“We've already spoken to the proprietors,” the official said, forgetting to give his name, if he'd ever intended to give it in the first place. “They know all about you and your history, and they know what is expected of you when you leave their home. Don't try anything foolish or you'll go right back to your cozy cell.” He was in such a hurry that even his words were spoken quickly, making him hard to understand.

Draco would have answered, but he was startled by the sounds echoing off the stone. There weren't many: just the stomps of the boots of the guards and the Ministry official, the harsh clanking of Draco's chains, and the soft rustling of clothing, but it was more than Draco had heard in ages. His mind was unaccustomed to so many distractions, so it was difficult for him to pay attention.

They halted in front of a small room, sparsely furnished with a steel table and two rickety wooden chairs. On the table sat an old plush teddy bear—where one of its eyes used to be fluffy gray stuffing poked out.

“At four o'clock exactly, this Portkey will activate. There will be someone on the other side to meet you. Wait for them there. Do not wander off.” The official pointed to his thick black eyeglasses as if to say “I'll be watching you.”

Draco wanted to snort at him, but he controlled the urge and rolled his eyes instead. Prison had lowered his tendency to bait and insult other people. Maybe he was out of practice, being alone for as long as he had.

They waited the last few minutes in silence until four o'clock, when Draco was then directed to take hold of the bear. There was a sharp tug at his navel as he swirled through space, and then he landed gracelessly on hard ground. It took him a couple seconds to catch his breath and stand, and when he had, he wondered if he'd been sent to the wrong location.

All around him was a sea of color, hills and hills of the brightest flowers he had ever seen. He was awestruck by the beauty of it, by the brightness. He had to close his eyes after a few seconds, but the sun pierced through his eyelids, so he pressed the bear to his face. Azkaban had been dark and cold. This was the first time he'd seen color, or felt the sun, in five years. It was ironic that he had to close his eyes, cast himself back into darkness, in order to let it all sink in.

“Hey, Luce, another rotten turnip just dropped in!” a voice complained ahead of him.

Draco opened his eyes to see a stooping man reach the top of the hill with a short, knobbly cane in hand. His brown robes were patched up in all sorts of colorful flowery patterns that did not seem to match the scowl on his face or the crease in his brow.

“What choo doin' over there? Don't stand around gaping like a loon. Get in the house!” The man extended his cane to prod Draco's shoulder towards a large cottage situated behind him, right on top of the hill. Before they could reach it, the door opened, revealing a tiny, plump woman with curly snow white hair, as soft and wispy as one of the clouds that lazily floated across the bright blue sky.

“Now, Filip, don't frighten the boy!” The woman turned to Draco as she ushered them into the house. “Don't mind him, deary. He's a crotchety old man, but he can be sweet when he's hungry.”

Draco didn't say a word as the woman, who insisted he call her Lucy, babbled about her husband, and he allowed himself to be ushered into the kitchen where a ginger-haired young woman stood at the fireplace, stirring a cauldron. The girl turned around as they entered, and Draco thought he remembered her face from somewhere—but only in a vague sense of recognition. She seemed to know him, though, because her eyes widened, and she turned back to her cauldron so quickly that he wondered how she hadn't injured her neck.

“Just sit right here, and let me tell you about ourselves,” Lucy said, shoving Draco down into a seat at the long wooden table in the middle of the kitchen.

She stood so that he had to turn his back to the girl by the fire, which was fine with Draco as she didn't seem too keen on him anyway. Filip, who insisted Draco call him Mr. White, positioned himself grumpily beside Lucy, both of his hands resting on the top of his cane. Draco realized as he sat there under their scrutiny that he was still holding the bear, and even though he felt a little foolish carrying it around, he couldn't quite bring himself to throw it away yet. It had been his escape from prison. Maybe it would bring him luck in his new life of freedom.

“Welcome to The Cottage,” Lucy said. “You are here to work out your issues in order to integrate back into society. We are a cheery lot, but don't let that fool you. There are a few rules everyone living under this roof must follow, including yourself.

“The first rule: this is your home, not your prison. You were allowed to come here because you were deemed not dangerous, and as such, you are free to leave the house.”

Not dangerous? How could he not be dangerous? Four counts of attempted murder, remember! Draco gave her a skeptical look, but she didn't seem to notice and continued on in her blithe way. Beside her, Mr. White was scowling at him. Apparently, Draco would not be offered his trust on a silver platter.

Lucy continued. “There isn't anywhere for you to go, anyway, and Apparition is strictly prohibited. We'd like to see you try to escape.” She smiled at him in what he had decided was her default cheery manner, but cheery though it was, it made Draco wary. Obviously, Lucy White was not as oblivious as she appeared.

“The second rule: everyone must help out around the house. Since we'll be living together, you can manage to complete a few chores. These will be outlined to you in the morning.”

Honestly, Draco had expected no less than that, but even so, he couldn't stop the prickle of irritation that niggled at his Malfoy pride. He'd never had to do chores in his life, and he couldn't believe he was going to be lowered to the status of a house-elf now. Okay, so maybe, to them, he deserved this treatment, being Death Eater scum or whatever people thought of him, but chores were not what he had wanted to spend his freedom doing.

“And the last rule: if you behave well, show some improvement, cooperate, you'll be out of here in no time. If you break any of these rules, just expect to either stay here longer or go back to Azkaban. Ginny here will show you where you will be staying.”

Draco wasn't given the chance to wonder in what way he would have to improve or how that improvement would be measured. Behind him, the girl—Ginny, apparently—dropped the wooden spoon she'd been holding. Draco flinched as it clanged against the side of the cauldron and dropped to the floor.

He turned around to see her glaring at him, causing his palms to sweat with nerves. He should have known that his presence outside of Azkaban would be unwelcome to the public. His part in the war had not been kept secret while he'd been on trial; he was sure everyone knew what he had done—or tried to do. The girl whose brown eyes glared at him so hatefully would be the first of many people to give him such looks. Draco wasn't sure what he had expected life to be like for him outside of prison. He supposed he hadn't thought much about it at all.

“Just leave that, dear. I'll get a new one,” Lucy said, giving the girl—Ginny, he reminded himself—a little shove in his direction. Draco turned back around to see Mr. White bent over in front him, his eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“I'm watching you, boy. Don't try anything funny. Got any idear what makes those flowers out there grow?” he asked, jerking an ancient thumb over his shoulder toward the door.

Draco shook his head, surreptitiously wiping his hands on the worn bear in his lap.

“If you do anything stupid, you'll find out!”

He shuffled away to the opposite end of the table and sat down heavily, letting out a loud hmph! of disapproval. Draco didn't dare laugh, though he might have scoffed at the old man a few years ago. The greatest folly of his youth had been his inability to recognize danger and stay away from it. But Filip White was not the Dark Lord in any way, shape, or form, so Draco allowed himself a small, if condescending, smile at the man's antics.

“Let's go, Malfoy,” the ginger-haired girl grumbled as she snatched a part of his grungy sleeve and pulled him toward a door.

Draco was momentarily startled but quickly regained his composure. What rude help they employed! Maybe he'd be able to teach her better manners in the time that he stayed there. A Death Eater teaching a woman how to be polite while he learned how to be civilized once again. He snorted at the thought and then smirked at her when her eyes snapped in his direction.

“Am I the only one here?” he asked, watching the crease in her brow deepen as her annoyance curiously grew.

“No, of course not,” she replied. “There's one other man here, but he's working right now. I'm sure you'll get the chance to introduce yourself later.” He realized that she was sneering at him. Well, not at him, because she absolutely refused to look at his face, but, out of practice though he was, he'd made enough facial expressions identical to her current one to recognize it, and the sarcasm dripping from her tongue was like a serpent's poison.

It was a wonder that the infinite hills of flowers outside couldn't temper her bad attitude. Draco thought of the old days, when his mother had overseen the house-elves as they worked in the garden at the manor. She used to take walks there when her spirits were low, insisting that beauty could cure all ills. He frowned at the remembrance. His thoughts hadn't turned to his mother in a very long time. He wondered what had happened to her after his trial and sentencing. It suddenly seemed unfair that he'd been freed from prison and yet still could not return home. He supposed he'd let his hunger for a world outside of Azkaban carry him away. He wouldn't be totally free until he left this cottage.

Thinking of his mother had stirred something in him and, for the first time in fiveyears, Draco had the unexpected urge to fight his fate, to go against the natural flow he had followed since he had been captured at Hogwarts after the final battle, to make his own way in the world again, despite his previous bad decisions. His heart beat the same way it had in prison when he had allowed himself to feel that moment of anticipation for freedom.

“This will be your room here,” Ginny said as she stopped in front of a door at the end of the hall on the second floor. “The Whites have been kind enough to provide some clothes for you. Not that you deserve any of their kindness.”

He felt the bite in her tone as if she'd gone and sunk her teeth right into his arm, and he almost rose to her baiting. He wanted to fight back, sneer at her the same way she was sneering at him, give her a bite that she couldn't easily shake off. But he stopped himself. There was no point in needling the help, not when he didn't even have a wand with which to protect himself should she become seriously hostile. He had been lucky to survive the war, to have gotten out of his trial relatively unscathed, and to be released from Azkaban two years early. It would have been a shame for him to come that far just to get thrown back into prison because the maid had hurt feelings.

He glared at her as he opened the door, his jaw clenched.

“Thanks... Ginny, was it?”

Her eyes glowed with fire, and her brows creased together savagely.

“That's right. Ginny Weasley.”

His heart seemed to stop or slow down or pound harder—he didn't really know because he'd met her hate-filled, now-somewhat familiar eyes, knowing the shock and recognition that would show up on his face, and the smug look on her own was enough to make him want to return to Azkaban, if only to escape it.

His eyes flicked away from hers and landed on her cheek, where he'd be safe from her scrutiny. His mind whirled with possibilities. He could feign ignorance, pretend he still didn't know her—but the shock on his face had been a dead giveaway that he did remember her, or at least her family. He could shut the door in her face, lock himself in his room until morning, when he'd have to start his chores—but he knew he'd only meet her again sometime; the cottage wasn't that large, and it was isolated by the hills and the flowers.

His mouth fell open. He wanted to say something, but....

“Don't waste your breath. I'd rather not hear it,” she spat. Without another word, she turned and stomped away.

Draco could hear her pounding down the wooden stairs until she reached the kitchen again. He slumped into the door frame, thankful for its support, and released a hard breath. And then his lips twitched, turning into a shaky smile, which then transformed into a grin, fueled by laughter that bubbled in his throat. Fate must have had a serious grudge against Draco, because he could see nothing less funny than the idea of living, for an undetermined length of time, with the sister of a man he had actively hated for several years and whose death he had nearly caused on more than one occasion.

Nonetheless, he hadn't laughed since long before he'd entered Azkaban five years ago, and thankfully no one was around just now, because had they heard him from behind his closed door, they would have wondered whether the person inside was laughing hysterically or sobbing.

If he'd half-expected someone to come upstairs and call him to dinner, he'd only been half-disappointed. Ultimately, he was grateful to be alone. The bed seemed to suck him down into its softness until he was too comfortable to move. So he didn't. His thoughts finally succumbed to sleep, and he drifted.

He'd woken again to the sounds of a door slamming and pounding footsteps in the hallway. Startled out of bed, Draco groggily went to the door and threw it open to find a frantic-looking man noisily pacing the hall, wringing his hands and muttering to himself as he went. On the floor in front of the door sat a plate of that night's dinner, now undoubtedly cold. He stared at the food, his stomach grumbling, and for a moment, he felt warmth toward whoever had thought of him during supper, but the moment was interrupted by someone's approach.

A wand tip illuminated the darkness, casting light on the wand's owner as well as the man having the fit. Draco didn't know why the sight of Ginny Weasley was so unexpected, but in his surprise, he closed the door just enough so that he could still see out but she couldn't see him. Now he could see that the man was a bit older, maybe in his fifties or so, with thinning gray hair and a face carved with pain.

“You shouldn't be up, Jimmy,” Ginny said in a soothing voice, her face blank and calm. She gently tugged on his sleeve until he turned around to face her, but even then his eyes darted around nervously. Draco couldn't help the pang of irritation over the difference between her treatment of him earlier and her treatment of Jimmy now, even though no Weasley had ever treated him with kindness before. Not only was she rude help, she discriminated against people as well. Hadn't her family fought against that sort of thing during the war?

“He's come for me, hasn't he?” Jimmy cried, his voice hoarse and shaky. “I'm next, I'm next, I'm next!”

“No one's come for you. Lucy explained it all to you, didn't she? He's here for the same reason you are. To get better.”

Jimmy shook his head savagely. “No, no, no, no, no. My children are gone, and I'm next!” His eyes connected with Ginny's and held like she was his lifeline. “Don't let him get me!” he begged, his voice gone high with panic.

“I won't let anyone get you,” she replied fiercely. “Come on. Let's go take your potion.”

Ginny rubbed his arm as she firmly guided him into a room across the hall from Draco's. She returned a moment later, the light of her wand doused, and closed the door behind her as quietly as she could. She stopped in the middle of the hall, staring at Draco's door intently. His heart pounded in his chest as he closed his eyes, hoping she couldn't see him through the crack, hoping that she had no idea he was watching. She'd only scowl at him for eavesdropping and then.... Well, okay, he was eavesdropping. He could admit it. And, well, maybe a tiny part of him wanted her to find him because he knew she'd have something to say about his lurking. And unpleasant though her animosity was, it was something normal—something he'd had before he'd gone to Azkaban. Not necessarily with her, but it was so easy to envision her as a different red-headed idiot, standing next to Potter and Granger. For some reason that comforted him in this unfamiliar place.

She made a sound of disgust at the back of her throat and approached the door. Draco stood his ground, planting his feet to keep himself from inching farther into the room, but the door didn't fly open in her hellish female wrath.

She stopped in front of the door, frowning at the cold dinner on the floor before picking it up and carrying it off. Unfortunate, really, because his stomach was growling and twisting into itself in hunger. He would have eaten it, cold or not. Trying to forget the missed meal, he crawled back into bed, his mind ruminating over the two faces of Ginny Weasley and Draco's instinctual responses to either challenge or avoid her. But by the time sleep had claimed him, his thoughts had turned into half-nightmares, in which Ginny's eyes burned with furious fire and Jimmy's voice screamed at him accusingly.