Draco had always thought that the Slytherin common room presented the feel of the house adequately. The hard, cold floors and the stiff, black chairs didn’t give off any feeling of comfort. He found it ironic that the intricately carved fireplace gave off no warmth whatsoever.

He watched his breath curl in front of him as he made his way across the common room to the dormitories. A few students were scattered throughout the room, catching up over their summers and already trying to outdo each other.

His dormitory was the same as it had always been: the green hangings around his bed, the pale silk sheets that had been made and monogrammed especially for him, the dark wood of his bed and his desk that had carved snakes in them.

He removed his robes and slid under the impeccably smooth sheets. He was grateful that his mother had thought in his first year to send a thick, green, cashmere blanket. The warming coals that the house elves placed under the sheets often didn’t last the whole night in the dungeons.

He shut his eyes at the thought of his mother. He knew she was lying, frail and sickly white, in a bed at the Order of the Phoenix. She had begged Snape to send her and Draco there after the incident at the end of the previous term. Draco hated all of his options, but the two best seemed to be spending the summer in the rat hole that was Snape’s house, or spending it under a roof with blood traitors and half breeds. He and his mother had shared adjacent rooms and Draco only saw the one purple-haired witch who brought them their food daily. Draco had recognized her vaguely as a disowned cousin.

He didn’t know what Snape was playing at. Snape hadn’t rejoined this Order of the Phoenix, but Draco knew that he would be in tremendous trouble for allowing he and his mother to escape there.

He had had to speak with Professor McGonagall, who hadn’t seemed as willing to give second chances as Dumbledore before he died. Draco wanted out of the war. He didn’t want to fight alongside Harry Potter and die a hero, but he didn’t want to be a coward and join the Dark Lord like his father. Let Potter and Voldemort fight it out; he just wanted to be a wealthy wizard with no strings attached. He belonged to no one.

Professor McGonagall had given him the stern look that she had worn since he was eleven and said that she understood. He would return to Hogwarts, she added, and remain a good example for the other students. She had mentioned something about being Head Boy too, but Draco had thought she was joking.

Now he realized that she hadn’t been joking. Him, Head Boy? What a load of rubbish. Draco groaned loudly and rolled over. It was going to be a very long year.

Ginny took care to make herself look horrible for Tuesday night. The first two days of lessons had been almost unbearable; NEWT level seemed to be even harder during the war because professors were overly concerned about “preparing them.” Her eyes were already tired and had large, purple bags beneath them. Her customary summer freckles stood out sharply against her pale skin. She was getting skinnier, she knew, because her Muggle jeans slid lower down her hips than usual. She didn’t have to do much to prepare herself for an hour with Malfoy.

She mussed her hair up and removed all traces of makeup that might have been lingering from earlier in the day. She gave her reflection a small smile; she looked awful, alright.

She hadn’t given her rounds with Malfoy a thought since the train ride, and she would have forgotten if Colin Creevey hadn’t asked her when she had rounds that day at lunch. She sighed and shrugged her shoulders.

The first few days of the term hadn’t been very eventful. It seemed odd, almost wrong, that McGonagall gave the speech at the feast, announcing that there would be no Quidditch this year and that Care of Magical Creatures would be held in the dungeons. Ginny wasn’t sure what she was going to do with herself without Quidditch, but she would ask McGonagall if she could go flying occasionally to clear her mind. Not that she expected a yes.

She glanced down at the slip of parchment that Hannah had given her at dinner. Meet Draco Malfoy in the Entrance Hall at eight PM and you will complete your rounds from there.

It was quarter to eight. Ginny sighed and slipped the note into the pocket of her jeans. It was going to be a very long year.

Draco clenched his fists, forcing himself not to tap his foot impatiently. It was five after eight. Where is she?

Draco was always early. His father had always been early, to keep up appearances, of course. He had arrived in the Entrance Hall at ten before eight, and here Ginny Weasley was already five minutes late.

He looked up suddenly to see her descending the stairs. Her bright hair tumbled in waves down past her shoulders and Draco felt his fingernails dig deeper into his palms. When she had reached the bottom step, he sneered. “You’re late.”

“I apologize,” she said coolly.

Draco was taken aback. He had expected her to retort angrily as her brother might have. “Can we go now?”

She nodded curtly. He took in her pale, tired face and messy red hair. Her lips were chapped and pink and rough looking and he forced himself to look away. He caught the scent of some cross between flowers and cinnamon. It reminded him immediately of the incident on the train.

They walked in silence for some time, checking broom cupboards and empty classrooms. Draco was determined not to break the silence first. Ginny, apparently, couldn’t handle it, because after walking by the Charms classroom she blurted, “Why are you back?”

Draco glared at her for a moment, startled by her shamelessness. “I spent the summer at your headquarters, did you know that?”

Ginny stared at him. “No.”

“Well, I did. I told McGonagall that I didn’t want to be a part of either side. She let me back in. That’s why I’m back.”

“You almost killed my brother,” she said angrily, staring at him with hard eyes.

“Yes, I did. I won’t apologize for it, because no harm came of it. I would have been sorry if he died. I’m no killer.” Draco felt his eyes widen. He hadn’t meant to say that last part.

“Is that why you didn’t kill Dumbledore?” she asked, eyeing him with a mixture of curiosity and dislike.

“Yes. No. I don’t want to talk about it,” he said angrily.

“Well then what do you want to talk about, Ferret, because I can’t stand the silence?” she said, scuffing her trainer on the floor.

“Why do you call me that?” Draco asked, remembering her comment from the train.

“What, Ferret? Don’t you remember in your fourth year when-”

“Yes, I remember,” Draco snapped. It was hard to forget the painful and humiliating experience. Never again would he stand to watch Potter laughing at him until tears came out of his damn green eyes.

Ginny gave him a mischievous grin. “Why do you call me the Weaselette?”

Draco stared at her again. She was always so open and unfaltering. She took no care to hide her emotions, a trait that would no doubt be her downfall. He gave her a small, devious smile and leaned in very close. Her face was a mere six inches from his. “Because you’re much too pretty to be just another Weasel.”

She stopped walking, her eyes were wide and she was rolling her bottom lip between her teeth. He continued walking, leaving her standing behind him. Draco clenched his fists again at the sight of her teeth biting into her lower lip. But he grinned as he started up another flight of stairs. It was high time he shocked her into silence.

Ginny inhaled sharply through her nose, trying to grasp what had just happened. Had he just called her pretty? She breathed in again, remembering the scent of new leather and sweet smelling smoke that he seemed to give off. Her eyelids fluttered slightly as she hastened to catch up with him. Much as she hated the silence, she would make herself endure it.