The ancient swing squeaked in protest as Ginny sat down on the seat. Weather-worn beams overhead creaked with each idle push of her foot. All around her, Mother Nature had slowly reclaimed her turf. Wild flowers and long grasses, no longer trampled back by the regular foot traffic of children, sprouted right up against the rickety play structures, while moss had crept on to their wooden railings, enclosing them in soft green cocoons. A cold autumn wind blew through the abandoned playground, carrying with it the musty, acrid smell of rotting wood and rusting metal.

Ginny shivered and pulled her cardigan tighter around her.

There were too many memories here—memories of first meetings and kisses, memories that were once sweet and joyful, now soured and turned bitter by time, by the life since lived.

Why did I come here?

Probably for the same reason she’d allowed her heart to be broken again. Ginny Weasley was a glutton for punishment.

Hysterical laughter rose unbidden like bile in her throat. She choked it back before it could make way for sobs, angling her head upwards so that the tears couldn’t fall.

Her cup of misery filled; she stopped swinging. It was time to leave.

But then the air shifted, a new scent carried on the wind, a feeling in her gut. She froze.

They had not seen each other in years, but evidently she hadn’t lost her ability to sense him, and he hadn’t lost the ability to creep up on her, silent as a shadow.

“Hello, Ginny.” He sounded older, wearier, but it was unmistakably him.

She bowed her head, digging the heels of her palms into her eyes. Not today. She couldn’t deal with the ghosts of her past today.

“Why are you here, Draco?” she asked tiredly, feeling the entire weight of their history bearing down on her.

“Because you are,” he said after a beat of silence.

His bluntness shocked her. In all the time she’d known him, she couldn’t recall a single instance in which he’d been so frank with her, with anyone. For a moment, she forgot the ache in her heart and spun in her seat to face him.

He was dressed as casual as a Malfoy could ever be—a light grey button-down with cuffs rolled half-way up his forearms, a perfectly pressed pair of navy slacks. Same shock of blond hair, but tanner skin. The same mercurial, unreadable eyes.

She whipped back around, unable to face the memories buried in those eyes.

The swing beside her squeaked as he sat. Brick by brick, the weight of silence built up between them until she couldn’t take it anymore.

A familiar anger surged through her. Even this hadn’t changed. He’d always forced her hand, made sure she was the one to break first.

She didn’t bother to ask him how he knew. “So what? Still so petty you had to show up, just to say ‘I told you so’? The knife is already buried too bloody deep, Draco. You can’t possibly twist it in any further.” She spat her words at him, with all the hate she could summon, but somewhere in the middle, they had dissolved into sobs.

She turned her head to the side and allowed the tears to stream freely, too prideful to let him see her wipe them away.

“Look, Ginny. I...” He hesitated. When had he ever faltered? Ever been at a loss for words? Never.

A daring flame of hope sparked inside her, but she viciously snuffed it out. Hadn’t she learned anything by now?

A squeak of the swing and then his shadow fell across her, followed by the softest touch of a finger against her chin. She hardened herself, resisting the push of that finger to turn her face towards him. After a moment of silent struggle, his finger dropped away.

“What the hell am I doing here?” he muttered, almost too quietly for her to hear.

How should she know? She never knew anything—like who was having affairs behind her back, falling in love with someone else while she waited for him, had waited for him for years, or what to expect from a lover as mercurial as his eyes, fire one moment and ice the next. Almost every major decision in her life had been a disaster because she didn’t know enough, didn’t know until it was too late. She didn’t need Draco to remind her of that, today of all days, just when another piece of her life had fallen apart, proving him right.

Another soft touch. The barest brush of a thumb across her cheek. He’d always had the softest hands, unlike any other boy or man she’d ever met. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the memories to fade.

His touch fell away.

“I can’t say I never meant to hurt you,” he whispered, sounding for once almost anguished rather than calm and assured, “because I did. I wanted you to hurt even more than you hurt me, though I never showed it.”

It stung. Even though two decades had passed since then, his admission still stung. Her pitiful younger self had rationalized and made endless excuses for him. At least now she knew, and it vindicated a part of that fateful decision she’d made so many years ago. He hadn’t loved her after all. She should have known it from the start. No one could have been so cruel to someone they loved.

A heavy pause. Another squeak of the swing as he sat back down.

“I knew this wouldn’t win you over, but I can’t lie to you anymore. I’m tired of these games.”

She chuckled bitterly. You’re the one who forced me to play them in the first place. Perhaps even a few minutes ago, these confessions of his might have been enough, but now she knew. It all came back to boyhood rivalries, and he could never stand to lose.

He hadn’t changed at all, and she’d had enough. No more wasting time on someone so worthless.

Ginny stood up and walked resolutely away without another word. Swearing came from behind her, and then suddenly he was right next to her, his breath harsh against her neck, his hand gripped tightly around her wrist.

“Hear me out at least,” he demanded.

“I have no reason to,” she hissed and wrenched her hand free. She moved away at an even brisker pace but refused to run. Oh no, she would not give him that satisfaction.

He exhaled loudly in frustration, but instead of giving up, he continued to follow her. She felt his presence, hovering just behind her right shoulder, but spared him not a glance or a word, though it was hard not to spare him a thought. Unfortunately, because the Anti-Apparation wards remained active, she couldn’t immediately Disapparate from his sight.

A foot before she reached the entrance gate where the wards ended, he blurted out, “I loved you. Loved. Like no one before and no one since.”

She froze with her wand half raised.

“I still do.”

There was vulnerability in the unsteady voice that whispered those three words, a vulnerability in his eyes when she finally spared him a glance.

With tears in hers, she whispered back, “I don’t believe you.”

A sharp crack filled the air. A void where she had been. Then, silence. The stunned silence of a truth that came too late.