After the War ended, Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy removed any charms that rendered their extraordinary home un-plottable. They were no longer a threat to society, and the Ministry had allowed for them to regain their estate under this condition. Because privacy was such an important luxury to the regal family, they moved. Malfoy Manor remained unoccupied domain until years later when their son, Draco, married Astoria Greengrass.
It wasn’t true, necessarily, that Draco wanted to return to his childhood home, but he did so out of love for his wife. She had insisted, and he had given in. When they married, he was only nineteen, and would have given anything to make her happy. He needed her to be, so that he could feel that emotion vicariously.
Her tragic death swept through England only two years later. Not yet twenty, Astoria fell ill. Most people believed Dragon Pox to be eradicated over a century prior, but it hadn’t. For the last, miserable six months of Astoria’s life before her death at the tragically young age, she had to be kept in isolation for fear that the disease would spread.
Once her life had ended, Draco was left alone. His parents had moved to Bulgaria long before this, his beloved had gone, and he had no children to raise. He remained where he was, though, leaving the Manor the way it had been when Astoria had perished with one exception. The single reminder of her face, a large portrait in the main entrance, was turned backwards. For ten years, he was unable to look at her face.
*****
She’d never been there before. Harry had, during the War, as had Ron and Hermione and many other people that she knew, but she hadn’t. There had never been a reason for her to, until now.
There had been a lot of tales about the place, about how it was frightening and malevolent and how a person could almost feel the humanity being sucked from their body, simply from looking at it. She often wondered if, perhaps, the location had been the cause of Lucius Malfoy’s evilness. Maybe, if they’d inherited a different mansion to live in, she would have never encountered Tom Riddle. But that had been the thought of a naive little girl. She’d grown since then, but she’d still never gone there.
And yet, here she was, carefully treading on the lightly coloured cobblestone path that wound to the main entrance, bisecting a beautiful garden. The entire yard was full of lush flowers and green grass, everything beautifully maintained and pleasant. The place did not appear evil or wicked, but rather comfortable and welcoming, even despite the intimidating size of the house, itself. She half-expected there to be a white-picket fence.
She approached the front door cautiously, knocking on it with the large, brass handle. When nothing happened, she knocked a second time, and then a third. Resolving that Draco Malfoy may not have been home, she decided to leave. She told herself she’d come back at another time and try again, but in truth, it had taken quite a lot out of her to simply find the place. She was not the daring, adventurous girl that she had once been.
Just as she’d taken four or five steps off of the porch, she heard the front door creak open slightly.
“Who are you, and what do you want?”
It was a man’s voice, definitely, but it was one she didn’t recognise. It was gruff and a bit slurred. She was sure it couldn’t be Draco’s, but when she turned to face the man, she jumped slightly to a halt. It was Draco. He looked older than he had the last time she’d seen him, obviously, but his appearance was severely dishevelled. Stubble on his chin and face marred his once-flawless skin. His hair was a mess, and his clothing was wrinkled, even a bit dirty. His eyes were squinted against the brightness of the sun, as though he hadn’t seen it for years.
Ginny cleared her throat. “Hi, Draco,” she said, her voice cracking slightly with nervousness. “I know it has been a long time, maybe you don’t even remember me, but –”
“Oh, I remember you,” he said, cutting her off abruptly and rudely. “How could I ever forget that red hair? You’re the Weasley girl.”
“Y – yes,” she confirmed, words accompanied by a nod.
“Well, why are you here?”
She chewed her bottom lip nervously, unsure if she was more unsettled by his brusque appearance or simply her reasoning for the visit. “I know this is going to sound ridiculous and strange, but would you mind if I came in?”
“I do mind, actually. I’ve been alone for a long time, Weasley, and I’d like to keep it that way.”
He went to slam the door, but she rushed forward, allowing her hand to catch it first.
“Wait!” she pleaded. “I need your help.”
“Weasley, I haven’t seen you in, what? Almost fifteen years?” He chuckled humorlessly. “Civilised people don’t generally show up unannounced at other people’s homes, especially when they barely even know the people they’re bothering. We weren’t friends at Hogwarts, we weren’t friends after, and we aren’t friends now. Now, please leave.”
“I can’t,” Ginny insisted, forcing the door to open even wider. “I just need to talk to you for a few minutes. Please, may I come inside?”
Draco sighed deeply before rolling his eyes and stepping aside. “Fine, but you’ve only got five minutes.”
She stepped past him and into the grand foyer of the Manor, admiring the high ceilings and the grand decor. Portraits hung around the walls, past and present Malfoys staring down at the somewhat-welcome guest that just entered the once-impenetrable estate. The marble floors complemented the warm colouring of the room, but Ginny was able to see how these rooms could have once been rather intimidating.
“You’re wasting time.”
His sharp tone penetrated her thoughts impatiently, effectively snapping her out of her thoughts. She put on a half-smile and turned toward him, approaching him cautiously.
“Right. Malfoy, this is going to sound mad.”
“How about that,” he interjected sardonically.
“I see your age and poor hygiene haven’t taken away your inability to be nice,” she retorted. She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Look, this isn’t why I’m here. I didn’t want to come in here and argue with you and be mean. There is a reason why I’m here.”
“Then get to it. You’ve already wasted three of your five minutes.”
“Damn you!” she shouted, stamping her foot. “I found a note from my future self, and it said to go to you. That’s why I’m here. I wanted to approach the topic a bit more sanely, but seeing as though you’ve got me on a time limit, I figured I’d just get right to it.”
His brow furrowed into a frown, and he studied her carefully for several minutes. He said nothing for a long time, putting them dangerously near the ten-minute-mark, only circled around her confused form, making her positively anxious. After another minute, he stopped and looked at her properly. “You’re right. I do think you’re mad.”
“Draco!” she shouted. “Do you know how hard this is for me? I hate you – my family hates you. Do you honestly think that I’d come here just to sit down for a chin wag and a spot of tea? I know it sounds ridiculous, but it isn’t impossible; I know you’ve heard of a time-turner. If Ginny Potter from the future thinks I need to talk to bloody Draco Malfoy, then damn it, I’m going to do so!”
“Weasley, calm down,” he instructed lazily, rolling his eyes.
“No, I won’t bloody calm down!”
“Yes, you will. You’re dangerously closed to being tossed out of here on your arse, so I suggest you do what I say.”
Ginny let out a sound that seemed to be a mixture of a growl and a scream. She quieted down after that, but began pacing back and forth in front of Draco.
How could she have ever thought that this was a good idea? How could this have ever ended well? At his best, Draco Malfoy was a pompous, rude, spoilt brat, and at his worst, he wasn’t much different. There was simply no way that coming here was going to accomplish anything besides making her more angry than she had been in a long time.
“Weasley, will you stop that? You’re getting on my nerves.”
“Well, you already got on mine, so I guess that makes us pretty even, doesn’t it?”
“You haven’t changed since you were a bloody child, did you know that?”
She rounded on him, her face coming dangerously close to his. Her eyes narrowed. “Actually, Malfoy, I’ve changed quite a bit.”
“Could’ve fooled me. You’ve still got that same temper that you’ve always had!”
Ginny snorted at that. “And you’re still a sarcastic, arrogant, not to mention evil prat!”
He moved so quickly that she had no time to react. Within only fractions of a second, he had her pinned up against the wall. He paid no mind to her wincing, as the stones dug into her back uncomfortably.
“Let me clear one thing up for you, Weasley. I am not now, nor have I ever been evil. I am an upstanding citizen of Wizarding England, and I have been my entire life. I’ve never been charged or convicted of any crime in my life, regardless of your preconceived notions. And, if that is what you think of me, then why are you here?”
Using all of her body weight and all of the strength that she could muster, Ginny pushed away from the wall, knocking the blond man back a few steps. “I’ve already told you why I’m here, but maybe it was just a mistake.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” He pointed toward the door. “There’s your way out. Good riddance.”
She turned to face the door, set to leave, but something stopped her dead in her tracks. Above the metal frame, there was a portrait that was turned over. Harshly, she was reminded of her own mantle and her own photographs that she was unable to look at properly for a long time, and she felt rather guilty. Perhaps there was a reason for the way Draco was acting, and maybe she shouldn’t have allowed her temper to get the best of her.
Carefully, she faced him, her expression softened significantly. She pointed to the upturned photograph. “Who – who is that a picture of?” she asked gently.
“No one,” he answered sharply. “Now go!”
“No, Draco, I can’t. Tell me, who is that?”
He narrowed his eyes at her, trying to intimidate her into leaving before he’d have to answer. But she was not afraid; rather, she was more confident than ever. He sighed deeply. “It is a picture of my wife, okay?”
Ginny blanched. “I didn’t know you were ever married.”
“We weren’t married long,” he admitted grudgingly. “She was just out of Hogwarts, and I was two years older. She died two years after. I haven’t been able to look at it since.”
Bravely, she approached him further, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Harry died, too,” she said, “just last year. I understand, you know.”
“I saw that in the Prophet,” he said, his voice suddenly less sullen. “I’m sorry.”
She nodded curtly. “Thank you. May I ask what happened to –”
“Astoria,” he said, finishing her sentence for her, realising that she probably didn’t know his late wife’s name. “She died of Dragon Pox. Because of her age and how late it was caught by her Healer, she wasn’t able to recover.”
“I’m sorry, Draco,” Ginny whispered, feeling tears stinging at the back of her eye. “I’m sorry, but I have to go.”
Not waiting for a response, she bolted from the house and into the garden, intending to leave and never come back. She knew, now, why she was there. She was supposed to help Draco heal his wounds that were left, healing hers as well by being able to forget. She wouldn’t do that. She wouldn’t allow herself to forget Harry. Twenty years of her life were devoted to him, out of love and care, and she wasn’t about to throw that all away because Draco was even weaker than her.
“Ginny, wait!”
Despite her better judgment, Ginny turned and faced him. “What do you want?”
He jogged down the path toward her. “How did Harry die?” he asked. “It was never written in his obituary.”
“That was my choice,” she said coldly, “and I made that choice for a reason.”
“Maybe that’s your problem, Weasley,” he said, a bit of the sardonic jocularity that she had gotten used to in their school years returning to his voice. “You’ll never be able to move on if you can’t ever talk about him.”
“You’re really one to talk, you know that? At least I can look at his picture!” Her hands gestured wildly as she spoke.
He grabbed onto her wrists, bringing her hands down to the front of them. “Hey, don’t try to hurt me just because you feel badly,” he said, almost gently. “I know I’ve got problems, but I never asked anyone to help me. You came to me, remember?” He paused. “Tell me how he died.”
A single, fat tear slid down her cheek. “I can’t,” she said. Without even thinking, she grasped onto his arms, gripping onto him tightly as she buried her face into his shirt. “I can’t because it was my fault.” She continued to sob into his chest as he slowly lowered them onto the cobblestones. “It’s my fault he’s dead.” Her voice was a barely audible whisper.
It wasn’t true, necessarily, that Draco wanted to return to his childhood home, but he did so out of love for his wife. She had insisted, and he had given in. When they married, he was only nineteen, and would have given anything to make her happy. He needed her to be, so that he could feel that emotion vicariously.
Her tragic death swept through England only two years later. Not yet twenty, Astoria fell ill. Most people believed Dragon Pox to be eradicated over a century prior, but it hadn’t. For the last, miserable six months of Astoria’s life before her death at the tragically young age, she had to be kept in isolation for fear that the disease would spread.
Once her life had ended, Draco was left alone. His parents had moved to Bulgaria long before this, his beloved had gone, and he had no children to raise. He remained where he was, though, leaving the Manor the way it had been when Astoria had perished with one exception. The single reminder of her face, a large portrait in the main entrance, was turned backwards. For ten years, he was unable to look at her face.
She’d never been there before. Harry had, during the War, as had Ron and Hermione and many other people that she knew, but she hadn’t. There had never been a reason for her to, until now.
There had been a lot of tales about the place, about how it was frightening and malevolent and how a person could almost feel the humanity being sucked from their body, simply from looking at it. She often wondered if, perhaps, the location had been the cause of Lucius Malfoy’s evilness. Maybe, if they’d inherited a different mansion to live in, she would have never encountered Tom Riddle. But that had been the thought of a naive little girl. She’d grown since then, but she’d still never gone there.
And yet, here she was, carefully treading on the lightly coloured cobblestone path that wound to the main entrance, bisecting a beautiful garden. The entire yard was full of lush flowers and green grass, everything beautifully maintained and pleasant. The place did not appear evil or wicked, but rather comfortable and welcoming, even despite the intimidating size of the house, itself. She half-expected there to be a white-picket fence.
She approached the front door cautiously, knocking on it with the large, brass handle. When nothing happened, she knocked a second time, and then a third. Resolving that Draco Malfoy may not have been home, she decided to leave. She told herself she’d come back at another time and try again, but in truth, it had taken quite a lot out of her to simply find the place. She was not the daring, adventurous girl that she had once been.
Just as she’d taken four or five steps off of the porch, she heard the front door creak open slightly.
“Who are you, and what do you want?”
It was a man’s voice, definitely, but it was one she didn’t recognise. It was gruff and a bit slurred. She was sure it couldn’t be Draco’s, but when she turned to face the man, she jumped slightly to a halt. It was Draco. He looked older than he had the last time she’d seen him, obviously, but his appearance was severely dishevelled. Stubble on his chin and face marred his once-flawless skin. His hair was a mess, and his clothing was wrinkled, even a bit dirty. His eyes were squinted against the brightness of the sun, as though he hadn’t seen it for years.
Ginny cleared her throat. “Hi, Draco,” she said, her voice cracking slightly with nervousness. “I know it has been a long time, maybe you don’t even remember me, but –”
“Oh, I remember you,” he said, cutting her off abruptly and rudely. “How could I ever forget that red hair? You’re the Weasley girl.”
“Y – yes,” she confirmed, words accompanied by a nod.
“Well, why are you here?”
She chewed her bottom lip nervously, unsure if she was more unsettled by his brusque appearance or simply her reasoning for the visit. “I know this is going to sound ridiculous and strange, but would you mind if I came in?”
“I do mind, actually. I’ve been alone for a long time, Weasley, and I’d like to keep it that way.”
He went to slam the door, but she rushed forward, allowing her hand to catch it first.
“Wait!” she pleaded. “I need your help.”
“Weasley, I haven’t seen you in, what? Almost fifteen years?” He chuckled humorlessly. “Civilised people don’t generally show up unannounced at other people’s homes, especially when they barely even know the people they’re bothering. We weren’t friends at Hogwarts, we weren’t friends after, and we aren’t friends now. Now, please leave.”
“I can’t,” Ginny insisted, forcing the door to open even wider. “I just need to talk to you for a few minutes. Please, may I come inside?”
Draco sighed deeply before rolling his eyes and stepping aside. “Fine, but you’ve only got five minutes.”
She stepped past him and into the grand foyer of the Manor, admiring the high ceilings and the grand decor. Portraits hung around the walls, past and present Malfoys staring down at the somewhat-welcome guest that just entered the once-impenetrable estate. The marble floors complemented the warm colouring of the room, but Ginny was able to see how these rooms could have once been rather intimidating.
“You’re wasting time.”
His sharp tone penetrated her thoughts impatiently, effectively snapping her out of her thoughts. She put on a half-smile and turned toward him, approaching him cautiously.
“Right. Malfoy, this is going to sound mad.”
“How about that,” he interjected sardonically.
“I see your age and poor hygiene haven’t taken away your inability to be nice,” she retorted. She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Look, this isn’t why I’m here. I didn’t want to come in here and argue with you and be mean. There is a reason why I’m here.”
“Then get to it. You’ve already wasted three of your five minutes.”
“Damn you!” she shouted, stamping her foot. “I found a note from my future self, and it said to go to you. That’s why I’m here. I wanted to approach the topic a bit more sanely, but seeing as though you’ve got me on a time limit, I figured I’d just get right to it.”
His brow furrowed into a frown, and he studied her carefully for several minutes. He said nothing for a long time, putting them dangerously near the ten-minute-mark, only circled around her confused form, making her positively anxious. After another minute, he stopped and looked at her properly. “You’re right. I do think you’re mad.”
“Draco!” she shouted. “Do you know how hard this is for me? I hate you – my family hates you. Do you honestly think that I’d come here just to sit down for a chin wag and a spot of tea? I know it sounds ridiculous, but it isn’t impossible; I know you’ve heard of a time-turner. If Ginny Potter from the future thinks I need to talk to bloody Draco Malfoy, then damn it, I’m going to do so!”
“Weasley, calm down,” he instructed lazily, rolling his eyes.
“No, I won’t bloody calm down!”
“Yes, you will. You’re dangerously closed to being tossed out of here on your arse, so I suggest you do what I say.”
Ginny let out a sound that seemed to be a mixture of a growl and a scream. She quieted down after that, but began pacing back and forth in front of Draco.
How could she have ever thought that this was a good idea? How could this have ever ended well? At his best, Draco Malfoy was a pompous, rude, spoilt brat, and at his worst, he wasn’t much different. There was simply no way that coming here was going to accomplish anything besides making her more angry than she had been in a long time.
“Weasley, will you stop that? You’re getting on my nerves.”
“Well, you already got on mine, so I guess that makes us pretty even, doesn’t it?”
“You haven’t changed since you were a bloody child, did you know that?”
She rounded on him, her face coming dangerously close to his. Her eyes narrowed. “Actually, Malfoy, I’ve changed quite a bit.”
“Could’ve fooled me. You’ve still got that same temper that you’ve always had!”
Ginny snorted at that. “And you’re still a sarcastic, arrogant, not to mention evil prat!”
He moved so quickly that she had no time to react. Within only fractions of a second, he had her pinned up against the wall. He paid no mind to her wincing, as the stones dug into her back uncomfortably.
“Let me clear one thing up for you, Weasley. I am not now, nor have I ever been evil. I am an upstanding citizen of Wizarding England, and I have been my entire life. I’ve never been charged or convicted of any crime in my life, regardless of your preconceived notions. And, if that is what you think of me, then why are you here?”
Using all of her body weight and all of the strength that she could muster, Ginny pushed away from the wall, knocking the blond man back a few steps. “I’ve already told you why I’m here, but maybe it was just a mistake.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” He pointed toward the door. “There’s your way out. Good riddance.”
She turned to face the door, set to leave, but something stopped her dead in her tracks. Above the metal frame, there was a portrait that was turned over. Harshly, she was reminded of her own mantle and her own photographs that she was unable to look at properly for a long time, and she felt rather guilty. Perhaps there was a reason for the way Draco was acting, and maybe she shouldn’t have allowed her temper to get the best of her.
Carefully, she faced him, her expression softened significantly. She pointed to the upturned photograph. “Who – who is that a picture of?” she asked gently.
“No one,” he answered sharply. “Now go!”
“No, Draco, I can’t. Tell me, who is that?”
He narrowed his eyes at her, trying to intimidate her into leaving before he’d have to answer. But she was not afraid; rather, she was more confident than ever. He sighed deeply. “It is a picture of my wife, okay?”
Ginny blanched. “I didn’t know you were ever married.”
“We weren’t married long,” he admitted grudgingly. “She was just out of Hogwarts, and I was two years older. She died two years after. I haven’t been able to look at it since.”
Bravely, she approached him further, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Harry died, too,” she said, “just last year. I understand, you know.”
“I saw that in the Prophet,” he said, his voice suddenly less sullen. “I’m sorry.”
She nodded curtly. “Thank you. May I ask what happened to –”
“Astoria,” he said, finishing her sentence for her, realising that she probably didn’t know his late wife’s name. “She died of Dragon Pox. Because of her age and how late it was caught by her Healer, she wasn’t able to recover.”
“I’m sorry, Draco,” Ginny whispered, feeling tears stinging at the back of her eye. “I’m sorry, but I have to go.”
Not waiting for a response, she bolted from the house and into the garden, intending to leave and never come back. She knew, now, why she was there. She was supposed to help Draco heal his wounds that were left, healing hers as well by being able to forget. She wouldn’t do that. She wouldn’t allow herself to forget Harry. Twenty years of her life were devoted to him, out of love and care, and she wasn’t about to throw that all away because Draco was even weaker than her.
“Ginny, wait!”
Despite her better judgment, Ginny turned and faced him. “What do you want?”
He jogged down the path toward her. “How did Harry die?” he asked. “It was never written in his obituary.”
“That was my choice,” she said coldly, “and I made that choice for a reason.”
“Maybe that’s your problem, Weasley,” he said, a bit of the sardonic jocularity that she had gotten used to in their school years returning to his voice. “You’ll never be able to move on if you can’t ever talk about him.”
“You’re really one to talk, you know that? At least I can look at his picture!” Her hands gestured wildly as she spoke.
He grabbed onto her wrists, bringing her hands down to the front of them. “Hey, don’t try to hurt me just because you feel badly,” he said, almost gently. “I know I’ve got problems, but I never asked anyone to help me. You came to me, remember?” He paused. “Tell me how he died.”
A single, fat tear slid down her cheek. “I can’t,” she said. Without even thinking, she grasped onto his arms, gripping onto him tightly as she buried her face into his shirt. “I can’t because it was my fault.” She continued to sob into his chest as he slowly lowered them onto the cobblestones. “It’s my fault he’s dead.” Her voice was a barely audible whisper.
Author notes: Thanks to Rinney for beta-ing this. Please review; I'd love to know what you think. :)
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