I tracked him down out here in the middle of nowhere, using Muggle transportation so no one could trace me by magic?”

Ginny felt a familiar lump building in her throat, hot dampness welling up by her eyes. “No.”

Draco stared at her for a long time. He was tense and angry, but still quiet when he asked, “Oh?”

“No,” Ginny repeated, shaking her head. “I don’t want to know. I trust you, Draco, I don’t care about – that.” She pointed at his left arm, and he almost instinctively brought a hand up to clasp around it. “You know I don’t, okay? So just – just trust me this time, okay, please? I can’t tell you, and I don’t want you to explain yourself to me. You don’t have to, and besides,” Ginny felt her expression softening, “I’m just glad to see you again.”

Draco closed his eyes for a moment, breathing through his nose; when he opened his eyes seconds later, all anxiety was gone from his face, and he switched topics abruptly, suddenly leaning comfortably on the wall. “So… living with Potter, eh?” he drawled. “I can’t help but notice this… abode, only has three doors, and one goes to the hallway. One the bathroom, one the bedroom, then?” He arched a suggestive eyebrow, winking at Ginny.

Ginny knew it was just a joke (most likely) but it still frustrated her. She stood up stiffly. “Harry sleeps on the couch. Stop implying.”

Draco smirked; familiarly wicked, and Ginny bit her lip again. “I’m not implying anything, Weasley. We both know Potty’s got it bad for a certain little she-weasel. Tell me, have you ever gone a couple buttons lower, then asked for something?”

Ginny tried to look offended and outraged, but a smile snuck onto her face anyway. “No, of course not. Not all of us are gigantic sluts, you know.”

Draco just grinned, flashing white teeth at her in an equally familiar leer, one eyebrow shrugging up and down, and again, the darkness lifted for a moment, and Ginny breathed deep. The air in the room was fresh, suddenly, after four months of staleness; and with each breath of it, Ginny found herself standing, drawing closer to the cause, like metal to a magnet.

“Draco,” she said, almost under her breath, but he clearly heard, because he straightened off the wall, his face going serious again. He stood still, as she walked closer, didn’t move when she tentatively put a hand on his arm; but when she went up on tiptoes, Draco’s hand caught her shoulder, and gently pushed her back down to the ground again.

“No, Ginevra,” he said seriously. No more was needed; they had gone over this countless times, after all, searching for a way out, her more than him always, and for a moment Ginny wished desperately that Draco had done the noble thing long ago.

But he hadn’t, and they had gone over it often enough to know that this wasn’t going to work; it couldn’t last, and they wouldn’t be able to let it not last. Ginny knew all this. She was hopelessly attached, so much so that she knew she would never be able to let go, and Draco didn’t want to become mired down in her need so much that he needed her too – because that would mean needing one too many people, and in the circles he traveled, needing too many people meant pain. Needing certain people meant death, and Ginny was one.

That is, if they allowed it to continue. But here they were: no one had found Ginny in four months, and these days if no one found you in that time, they most likely never would; Draco was, of course, a different matter. Draco was looking for Harry, and Harry would return in a few hours. Then, once their business was concluded, he would be gone, and in all likelihood, she would never see him again. This was a war, and there were casualties, especially of the central-circle varieties.

He was still holding her down, the grounding force, keeping Ginny from flying off into a fantasy-land, as he always had; his hand on her shoulder.

Ginny looked down at it, then up into his eyes, and made up her mind, speaking the four words he had both never understood, and never been able to resist, the flame to his moth.

“Draco, I love you.”

---

Draco woke suddenly, gasping, hand automatically reaching under his pillow for his wand and whipping it out at imaginary enemies. It took several moments for him to calm down and remember where he was, and when he did, he still couldn’t relax. But that was no surprise. He hadn’t relaxed in at least five months, possibly more.

With a sigh, he levered himself to his feet and padded across the room, not bothering to light his wand. Months of nightmares which left him unable to sleep after, combined with a natural neatness, allowed him to easily traverse the room in the dark. Draco gathered his shower things and was out of the room as quickly as he would have been if the lights were on.

He left the lights off in the bathroom, too, walking quickly over the tile and slipping into the tub with as little noise as possible. It wasn’t that Draco was modest; but Moaning Myrtle did have a tendency to visit him during his baths and while he still didn’t dislike her, sometimes she brought back uncomfortable memories.

It seemed he’d avoided her this time, though, and for that Draco was glad. He was too tired to bother with memories today, any more than he could help it; he’d been up until two, and now woken with barely three hours of sleep. He’d have to finish up here quickly, as he had a foot-high stack of papers on his desk to be graded before breakfast, and as much as he’d like to, there was a limit to how much he could simply give Slytherins good marks and fail the rest. He’d actually have to pay attention to what he was looking at. Then, of course, he had to take over three morning classes for Snape, as the Potions master had supposedly become ill again.

Draco knew better, of course. He’d figured it out easily enough at the last meeting, but The Dark Lord still didn’t entirely trust him. Not, of course, that Draco could blame him. He was a double-crosser, after all.

Then, he wouldn’t be able to get any lunch, as he’d be leaving the grounds immediately following his last class. Blaise should be waiting for him at the closest Muggle town, and he had promised he had the travel route figured out; Draco just hoped he wasn’t late. He wasn’t sure that his friend quite understood the idea of train time-tables, despite having ridden the Hogwarts Express for seven years.

The task to follow would be tedious, of course, the perfect topping to the perfectly awful day. Draco wasn’t looking forward to it at all, for several reasons – of course, he would hate seeing Potter again, but he also quite simply despised the idea of being the errand boy. That was what House-elves had always been for, if not owls. Still, Draco understood the reasoning. How could he not, after it had been drilled into his head so often over the past week?

He had to admit that he felt rather smug over being the only one to manage to trace Potter, despite the idiot’s going ‘deep underground’. It hadn’t been that hard, actually. He simply searched Muggle records in various towns and cities for any new apartments or houses rented by anyone with a similar name, then cross-referenced that with the last known location and magical footprint of Potter. Records indicated he had been going east, which ruled out that direction entirely, and Draco had managed to find him on the third day of no sleep. Taxing, yes, but entirely worth it. Beneath wizards they may be, but that didn’t mean Muggles couldn’t be useful.

A door slammed down the hall, jolting Draco from his train of thought, and he blinked. He might have felt alert, but the fact remained that he had been slowly sliding into the bathtub, now submerged up to his nose. He shook his head, and began to wash briskly. Sleepless or not, he didn’t have time for this.

It was those damn nightmares. They wouldn’t go away, and of course Snape was carefully watching whatever potion supplies his assistant used: if Draco made a Dreamless Sleep Draught, his master would surely know and report the weakness to the Dark Lord. In such a complicated spy game as this, even such simple information could be crucial.

Draco was only glad that the final battle was soon. He didn’t think he could last much longer like this: the dreams were abstract but frightening, and they always seemed to feature hair. Long, silver-white beards, or flowing crimson locks; the memories each brought back was more than enough to keep him tossing and turning all night long. He didn’t want to feel guilty about Dumbledore any longer – and he didn’t want to feel anything about or for Ginny Weasley.

Draco rubbed a hand into his eye socket hard, wincing. Just thinking her name had brought back memories, along with that odd nostalgia that he neither understood nor could ever fully will away.

Enough of this. It would do no good to dwell on the past, especially not on two people who were long gone, probably both dead by now anyway. Draco stood, and began to towel-dry himself.

He snatched up his robes, tucking a little bottle of Snape’s effect-removing potion into his pocket. He’d need it to wipe away the headache from the first years’ essays.

In moments, Draco was gone, and moments after, he was lost in his work, all thoughts of nightmares forgotten.