Archive of Our Own

Ginny looked around the Defense Against the Dark Arts office and wondered when was the last time she’d been in here.

It was odd how easy it was to forget. And odd how the bad memories were the first to come back. She certainly remembered what this office had been like when Amycus Carrow had been the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. But those memories would not have been the last. She’d had another year, after all. Professor Muir had been the teacher then, though she couldn’t summon any specific memories of visiting her office that year. She must have done, at some point.

Let’s see. Snape hadn’t used this office when he was DADA teacher; he’d remained in the dungeons. And before him was Umbridge. The office had been awful then, all pink and frilly and filled with kittens…

Ginny suppressed a smirk. She did have one good memory of this office during Umbridge’s reign. Well, overall, it was not really a good memory, she supposed. Things had not gone according to plan, when she and Harry and the others were caught in here, while Harry was trying to contact Sirius at Grimmauld Place. But it had ended spectacularly enough, she thought, recalling with satisfaction the Bat-Bogey Hex she’d cast upon—

The door to the office creaked open, and Ginny turned to look, expecting Professor McGonagall or maybe the current DADA professor to come in. But instead, the person who entered was the very same person she had just been thinking of—and the last person she’d expected to see.

“Malfoy,” she said at once, too surprised to suppress the displeasure in her tone.

“Weasley,” he greeted her in return, his tone curt but not surprised.

Ginny narrowed her eyes, watching as he strode into the room, hands in his pockets, cool as you please. He was dressed in full Muggle attire—a tailored, gray silk suit that seemed to darken his eyes, and a crisp black tie, knotted neatly at his neck. He looked like he was dressed for a funeral, she thought, or—the thought made her stomach clench with dread—a business meeting.

Like this one.

Ginny ran her tongue over her teeth, keeping her lips firmly pressed together. She knew someone else would be joining her in running this year’s annual fundraiser for Hogwarts’ Restoration—there were always two hosts—but she’d been under the impression that Cho Chang was who’d she be working with, or so Hannah Abbott, the head of the Restoration Project, had mentioned to her last month.

“What are you doing here, Malfoy?” Ginny asked, trying to keep her tone as civil as possible. It galled a little to be polite to him, but after all, they weren’t at school anymore—or, they were now, she supposed. But they were adults. Professionals.

Which required, annoyingly enough, civility.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow in her direction. He’d looked distracted from the moment he came in—barely registering her presence, by the looks of it. He still looked vaguely distracted, even as he looked at her. “I guess Hannah didn’t tell you, then.” His tone was detached, if a little irritated.

Hannah. He dropped her name so casually. As though they were friends. Hannah Abbott, Ginny was sure, was not friends with Draco Malfoy. “Tell me what?”

Malfoy ran a hand over his carefully styled hair. “Chang had to drop out of the fundraiser—her mother’s come down seriously ill with something. I’m stepping in for her.”

No. No, no, no. Ginny’s stomach sank as he confirmed her suspicions, dread turning into misery. Bad enough her publicist had forced this on her—not that Ginny didn’t appreciate and support the cause, but being in the center of the spotlight was the last thing she wanted right now. Given her current personal life disasters. But that was why her publicist had insisted she volunteer for this—a chance for good publicity, for a change. Ginny had grudgingly acquiesced, even though she was sure the press would only use this chance to dig into her personal life even more than they already had.

But now…now, of all people, she was going to be stuck with Malfoy on this? Stuck working with him for the next several weeks? She couldn’t imagine anyone she’d like to work with less. Well, there was Zacharias Smith, she supposed, and also Pansy Parkinson, and Vera Kent, whom she’d hated since they’d been paired together in Herbology her first year at Hogwarts…

All right. There were maybe a few people worse than Malfoy. But only a few.

If Malfoy had noticed her dismay at working with him, he didn’t acknowledge it. He was looking around the office now, squinting at their surroundings. “Any idea why we’re in here?” he asked. “McGonagall is meeting with us, right?”

“Yes, I believe so. But Filch said we’d be meeting in here.” Ginny had the wild urge to ask if he remembered the last time—the only time, so far as she could remember—they’d been in here together. But if he was going to play the mature adult, she supposed she should continue to do so as well. Yet even with this in mind, she couldn’t hold back her next comment. “Nice suit,” she said dryly.

Malfoy ran a hand down his tie, subconsciously, it seemed. “I’m headed to a meeting in Muggle London as soon as we’re done here,” he said crisply.

A business meeting, no doubt. Draco Malfoy, once pardoned of his war crimes along with his parents, could have done anything after school. He could have done like his father did, and simply lived his life as an independent millionaire, doing absolutely nothing at all except sitting around and causing trouble. Or, perhaps more likely in this post-war world, hole up in his mansion and never emerge again.

Instead, he’d ventured out into the world of business. Turned the Malfoy name into a worldwide corporation. She didn’t really know what his business was—something to do with the media, she thought—but she knew that, far from continuing his family’s tradition of disdaining Muggles, he’d actually taken his business into the Muggle world, as far as he could without exposing the wizarding side of it anyway. Almost as though he was determined to prove he was a different person than the one she’d known at school.

On the surface, anyway. There was no telling how much he’d really changed.

Just then, the door opened a second time—thankfully, Ginny thought, sparing her from more small talk with Malfoy. This time, it was indeed Professor McGonagall who entered, along with Hannah Abbott herself and a young man Ginny didn’t recognize.

“Ah, Miss Weasley, Mr. Malfoy,” said McGonagall, and Ginny felt like she was back in fifth year all over again. “I see Filch did not lead you astray. Pardon our premises, but I’m afraid the Head’s Office is being renovated.” She gave a dry smile. “So to speak.” She indicated the young man beside her. “This is Adam Walters, our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.”

Ginny smiled as the young Walters offered a hand for Ginny and Malfoy to shake in turn. “This if your office, then,” she said.

“Well, I’m not quite moved in yet.” Walters chuckled. “I’m not this spartan, believe me. But I’ve got all summer to get settled, I suppose, and I’m only happy to lend Minerva my office for now.” He looked between Ginny and Malfoy. “But I daresay you both have fond memories of the place?”

“Oh, yes,” said Ginny blandly, and she did not dare look at Malfoy, for fear she’d burst out with a snicker. “Very fond memories. One in particular,” she could not help herself from adding.

If she wasn’t mistaken, Malfoy gave a very soft cough.

“Ginny!” Hannah rushed to greet her as soon as Walters stepped back. “Glad you could make it. I’m so sorry I didn’t have the chance to, er—update you on some of the recent changes to the fundraiser.” She widened her eyes almost comically, making it clear that by “recent changes” she meant “Malfoy.”

Despite her consternation at working with Malfoy, Ginny couldn’t help but smile at Hannah, who obviously knew how unsettled she would be by this. “It’s all right, Hannah. We’re all here now.”

“Yes, I’m terribly sorry if I seem impatient,” said Malfoy, checking his watch, “but I do have another engagement after this, so…”

Ginny repressed a snort at his contrived courtesy. Terribly sorry, she thought to herself. Yeah, right.

McGonagall also raised an eyebrow at him, but all she said was, “Of course. I’m sure we all have other things to be about.” She looked to Hannah. “Miss Abbott, if you please?”

“Of course,” Hannah said hurriedly, and she launched into what sounded like a pre-rehearsed spiel. “As you all know, this will mark the Seventh Annual Hogwarts Restoration Project, a fundraising event launched directly after the war with an aim to restore the school after the damage it took in the battle. Most of that damage is long since repaired, but we continue to commemorate the battle and to bring much-needed funds to Hogwarts, to continue keeping it in top condition for its students.”

She paused to take a deep breath. “The project kicks off every year with a fundraising event on the first Sunday in July, held here on the school grounds. A second big fundraiser concludes the event the following Saturday. We will hold smaller events throughout the week, typically open only to invited, honored guests—lunches, teas, speakers and tours to display past work that’s been done and to show what still needs work. Those events during the week are all organized and launched by the project committee,” she added, looking between Malfoy and Ginny, “though we do encourage you both, as this year’s Co-Heads of the project, to attend some of those events. But it’s the two fundraisers that bookend the week which you are responsible for. So.” She smiled. “I hope you already have some ideas.”

“Yes, I’m sure we’ll come up with something grand,” Malfoy said, before Ginny could even formulate a response. “Weasley, I think we can probably get together sometime this week to discuss that?”

Ginny raised an eyebrow. “I daresay we can,” she said, in a falsely pleasant voice.

“Good. I’ll send you an owl, then. If that’s all…” He looked between Hannah and McGonagall.

Hannah nodded, and Malfoy turned to go.

“Don’t forget to send me that owl, Malfoy!” Ginny called after him before she could stop herself. “Otherwise I’ll have to come find you and hex you.”

McGonagall made a small sound that might have been a snort. Both Hannah and Walters looked as though they weren’t sure whether to laugh.

But it was Malfoy who surprised her. He stopped and turned to face her in full, his expression inscrutable as ever. “As I recall, Weasley, having been on the receiving end, you cast a pretty nasty hex,” he said dryly, “so believe me. I won’t forget.”

Ginny wasn’t sure whether to feel pleased or foolish.

Ginny was not prepared for the wave of nostalgia that slammed into her when she walked into the Three Broomsticks. Although she had plenty of friends who still frequented the pub, this was another place Ginny had not returned to since her school years. Now, standing inside the pub, everything she loved about it was coming back to her—the dim, cozy lighting, the scent of sweet Butterbeer warming the air, the gleaming, golden brown tabletops glinting at her.

And, in the midst of all this, Draco Malfoy. Not something she loved.

She saw him once her eyes adjusted to the dim lights. He sat at a booth, and had likely seen her before she’d seen him, since his position gave him a good vantage point of the whole pub. Plastering a neutral expression on her face—she would refrain from scowling at him, if she could, but she certainly wasn’t going to smile—she made her way across the room and slid into the seat opposite him.

“Malfoy,” she said civilly.

“Weasley,” was his placid reply.

Half-amused, half-exasperated, Ginny regarded him. Despite their firmly wizarding surroundings, he wore, once again, a Muggle suit. This was one was also gray, but paler, dove gray, in contrast to the darker suit he’d worn the last time she saw him. She wondered if he was going to another meeting in Muggle London after this one.

“So,” Malfoy said, after the bartender came by to take Ginny’s order of a gillywater—Malfoy himself already had a drink in front of him, though it looked largely untouched. She wasn’t sure what it was, but it smelled vaguely coffee-ish. “The fundraiser.”

“Is that why we’re here?” Ginny quipped.

Now it was Malfoy who regarded her, his eyes slightly narrowed. Probably trying to decide if Ginny was making sport of him, or if she was just slightly dotty. It was the former, of course, and she simply couldn’t help it. She hadn’t had any significant interaction with Draco Malfoy since their school years, and the man sitting in front of her was nothing like the snotty, sneering boy she’d known back then. If she was honest with herself, she hadn’t really known Draco at school at all, so her entire impression of him was probably more caricature than anything else. Even considering that, though, it was just hard to reconcile the image she had of Malfoy, in her mind, with this brisk, business-like man she was dealing with now.

  Malfoy removed a small device from his pocket and tapped it. It was a moment before Ginny realized it was a Muggle BlackBerry. “How the hell do you get that thing to work around here?” she asked in amazement, for Muggle technology was usually pretty fritzy in Hogsmeade. They were too close to Hogwarts here.

“A few modifications,” Malfoy said, with that detached air he’d demonstrated at their first meeting, in the Defense Against the Dark Arts office. But then he looked up, and Ginny was a little startled how freely he met her eyes. “So, beginning with the main fundraiser event. Hannah told me you’d floated her the idea of a concert?”

“Yes,” Ginny said, suddenly self-conscious. She thought it sounded like a fun idea, but sitting here now, talking to this very professional Malfoy, she wondered if he thought it…well, not refined enough. He probably wanted to do some posh ball or something. “I thought it would be good to do something…well, different.”

“I think it’s a brilliant idea,” said Malfoy, leaning back in his seat a little.

Ginny blinked. “You do?”

“Sure.” He glanced down at his BlackBerry, his brow furrowed. “As it happens, I have a contact with the Weird Sisters. I was thinking with them headlining, it could make for a pretty good event.”

“That would be fantastic!” Ginny enthused. Everyone loved the Weird Sisters.

Malfoy looked up. He leaned back further in his chair, taking on a more relaxed posture, and something that almost hinted at a smile came to his face. “Right? We could do it in the Great Hall. Everyone around our age, that will take them back to memories of the Yule Ball, you know, and playing on nostalgia’s always a good bet for donations.”

Ginny nodded in agreement. “Though,” she said dryly, “the Yule Ball doesn’t really fill me with great memories.”

To her surprise, Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Yes, it was not the best of nights for me, either.” Ginny was immediately intrigued by this, but Malfoy didn’t elaborate on all the juicy details. “Still, it will be a good tie-in. So, are we set on that, then?”

“Definitely.”

“Great.” Malfoy looked down again, making a note on his BlackBerry, by the looks of it. “I’ll speak to my contact and get that scheduled right away. So what about the kickoff event, then?” he asked.

Ginny grimaced. “That, I’m having more trouble with.” The kickoff event was always held on the Sunday at the start of the week. “Again, I’d like to do something different. I mean, masquerades are great and all, but they’ve done that almost every other year since the fundraiser began.” There had also been a carnival one year, she recalled, and…what else…

Malfoy leaned in towards her. “So, I was thinking a Quidditch match.”

Ginny blinked. “Quidditch?”

He nodded, and though his professional composure never wavered, Ginny could tell by the gleam in his eyes that he was excited about this idea. “I had thought, at first, we could get some of the alumni to play, you know, some of the ‘star’ players from students’ school days. But then I realized it probably wouldn’t be that difficult to bring in some professional players, since it is the off-season. I figured…well, I thought maybe you could help with that.” Again, that hint of a smile. “Being a professional Quidditch player and all.”

“Yeah…” Ginny mused, and before she knew it, a smile was springing to her face too. “Malfoy, that’s a great idea!”

“I thought so.” That hint of a smile turned decidedly smirk-like, and suddenly, he was more like the Malfoy she remembered. “I’m surprised you didn’t think of it.”

Ginny laughed wryly. “I suppose I have Quidditch on the brain so much, it was just too obvious. But yeah, I definitely think I could bring in enough professional players. A lot of them are Hogwarts alumni, after all.”

Malfoy nodded. “Great. So you think you can pretty much take over the planning of that?”

“Yes, sure.”

“All right, then.” Malfoy lifted his drink to his lips and practically downed its entire contents in one gulp. “I think that about covers it for now, then. We can get together again once we’ve both seen to bringing in the necessary people.”

“All right.” Ginny was a little surprised as he stood up, though she supposed she shouldn’t have been. He seemed the sort of person who was always on the way to something else. She supposed his business kept him, well, busy. “Going to another meeting?” she asked, as she stood as well, stepping clear of her chair.

Malfoy hesitated. “No. Not yet.” He cleared his throat. “Listen, I hope you don’t mind, but I thought maybe we could do a little…impromptu announcement about the fundraiser. No details, of course, since we’re still finalizing everything, but just to start raising the hype.”

“An announcement?” Ginny frowned, following him as they started their way out of the pub. “All right. But what kind of announcement?”

Before Malfoy could answer, they had stepped outside, and a bright bulb flashed in her face.

Oh, Ginny thought, a flash of mingled dread, annoyance, and panic rushing through her. That kind of announcement.

Malfoy had called the press.

It was somehow both the shortest and longest ten minutes of her life. Shortest, because the panic coursing through her seemed to make everything hazy, and in that sense, the whole thing passed in sort of a blur. Longest, because she spent most of the time waiting, dreading to be asked about the only subject the press seemed to care about these days, when it came to Ginny Weasley.

Her divorce from Harry.

In the end, Malfoy managed to keep the reporters mostly on topic. But then, just when Ginny thought maybe she was going to escape this little encounter scot-free, a reporter from the Prophet asked her if running the fundraiser meant she would have to work with Harry at all. Which made no sense, since Harry always supported the event but wasn’t involved in the management of it. Ginny stumbled over an answer before, thankfully, another eager reporter broke in to ask for more hints on the event itself. Then, just as the questions were coming to a close, another reporter quickly snuck in a question to Ginny about her divorce, a question which brazenly had nothing to do with the fundraiser itself.

Fortunately again, she was spared from answering. She didn’t even have time to formulate a “No comment” before Malfoy announced that was all the questions they had time for, and then he took Ginny by the arm and firmly walked her across the street, where he had a car—a car, of all things—waiting.

Once they were safely ensconced in the back seat of this car, Ginny rounded on Malfoy in a fury. “What the hell was that?” she demanded.

Malfoy looked surprised. “What do you mean?”

Ginny jabbed a finger in his chest before she could stop herself, wrinkling the expensive-looking silk. “You do not, do not call the press without telling me ahead of time! Why the hell would you ambush me like that, you—you git!”

Malfoy blinked. He looked utterly bemused, absently smoothing down the wrinkle in his shirt. “Look, I know I probably should have told you—”

“You think?” she demanded, jabbing him again.

“—but—” Malfoy smoothed his shirt again, his gray eyes turning a little annoyed “—I just thought it would be a good idea to start raising public interest for the event. And I’m sorry, but I thought, well, you’re used to dealing with the press, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, a little too much, lately,” she seethed, “or don’t you read the papers?” She punctuated this question with a third jab to his chest.

This time, Malfoy caught her hand in his. “Will you stop that?” he snapped. “This is Italian silk.”

Ginny snorted, untangling her hand from his grip. “Please. I’m sure whatever that suit cost is pocket change for you.”

Malfoy smoothed his shirt a third time, openly annoyed now. “And I don’t know what you’re talking about, reading the papers or whatever.”

“Didn’t you hear that reporter at the end there, asking me about my divorce from Harry?” She waved an outraged hand. “Or earlier, that other one asking if I would have to work with him?”

“Of course I did, but that’s reporters for you.” He waved a dismissive hand, his tone dispassionate. “Always trying for a juicier story, always trying to trip you into saying something you don’t want. Like I said, I figured you were used to it. I certainly am.” He looked out the window on his other side, and Ginny had a sudden insight—the distinct impression that his blasé attitude about the press was forced. “Or didn’t you hear that reporter ask if I was doing this out of guilt?”

Ginny blinked. She actually…hadn’t heard that at all. Too focused on deflecting her own nosy questions, she supposed.

“The fact is, we can’t do this event without talking to the press, Weasley,” he said, turning back to look at her now. “That’s sort of the point, after all. Generate public interest and all that.”

“Malfoy—” Ginny pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’m well aware we have to deal with the press on this. That’s part of the reason I’m doing this, for Merlin’s sake, to hopefully change the press’s trajectory on me lately—” She immediately wished she hadn’t admitted that, to Malfoy, of all people. Why had she said that? Mentally kicking herself, she continued, “But just—look, in future, you have to tell me if we’re meeting with reporters, all right? Don’t just—spring it on me like that.”

“Understood,” Malfoy said crisply, and he was business Malfoy again, all cool professionalism and detached calm. “I will be sure to let you know.”

“I mean, for Circe’s sake, I’m only wearing a bit of mascara,” she said crossly.

Malfoy’s lips twitched. “Appalling.”

“I know.” It was a small break in his brisk exterior, but Ginny considered it a victory for herself. Even though she hadn’t particularly liked the Malfoy she knew back at school, she found herself wanting to bring him out—or at least, bring the real Malfoy out, whoever that was.

She wasn’t sure why she wanted that. And she decided not to dwell on her motives too closely.

“So…” Malfoy slipped his BlackBerry out of his pocket again as he signaled for his driver to take off, carrying them out of the village. “You’re doing this event for good press?”

“Well, I mean…that was my publicist’s idea. But that’s only part of it,” she added defensively. He was a prominent business man, after all, and one with a shady past, at that. He had to understand the importance of one’s public appearance. “Why are you doing it?” she asked, and resisted the temptation to add, Because of guilt?

“Oh, you know,” he said vaguely, and despite his abstracted air, she had another sudden insight—that he was putting much more consideration into his answer than he pretended. “For the good of the school, of course. The education of our children is of utmost importance to me, and the school needs to be in top condition to achieve that. And, of course, the place is very dear to me. Good memories and all that.” He said all this with his gaze fixed on his BlackBerry, but then, as he finished speaking, raised an eyebrow at her, casting her a sidelong glance.

“Oh, yes,” Ginny said dryly. “Same. Me too. To all of that.”

It wasn’t untrue, really. And yet, it still felt like a lie. And for the first time, Ginny wondered why she was really doing this fundraiser.

Ginny had plenty of memories out on the Quidditch pitch at Hogwarts. Some good, some bad. Practices were usually fun, unless the weather was miserable or the team was lousy. Whether a game was a good or bad memory typically depended on the win.

But no matter how lousy the practice or how bad the loss…she didn’t think she’d ever had such a bad time out here as she had today.

It had been a disaster, Ginny thought hopelessly. An utter disaster. She raised the half-empty bottle in her hand to her lips and drank deeply.

It didn’t help.

The fundraiser kickoff event, the charity Quidditch game, had, well, kicked off in a torrential, thunderous rain. Since yesterday evening, the forecasters had begun predicting an out-of-nowhere, sudden squall, and sure enough, Ginny woke Sunday morning to a clap of thunder and stormy clouds.

Everything had gone downhill from there.

It was evening, now. The match, if you could call it that, was long done. Ginny sat in the Quidditch stands alone, her jacket, which she’d used to cover her seat, soaked through. She thought the last of the daylight was disappearing, though it was hard to tell, since the sky was still overcast with steel blue rainclouds.

“Weasley!”

Ginny looked up. A speck of a figure appeared in the distance, coming towards her from the direction of the castle. Malfoy, of course. Malfoy, in one of his Muggle suits, which he apparently wore all the time, even to a Quidditch game.

Once he reached the field, he waved at her from down below. Ginny gathered he wanted her to come down, though she couldn’t think why. She ignored him, hoping he might go away.

He did not. Instead, he vanished behind the stands, and a moment later, he appeared, climbing up the steps towards her. “What are you still doing out here?” he asked, stopping a few steps below her. His breaths were a little shallow as he said, “In this weather?”

“It’s spitting, Malfoy,” Ginny said derisively. If that. She wasn’t sure if the damp coating her hair was from actual rain still misting down, or just the mugginess the rain had left. “I think it’s clearing up.” Of course it was. Now, now that it was too late. “Too bad it couldn’t have done that before the whole event was completely ruined.”

The look Malfoy cast her said she was being melodramatic. “It was hardly that, Weasley.”

“How can you say that?” Ginny gestured wildly. “There was a bloody hurricane!”

“It wasn’t a—are you drinking?” he asked suspiciously, glimpsing the bottle in her hand.

“It’s only butterbeer,” she said glumly.

“Oh.” He actually looked relieved. Probably because he didn’t want to drag her drunken self back to the castle. “Anyway, it wasn’t a hurricane. I mean, yes, I don’t think I’ve ever sat through a storm that bad during a Quidditch game, except maybe that game between Gryffindor and Hufflepuff in Third Year—”

“The game you lot pulled out of, you mean?” she reminded him snidely.

“—but plenty of people still turned up,” he finished.

Ginny snorted. Plenty of people. The stands hadn’t even been half full.

“It was fine,” he said bracingly. “Look, people love watching Quidditch in mad conditions, it’s part of the fun.”

“And half the players canceling?” She raised an eyebrow. “Was that part of the fun, too?”

Malfoy grimaced. It was true. The owls and agents Flooing in had begun as soon as Ginny got up that morning. These were professional Quidditch players, after all, that she had gotten to come in for this match, and given the conditions, several of them decided they shouldn’t go ahead with it. It would be silly, after all, to risk injury during the off-season for a match that didn’t mean anything. Even if it was for charity.

Ginny sighed. She couldn’t really blame them. It’s not like she had volunteered herself, after all.

“I mean, yeah, some people were probably disappointed,” Malfoy admitted. “But bringing in more alumni to play, people love that stuff, too. You know, creating old school memories and stuff.” That was how they had pulled it off, by pulling in a few alumni who had come to watch the match at the last minute. Ginny supposed it was lucky they had found enough willing to play.

“But we pitched the whole thing as a celebrity event,” Ginny said miserably. “The match and the concert next week.”

“Well, we’ve still got the concert, haven’t we?”

“No.” Ginny took a long gulp of her butterbeer. “We haven’t.”

Malfoy’s eyes bulged. “Excuse me? What do you mean, we haven’t?”

“Hannah came and told me during the match,” Ginny said. “I couldn’t find you to tell you, ‘til just now. The Weird Sisters canceled too.”

“But why? It’s not like the weather matters to them, and it’s next week, anyway! We’ve already sold tickets!”

Ginny waved a hand. “The lead singer’s getting over dragon pox, or something. I don’t know. Doesn’t want to risk it. I mean, they’re not exactly as young as they once were, are they?”

“Oh, please,” Malfoy scoffed. “No one gets dragon pox anymore!”

Ginny shrugged. “That’s just what they said.”

“It’s for bloody charity!”

“I know, Malfoy,” Ginny said irritably. “You don’t have to convince me how important it is, remember?” She shook her head. “I can see the headlines now,” she added bitterly. “Ginny Weasley mucks up the Hogwarts Restoration Project, just like she mucked up her marriage.”

Malfoy ran a hand over his face. “No one would write a headline like that, it’s too wordy.”

“Oh, shut up, Malfoy.”

Malfoy only sighed in response. He climbed the last couple of steps to sink onto the seat beside her. Wordlessly, Ginny held out her near-empty bottle of butterbeer to him. Malfoy took one depressed look at it, then, also wordlessly, removed a flask from the inside of his suit.

“Seriously?” Ginny intoned.

“It’s better than butterbeer, trust me.” He took a long gulp of whatever it was, then held it out to Ginny, who took it without hesitation. The deep drink she took burned down her throat in a way that was both pleasant and painful. Ah. Firewhiskey. She handed the flask back to him, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Why do you care so much what the press says about you, anyway?” he asked, taking another drink.

Ginny shot him a scathing look. “Like you don’t?”

“Not really.”

“Oh, please.” She gestured vaguely at him. “What’s all this, then?”

He looked at her blankly. “All…what?”

“This.” She gestured again, even more vaguely. That quick shot of Firewhiskey had warmed her to the core, and loosened her tongue a little. Ginny could hold her drink better than that, when she tried, but she didn’t really care to right now. “The—the suits, the cars, the professional businessman.”

Malfoy looked part perplexed, part amused. “I mean…I am a businessman. You know that, right?”

“But why?” she demanded. “I mean, you don’t have to work, right? You’re wealthy enough already. And doing—charity work, of all things—”

“You’re the one who said she was doing it for the press, Weasley.” The amusement had gone from his face in an instant, and his tone was curt now. “Not me.”

“I—”

“Did it ever occur to you,” he said tightly, “that I’ve changed, Weasley?”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.” Galling as it was to admit it, she had to admit that he had changed. From what she could see. But that was the point—she had worked with him on this fundraiser for the past few weeks, and she felt she had truly seen so little. “This, Malfoy—” She tipped her head at him, refraining herself from making another vague gesture. “This isn’t you, changed. It’s you hiding.”

His gray eyed turned icy. “Hiding?”

“Yes. Hiding.”

“Are you calling me a coward?”

“Merlin, no.” She took the flask from his hands before he could stop her, and took another long drink. “I wish I knew how to hide half as well as you. Then I wouldn’t have all these problems with the press.”

Malfoy shook his head. “You think I don’t have problems with the press, Weasley? Of course I do. I mean, you’re—right—” He grimaced, as though it pained him to admit this. “I do put up a front. Respectable businessman. And for the most part, the press has sopped it up. They love a good redemption story,” he said dryly. “But that gets boring, too. They still turn up now and then, trying to dig up some new dirt on me, some juicy story. A fall from grace is even better than a redemption story, after all.”

“Don’t I know it,” Ginny said darkly.

Malfoy’s gaze turned amused again as he regarded her. “You’d think they would have thought it more interesting to make Potter the bad guy, rather than make it out to be all your fault.”

Ginny twisted her lips, but didn’t say anything. She couldn’t help but feel there was an implicit question in there—Malfoy was curious to know if it really had all been her fault.

Maybe it had been. The only thing she knew for sure was that she never should have married Harry. And she couldn’t help but feel, in hindsight, that she had known that all along, even before she’d married him.

“Anyway.” Malfoy gently took the flask away from her and tucked it inside his pocket. “My point is, you can’t care what the press says about you, Weasley. They’re never going to stop, and you can’t control what they say, what they write. So why worry about it?” He shrugged. “The people that know you best know who you really are. That’s all that matters.”

That was the problem, Ginny thought sourly. The people that knew her best knew Harry best, too. All her family, all her friends, they were all Harry’s family and friends, too. And sometimes, she couldn’t shake the feeling that they agreed with the press that the divorce was all her fault.

She shook her head. She needed some people in her life that weren’t Harry’s people, too.

“So you admit it, then.” Ginny knocked her knee against Malfoy’s. It felt weird, weirdly natural, sitting here in companionable misery with him. As though they were actually friends. “It’s all a front, this…persona of yours.”

“I mean, not all of it.”

“Why did you really decide to do this, then?” she asked frankly. “The restoration project, I mean.”

“What, you don’t believe I really care about Hogwarts?”

“I believe there has to be more to it than that.”

“Nope,” he denied. “Nothing more.”

It suddenly occurred to Ginny that he had stepped in at the last minute, only after Cho Chang had backed out. “You must have known you’d be working with me,” she said. “That didn’t…give you cause to turn it down?”

She glanced at Malfoy just in time to see him hesitate.

“You wanted to,” she accused him. “When you realized I’d be your partner.”

“No, I didn’t.” His face was quite blank, quite calm.

Ginny bit back the urge to argue with him. She looked away, staring out over the muddy Quidditch pitch.

“So how do you do it, then?” she asked. “Hide so well? Hide who you are, I mean, from the press?”

“Well, it helps if you don’t show your emotions.”

Ginny grimaced. “Oh.”

“Yes.” Now Malfoy knocked her with his knee, and she was startled to see a bit of a grin on his face. “You aren’t so good at that.”

“As though you know anything about me!”

“I do, actually.” The mirth didn’t totally disappear from his face, but there was something very serious in his gaze now, as he regarded her. “I know lots of things.”

For some reason, Ginny’s breath stuttered a little. “So what,” she said, trying to cover how off-guard he’d caught her, “you don’t feel things?”

“Oh, I do.” Malfoy’s eyes gleamed even more intensely. “Lots of things.”

Ginny suddenly realized how little space there was between them. Her leg, propped up in front of her, was inches from him, her knee so close to the hand he had braced on the back of his seat that she could feel the warmth radiating off his skin.

“I just learned a long time ago,” he said, his voice low, “how to hide those…feelings. How to hide…what I want…from the world.”

“Hmm.” Ginny leaned in towards him. “So…for all I know, right now, you could be feeling…that you want to kiss me, but I wouldn’t know it.”

The effect these words had on Malfoy was hilarious. He blinked, all the blood draining out of his face, and she could see him scrambling for his usual composure. “I…what?”

“Please. Like that’s not what you were thinking.”

He looked at her like she was mad, and she probably should have thought so too, but she knew she wasn’t. She wasn’t sure how she knew—it was another whip-like flash of insight—but she’d suddenly realized.

This front he talked about, this front he put up. It wasn’t just for the press.

It was for her, too.

Malfoy coughed. “Look, Weasley—”

He was interrupted by a loud, clashing burst of thunder overhead. Ginny and Malfoy both froze. “That sounded—” he started.

“—very close,” Ginny said faintly.

Before either of them could say another word, the heavens opened up, and a deluge rained down on them.

“Run!” Malfoy yelped, and they both jumped to their feet. They sprinted down the stands, slipping and sliding and clutching at each other to keep from falling. Ginny was soaked in under thirty seconds, and Malfoy was too, though she could barely see him through the rain, the ends of his blond hair clinging to his forehead, his button-down shirt gone translucent.

As they reached the ground again, another loud clap of thunder burst overhead, and then another. Out of the corner of her eye, Ginny saw a crack of lightning hit the open Quidditch pitch.

“We have to get inside, quick!” she yelled. “The lightning!” It would take them too long to get back to the castle, and it was wide out in the open. “Maybe—Hagrid’s cabin—”

“The changing rooms, you idiot!” Malfoy shot back. “They’re just over there!”

Oh, right. The changing rooms were closest, though she could barely make them out in the storm. Malfoy took her by the hand and they ran, their shoes squelching in mud, more lightning cracking around them.

Ginny didn’t see the door to the changing rooms until they ran into it. Malfoy tore the door open and they both stumbled inside, letting the door swing shut behind them as they slipped and skidded into safety.

“Merlin.” Malfoy picked at his sodden tie in disgust. “Clearing up, you said?”

“Well, it was,” Ginny said defensively. She wiped a hand over her cheek, slicking her drenched hair back from her face. “I thought.”

“Where’s your wand?” he demanded, peeling off his dripping suit jacket. “Quick, so we can dry off.”

“Where’s your wand?” she shot back, reaching into her pocket.

“In my room, up at the castle—”

“What did you leave it up there for?”

“It wasn’t on purpose, Weasley,” he said icily. “I forgot it.”

“I—damn!” Ginny checked her other pocket. Her wand was not there. “Damn it, I must have dropped mine, out there somewhere!”

Malfoy looked at her in dismay. “You’re joking.”

“Maybe it’s not far.” She reached for the door. “Maybe—”

“Weasley, stop!” Malfoy was behind her in an instant, his hand flat against the door, keeping it firmly closed. “Don’t be daft, you can’t go out there! You’ll never find your wand in that hurricane, anyway!”

Ginny turned. It was difficult to do—he stood so close, his arm blocking her from moving away from the door. “So it’s a hurricane now, is it?” she asked dryly.

“Something like that.”

Ginny pressed her back against the door. She was suddenly aware how cold she was, her shirt soaked through and sticking to her wet skin. Malfoy was soaked too, and shivering a little, though that seemed odd, because she could feel the heat of him, standing so close to her. She could feel the heat of his arm, closing her in, and his hand, splayed flat against the door, right beside her head.

“So I guess we’ll just have to stay in here,” she said, and her voice was softer than usual, deep in her throat. “Until it stops. Just you. And me.” She raked her gaze down his chest, his white shirt utterly see-through and plastered to his skin. “Sopping wet.”

“I guess so,” he agreed, and his eyes were roving over her too, no doubt noticing her own wet clothes, and how they clung to her body.

“Right.”

“Right.”

Malfoy’s eyes drifted back up her body, and latched onto hers.

Then he kissed her.

Or she kissed him. She wasn’t sure who moved first, or maybe they’d both moved at the same time. All she knew was that his lips were on hers, and with every kiss he seemed to press warmth into her, seeping into her bones, settling deep inside her. His lips swept over hers in slow, drugging kisses, yet there was something demanding in each one, like he was pulling truth from her, all the true parts of herself.

The thought made her uneasy. She tried not to think about why. She tried only to think about how good this felt, how good his hands felt, gliding down her sides, how good it felt to slip one of her own hands inside his open shirt collar and trace the line of his collarbone with her fingers. She tried to lose herself in the taste of his hot, damp skin as she trailed kisses down his jawbone, in the way his whole body shuddered against hers as she pressed her lips into the hollow of his neck…

But that unease stayed with her. “Wait,” she panted, reluctantly pulling back—as far back as the door behind her would allow her to go. “Stop. We shouldn’t do this.”

“What? Why?” Malfoy dropped his head down to look at her, his hand going still at her waist. “Because you’ve remembered who I am?”

“No, you git,” she groaned. “Because I’ve remembered who I am. Or rather, what my life is like right now.”

“Come again?”

Ginny slid her hand out from beneath Malfoy’s shirt, curling her fingers against his chest. “Malfoy, I just finalized my divorce a few months ago.”

His eyes were unusually tense. “And you’re thinking what it will look like, if the press finds out about this.”

“No,” she said exasperated. “I don’t care about that, Malfoy. It’s just…this is…”

She felt him relax, and his eyes turned amused. “If you’re referring to the fact that this is a rebound snog, not only am I aware, but I’m actually very okay with it.”

“But I’m not,” she protested.

“Why?” One of his hands slid up her back, and the heat of his touch through her wet shirt was so enticing, she nearly forgot all her protests. “I’m telling you, I don’t care.”

“Malfoy.” She placed her other hand against his chest too, though she couldn’t quite bring herself to push him away. She was too warm in the circle of his arms. “Draco. Look, I don’t know if you’ve really changed. But I think maybe you have, and I think maybe you might be a decent person, and I know—for certain—that you are far too good a kisser to waste on a rebound snog.”

“Is that right?” Malfoy bent his head, both of his hands wrapping around to cup her back. Ginny closed her eyes and breathed in, inhaling the scent of him, the scent of his shirt and his skin and the rain.

“Yes,” she said, stumbling over the word a little. And though it was the most difficult thing, she gave him a tiny little shove—not enough to actually move him, just a gesture. And she couldn’t help the sting of disappointment when he acquiesced, stepping back, a small exhale escaping him as he dropped his arms from around her.

Ginny took a moment to catch her own breath, to steady herself before speaking. “If this…happens…I want there to be a chance, at least, that it could be…more than just a rebound snog.” She felt a smile tug at her lips. “But I’m not ready for more than that right now. So maybe…we could table this…just for now?”

Malfoy drew a long breath, running a hand over his disheveled hair. “Yeah. Okay.” But his eyes continued to drink her in, deep and dark and ardent.

Ginny allowed the smile playing at her lips to linger. “So I was right. You did want to kiss me.”

Draco answered with a devilish smile of his own. “Ginny Weasley,” he said, “I have wanted to kiss you since I was fifteen years old.”

Genuine surprise fluttered in Ginny’s stomach like a million butterflies. “Really?”

“Sure,” Draco said, nonchalant as you please. “Every boy in school did, even if we didn’t dare admit it.”

“So was this before or after I cast the Bat-Bogey Hex on you?” she mused.

Draco laughed. “I honestly have no idea.”

Ginny tilted her head. “I don’t hear anymore thunder. I think it’s stopped.”

She reached back to push the door open. To her consternation, she saw she was only half right. The worst of the storm had passed, it looked like—she didn’t see any more lightning, hear any thunder.

But the rain was still pouring down.

“You’ll still never find your wand in that,” said Malfoy. Ginny glanced back; he was peering out the door behind her. “But I don’t think it’s going anywhere either. Let’s just go back up to the castle.”

“I’m not staying at the castle,” Ginny said glumly. “I’m staying in Hogsmeade.”

“What?” Malfoy looked dumbfounded. “Why? Everyone always stays at the castle for the project.”

“I just…didn’t want to,” Ginny confessed. She felt oddly self-conscious about it now, though she couldn’t say why.

“Well, you’ll never make your way back to Hogsmeade in this,” Draco declared. “Even if you could Apparate, you’d have to get off the grounds first. I’m not even sure what direction that is.” He slanted his eyes down at her. “Just come back to the castle. Until the morning, at least.”

Something fluttered in the pit of her stomach again, and she wasn’t sure if it was apprehension or something else. If it was about Hogwarts, or…something else.

“All right,” she agreed, and up to the castle they went.

Ginny woke in a place she had no memory of, or, that was to say, no school day memories to associate the place with. This was because she woke in a room in the dungeons of Hogwarts, and she had never slept in a room in the dungeons of Hogwarts before.

She rolled over onto her back, staring up at the dark, stone ceiling. When she and Malfoy had reached the castle last night, more drenched than ever from the pouring rain, it was to find the castle quite empty. A number of people were staying in guest rooms at Hogwarts for the fundraiser, of course, but dinner had been served over an hour earlier, and everyone, it seemed, had retired to their rooms for the night. When Ginny had mentioned finding Filch or McGonagall to get herself a room, Malfoy had waved her off, insisting she could just stay in his room instead.

So she had.

Nothing had happened, of course. Draco had respected her wishes to that end, and Ginny had resisted the temptation to throw those wishes to the wind. She’d slept on the incredibly comfortable sofa in Draco’s guest quarters, and truthfully, sank into sleep the minute her head hit her pillow.

New memories, Ginny thought to herself, as she rolled onto her other side. She found herself facing the stone fireplace across the room, and the blond man standing in front of it.

And maybe new friends, she thought. She supposed a divorce was a pretty good reason to make a new start in life.

A part of her really had not wanted to come back here, she realized. She’d resisted the whole idea when her publicist had suggested it, that she organize this year’s Restoration Project. She thought she’d resisted the idea of doing it for good publicity, but she realized now it had been more than that. She truly had not wanted to come back to Hogwarts, and face her memories here.

It was not that all the memories were bad, of course. It was the good memories that were the problem, too. Just like all her family and friends belonged to Harry as much as to her, most of her good memories at Hogwarts revolved around him, too.

“Morning.”

Ginny blinked. She hadn’t even noticed Draco turn around and see her, awake, absently watching him. “Morning.” She sat up, running a hand over her tousled hair. “You’re up early.”

Draco looked amused. “It’s ten a.m.”

“That’s…early. To some people.”

“I was just considering our vexing problem in the harsh light of day,” he drawled.

Ginny frowned. It was a moment before she realized he must be talking about the fundraiser. A moment before she was able to think past snogging a soaking wet Draco Malfoy in the changing rooms last night, and remember the disaster that had preceded it. “Oh. Right.”

“I’m sure we can throw something together last minute,” he said, “but I confess I’m not coming up with any good ideas.”

Ginny rubbed a hand at her temple. “I’m going to need some coffee before I can think of any good ideas.”

“There’s some.” He gestured to a table in the corner. “And tea and pastries. A House-Elf brought it.”

Ginny gratefully rose to her feet to pour herself a cup of coffee. Malfoy was silent as she stirred in way too much sugar and heaped a small plate high with croissants and sticky buns. Judging by his furrowed brow, he was still thinking on the fundraiser, but as Ginny seated herself back on the sofa, she said, “You never answered my question, you know.”

“Hmm?” Malfoy shook himself a little. “Pardon?”

Ginny tucked her legs beneath her and pulled the coverlet Malfoy had given her over her lap. It was bloody chilly in these dungeons, and that despite that it was the middle of summer. It must have been the damp, she thought absently, from being underground, so near the lake. “Yesterday, when I asked why you decided to do the restoration project. You never said. And I sort of thought, at the time, that you didn’t want to work with me, but now I’m beginning to think that impression was wrong.”

“Really?” Malfoy’s eyes glinted impishly. “What changed your mind?”

“Well, you did say you’ve wanted to kiss me since you were fifteen, so I rather think that maybe you didn’t mind working with me, after all.”

“You’ve answered your own question.” Draco cleared his throat. If Ginny was not mistaken, his cheeks had actually gone a bit pink. Was he…blushing? “The idea of working with you did not, in fact, dissuade me from working on this project. It may have, actually…given me some incentive.”

Ginny did not bother to hide her delight from her face. “Draco Malfoy. You volunteered for this project to get in my pants.”

“Yes, well, you’re doing it for publicity,” Draco pointed out, “so we both make a very charitable pair, don’t you think?”

“Oh.” Ginny froze with a sticky bun halfway to her mouth. “Oh. Malfoy. I think I know what we can do for the fundraiser! And it shouldn’t take any time at all to put together.”

Draco crossed his arms over his chest, looking surprised. “That came out of nowhere.”

“Actually, the whole getting-into-my-pants thing gave me the idea.”

“Sweet Circe,” he muttered. “Why do I have a feeling I’m not going to like this idea?”

Ginny turned a mischievous look on him. “You’ll love it. Remember, you said yourself yesterday, people love seeing the alumni involved, evoking old school memories and such. That’s all we have to do. Get some of the alumni involved.”

“Any alumni in particular?”

Ginny finally took a bite of her sticky bun, quite pleased with herself. “Only the most eligible bachelors,” she said, through a mouth full of pastry.

Draco groaned.

Five days later, Draco found himself ensconced in a small chamber just off the Great Hall. It was, he thought, the same chamber McGonagall had put them in when they were First Years, waiting to be Sorted. Back then, he’d been more nervous than he’d ever been in his entire life, though he’d hidden it all beneath sneering bravado.

Today, he was not nervous, but he still wanted out of this little chamber as fast as possible. If only to get away from all the tossers he was surrounded by.

“Are we supposed to pin this to our shirts or something?” Anthony Goldstein asked, holding up the laminated sign he’d been given, depicting a large, script-like number 2.

Draco resisted the urge to roll his eyes. This git had been in Ravenclaw? “I think you can just hold it.”

“Or you could pin it to your forehead, Goldstein,” Seamus Finnegan quipped. “You might get more bids if your ugly mug is hidden.”

“Ha ha,” Goldstein said dryly.

The chamber was full of about twenty different blokes, all alumni from Draco’s school days. A good number of them were from Draco’s same year, which made sense, he thought sourly. Mid-twenties, prime eligible bachelor-age.

Ginny’s idea, of course, had been a simple, and, if he was forced to admit it, brilliant solution. Auction off the most desirable bachelors the Hogwarts Alumni had to offer. The lucky participants could win a date with the man of their choice—if they were willing to spend enough gold, anyway.

Across the room, Cormac McLaggen was bragging loudly to anyone who would listen that he was going to get the most bids. Draco wondered if he should tell him that it wasn’t the most bids that mattered, but the highest. Neville Longbottom was desperately trying to straighten his bow tie, and Seamus Finnegan was now engaged in a loud contest with Lee Jordan over, by the sound of it, who could tell the seediest joke.

It was no wonder they were all still bachelors, Draco thought even more sourly.

He was staying out of it all. The chamber had, at least, been furnished better than it had been when they were First Years. Draco sat in a cushy armchair near the back of the room. Oddly enough, this put him right beside the one other person in the room who was trying to stay out of the crowd—Harry Potter himself. Quite a bit more eligible now than he was a few months ago.

Potter was combing his hands through his hair, which refused to lie flat upon his head. “Why am I here again?” he muttered.

“Are you joking?” Draco looked incredulously from him to his nutter friend, Ginny’s brother, Ron. “Is he joking?”

Weasley was grinning from ear to ear. “Harry,” he said, “you know you’re going to get the highest bids out of everyone here, right?”

“You’re probably going to make Hogwarts more money than the rest of us combined,” Draco said, trying not to let on how annoyed he was by this. “I mean, you only saved the wizarding world, at least twice, you’re the new Head of the Auror Office, and you’re newly single. All those women out there that were crushed when you got married practically right out of school have hope again. Do you really not understand this?”

Weasley, still grinning at the blank look on Harry’s face, said, “Ah, he’s just modest.”

Draco snorted at that.

“What about you, Malfoy?” Weasley asked. “Worried at all?”

“Why should I be worried?” Draco drawled. “Because I’m an ex-Death Eater?”

“I was going to say because you’re a bit of a recluse these days.” Weasley crossed his arms over his chest.

“What are you even doing here, Weasley?” Draco demanded irritably. “Last time I checked, you’re no bachelor.”

“Just giving Harry some moral support.” Weasley clapped a now rather green-looking Potter on the back, hard. “Anyway, I mean it. Aside from your business dealings, you’re not much in the news these days.”

“It doesn’t matter what people know about him,” said a new voice. Draco and Weasley looked around. Blaise Zabini had sidled up to them, leaning over to check his hair in a mirror beside Weasley.

“Why’s that?” Weasley asked.

Zabini broke eye contact with his reflection long enough to throw Weasley a smirk. “Because he’s rich.” He straightened, smoothing his hair one last time. “When you’re loaded, Weasley, nothing else matters. Women will throw themselves at you.”

“It’s true,” Draco said.

“Isn’t that a bit…sad?” Potter asked. “Knowing a woman’s only dating you for your money?”

“Depends on the woman, Potter,” Zabini said breezily. “Personally, I’ve never had a problem with it.” He sauntered away from them.

“Like mother, like son,” Draco muttered. Potter and Weasley both murmured their assent.

The truth was, he was a bit nervous. Not that he really cared if anyone bid for him or not. He knew it didn’t really matter. Still, it could be humiliating, standing up on a stage in front of loads of people, only to have no one bid for him. He’d never live that one down in the press.

It wasn’t soon enough for Draco when Hannah Abbott finally appeared, calling for them all to line up according to their numbers, which indicated the order they would be auctioned off.

It was a long night. Draco was right about Potter; he garnered enough gold to build a whole new Hogwarts, if they wanted to. The winning bid, Draco was surprised to see, went to Pansy Parkinson. Draco hadn’t even realized she was there, and he wondered, sullenly, why she hadn’t waited and bid for him. Of course, the two of them went out for friendly dinners all the time, so he supposed it would be a bit of a waste for her.

Draco was number fourteen, so it was after nine o’clock by the time he took the stage. Overall, the experience wasn’t as bad as he thought it might be. He didn’t get any jeers; that in itself was a win. For a while, most of the bids were coming from a circle of three women, one who looked vaguely familiar but whom Draco didn’t think he knew, one who’d been in Slytherin, a couple years above him, and, lastly, Astoria Greengrass, who Draco had actually been on a couple of dates with a few years ago. He hoped dearly she wouldn’t win; there was a reason he’d stopped responding to her owls.

The older Slytherin dropped out of the bidding after a while, and then it was just down to Astoria and the other girl, who, Draco realized with great shock, was Luna Lovegood. It was only her dotty voice that clued him in; she looked nothing like he remembered. Of course, he hadn’t really paid her much attention in school, and the last time he’d really seen her was down in his basement Seventh Year, when they’d kept her captive down there. He sort of tried not to think about those memories, which maybe explained why he didn’t remember what she looked like.

Of course, given that was the last time he’d seen her, it begged the question—why the hell was she bidding for him?

They went back and forth a bit longer, Lovegood and Astoria, raising the bid by no more than a hundred galleons each time. Then Astoria threw out an absurdly large amount—nowhere near what Potter had gotten, but quite a bit larger than he’d expected anyone to bid for him.

Ah, bollocks, he thought, panic streaking through him. He didn’t really know what kind of money Lovegood might have, but he was pretty sure it was not enough to top Astoria.

But then—after only a brief pause—Lovegood called out a number that not only topped Astoria’s offer—it nearly doubled it.

Astoria looked furious. Draco was pretty sure she could’ve topped Lovegood’s bid, but she’d always been a bit of a miser, as he recalled. That was one of the things he hadn’t liked about her. And besides, with that bid, Lovegood had made it clear she wasn’t going to back down.

So to Draco’s immense relief—and confusion—the winning bid went to Lovegood. She looked quite pleased with herself as Draco descended the stage at the end of the Great Hall and, awkwardly, made his way over to her at the back of the crowd.

Bids were already going up for the next bloke, Zabini, by the time he reached her. Now that he could see her up close, she did not look all that different, he thought—her hair was a bit more styled than he remembered, but she still wore radish earrings and the weirdest hat he had ever seen.

“Er—hello. Luna,” he said, remembering to use her real name, and not Loony, at the last minute. “Er—”

“It wasn’t me,” she said at once.

Draco blinked. “What?”

She smiled. “I was only a proxy. I was bidding for Ginny.” She turned and dipped her chin in a nod behind her. “It’s her gold, you see.”

Draco twisted to peer in the direction Lovegood had indicated. Sure enough, Ginny Weasley stood in the back corner of the hall, arms crossed over her chest and a wide-brimmed hat upon her head, dipped low to hide most of her face.

“Oh,” said Draco, and he felt a bit foolish about the warmth that spread through him. He thought he might have been grinning like an idiot, but he also didn’t much care. “That—makes more sense.”

“Yes,” Luna agreed solemnly. “I’m already seeing someone.”

“Right.” Like that was the only reason she shouldn’t have bid for Draco on her own behalf. “Well. Thanks.”

Lovegood beamed at him. Taking his leave of her, Draco weaved his way through the rest of the crowd, most of which, back here, was made up of reporters and cameramen. As he finally broke free of them and approached Ginny, she raised the brim of her hat and winked at him.

“You could have just bid yourself, you know,” he said in lieu of a greeting.

“I could have,” she said, quite nonchalant, “but that would’ve spoiled everything. I’m hiding, you see.”

“I noticed,” Draco said, with a skeptical look at her hat. Ginny swatted his arm and he grinned, coming around to lean against the wall beside her.

“I already said I’d go out with you, remember?” he said, as they watched Blaise Zabini’s winning bid go to Romilda Vane. “You didn’t have to pay for me, Weasley.”

She scoffed. “Oh, it’s all for charity, anyway. I hadn’t made my usual hefty donation yet. And anyway—” She slanted a sideways gaze at him, her brown eyes sparkling “—now I know I have you for sure. In case you change your mind before I’m ready.”

Draco turned, leaning his shoulder into the wall, and bent down towards her. “Trust me, Weasley. I’m not going to change my mind.”

“And,” she added, leaning in, “now I get to set the terms of this date.”

She had the same look in her eye, Draco thought, that she’d had when she’d proposed this auction five days ago. He gave a playful groan. “Why do I think you’re going to make me do something I’d rather not?”

Ginny took a hold of his tie at his neck, gently tugging him even closer to her. “Would I do that to you, Malfoy?”

“Yes, Weasley,” he said, his voice low, “I rather think you would.”

Ginny smirked at him. Then she gave his tie another little tug, bringing him down to her, and kissed him.

It wasn’t a long kiss, and yet, before it was done, a dizzying flash erupted nearby, as a reporter caught them with her camera.

But judging by the satisfied smile on Ginny Weasley’s face, she didn’t care one bit. Neither did Draco.

He thought, maybe, he was done hiding what he wanted from the world.

THE END