A/N - 'Kim' Philby was a highly-ranked British agent who defected to the USSR and took all of his knowledge of US/UK policy/espionage with him. He defected in the 60s, but was actually recruited in the 30s.

Disclaimer - I don't own any of the canon characters or concepts. Don't sue.


Wizarding Britain revered Narcissa Malfoy as one of the greatest heroines of the 20th Century. Countless songs, books and plays had been made of her story, most of them coming to a grand climax on the day when she had walked into Professor Dumbledore’s office and spoken the immortal words:

“We must act now. They will attack Hogwarts tomorrow.”

Ginny did not remember that meeting, but she did remember the next day – the growing tension among the Slytherin students, as they waited for an attack that never came, the looks of shock and disbelief on their faces as the rumours circulated, whispers spreading, growing…

Malfoy’s white, pinched face and forcibly steadied voice as he realized what had gone wrong – and his public repudiation of his mother and all her works in the most shocking language Ginny had ever heard…

The books and plays had never mentioned the effect Narcissa’s betrayal had had on her son; or the price he had paid to regain face in Slytherin after such a devastating blow – Ginny supposed that it had not been thought important.

But anyone who had ever seen the faces of those thwarted students would understand why she had disappeared so completely into protective custody, and was never heard of again…


Driven by fear and necessity, Ginny had accepted Draco Malfoy’s less than gracious offer of an empty marriage. It had never occurred to her until after the ceremony, when they had spent the night on opposite sides of the same bed, that she knew almost nothing about him…

Oh, she knew the bare superficial facts that were public knowledge. But here was a man she had known since she was eleven years old, a man with whom she had gone to school for six years, a man she had just married, for the gods’ sake –

And she knew nothing more about him than that he was an only child; that his father had been taken away from him and his mother had betrayed him, and that he had never, ever been completely faithful to anything or anyone in his whole life.

It had been awkward, to say the least.


It was freezing cold – a colder winter than usual, even for the jaded Muscovites – and the only warmth in the stark stone chamber was in front of the fireplace, where Malfoy was standing, staring into the fire, drinking, and under the blankets, where Ginny was huddled in her thickest nightgown, trying to convince herself that it was cowardly to hide in such a manner.

Her new husband – Draco Malfoy, of all possible people! – was giving her time to adjust to the surrealistic situation, politely averting his attention until she was composed enough to deal with him. Or perhaps he was simply concentrating on getting as drunk as possible. Nevertheless, it was an unexpected grace, one that she would not have thought to receive from a man she had always thought of as an enemy, from a scion of the very highest ranks of the pureblood aristocracy…

Of course, that was the only reason they were in this mess in the first place – the Malfoy name, considerably blackened as it was, was still one of the first and foremost of the pureblood aristocracy, and the current Lord was still extremely influential despite (or perhaps because of) his erratic loyalties and irregular employment. No one else could have released – rescued – her from the hellish Russian women’s prison so quickly, or at such a relatively low price.

Why, all it had taken was the mention that she was his fiancée, and the officials fell over themselves apologizing, and would my Lord Malfoy like to formalize the arrangement, so that such a terrible mistake would never occur again? That had been Petrov’s fault, the cunning bastard. Of course, while he couldn’t question Malfoy’s word outright, he could call his bluff…

“Well, Malfoy?” she had challenged, attacking as she always did when unsure. “What are we going to do about this farce of a marriage?”

He had stirred the fire one last time, tossed back the rest of his drink, and then turned around slowly, coming to lean against the bedpost. Backlit by the flames, his white hair had gleamed silver, but his face was shadowed and mysterious. His voice was calm and impassive, perfectly controlled despite the alcohol, as hers was not. “It need not be a burden on either of us, Weasley. We must spend this night together in the same room, to establish the basis, and then tomorrow we will go our separate ways. I will make no demands of you – you will have my name, and it will be enough to keep you safe.”

“And that’s it?” she’d asked. “We go our separate ways, but stay married because it will guarantee my safety? But don’t you want children, heirs? And what if I fall in love with someone?”

He’d looked briefly amused. “My dear girl, if you find true love you're welcome to indulge it – marriage is hardly a barrier. And as for children,” he shrugged, “I do not intend to have any.”

She must have looked surprised, and he must have been drunker than she realized. Slowly, he sat down on the bed, his weight causing her to tip just a little – she pulled the covers up further, up to her chin, and tried to ignore the fact that there was a man in her bed for the first time in her life.

“Do you know,” he said, very quietly, reflectively, “the difference between a child and an Heir? Children are wanted, welcomed – an Heir is merely necessary. I know what happens when two disinterested and indifferent people produce an Heir and declare their duty done, so they may go on to different things...”

He stopped.

She had not had the courage to enquire any further. It felt as though she lay less than a metre away from some kind of unknown, unfathomable predator whose motives and thoughts were utterly mysterious – and she sensed that prying into the cracks and weaknesses he had so inadvertently shown her would be repaid with instant retaliation…

So many others had tried and failed to understand this one, unaccountable, unreliable man – why should she be successful? She was nothing to him, after all, just a wife tied to him by the slenderest of threads…

And he would be gone in the morning, anyway.

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