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She arrived on a Thursday, three months after the conclusion of his trial.
A tingle raced down his spine as the gate opened, a person crossing through the boundary of his property. The magical wards he’d painstakingly installed informing him of a visitor. An unexpected visitor, but then all visitors these days were unexpected.
In the wake of war, Draco had given everything up. His family name, his family, a sizeable portion of his wealth (although he'd kept enough for a reasonable standard of living, even repentant he wasn't prepared to be destitute). All considered worthless now. The heroes had been glorified and he'd slunk into the shadows.
Potter’s testimony of how Draco had refused to identify him at the Manor had bought him his freedom. Days spent shackled in a draughty ministerial chamber with the Wizengamot recounting his many failures had culminated in his release. He was grateful to the annoying git, truly. Though he'd discovered that one could feel gratitude towards someone without becoming their sycophantic fan.
One observer of those uncomfortable days had been a radiant point of light. She’d smiled across from the viewing gallery. The messy haired saviour of the wizarding world directly across from her as he gave his saving testimony. Draco had imagined that her gaze had lingered on him, he was positioned halfway between them. But he must have been mistaken. No one could be interested in a disgraced Death Eater when they had the golden boy eating out of their hand.
And so, with his chains removed he'd retreated to his solitude, immersing himself in a world of potions and books. Stable and ordered and… and… desperately lonely. Loneliness was a small price to pay for security.
Flickers of red and gold danced confidently down his garden path. Hair alive in fire, untamed and flying free. A vision of Gryffindor bravery striding towards his door. As stunning now as the day she'd started at Hogwarts.
He had been twelve the first time he noticed her. Really noticed her.
The first years had shuffled in behind Professor McGonagall displaying a mixture of nervous and wondering faces. They'd lined up against the far wall to await their fate.
Draco had sat surrounded by excitable students on the Slytherin table as they’d cheered new recruits and booed every time Gryffindor was announced.
He’d known who she was of course, even before she'd scowled as her name was announced. Flame red hair flung over one shoulder. A confident stride to the rickety chair. A cheeky wink at her twin brothers who were poised ready to welcome her, before she’d pulled the tatty brown hat down over her eyes.
A Weasley. Pureblooded, but poor. Blood traitors to the core. His father’s sneer whenever they’d passed the large family in Diagon Alley made it clear he would never consider them equals. But poor was not how Draco would describe the vision of fire that danced before him. She was rich, rich in life.
Draco had clung to that pureblooded title as he’d held his breath. Could she? If only that radiant witch would have defied her family expectations. He'd have welcomed her in Slytherin, stared down any who would have mocked her. But it was not to be. Gryffindor had been duly called and Draco had half-heartedly joined in with the mock jeers.
And now she was here, at his home. Her pastel blue robes rustled in the breeze as she paused in front of his door. Bottom lip caught between her teeth. Wand held loosely at her side.
In fourth year, she’d appeared on the arm of Neville Longbottom at the Yule Ball. A vision in pale blue tulle, the flames of her hair hanging in loose curls that flickered in the candlelight. Draco had longed to ask her to dance, but with Pansy on his arm and a crowd of protective Gryffindor's hovering around her, he’d lacked the courage. He always lacked the courage.
Besides he lived with the fact that to do so would have meant facing the inevitable dressing down from his parents. She was not the right sort of connection. It would have been delivered in private of course, a howler was uncouth. But it was yet another nail in that impossible dream.
She tapped three times on his door. The sound reverberated off the walls. Draco clenched his fists to still his shaking hands and headed towards the summons.
In the darkness of his sixth year, one flickering flame had remained. Quidditch! As he’d hovered high above the hoops looking for a glint of gold his eyes had been inextricably drawn to her. Ginevra Weasley resplendent in her crimson chaser robes. Red hair streaming behind her, a quaffle tucked under her arm, scoring triumphantly and repeatedly.
Then, in the oppressive silence of the room of hidden things as he’d desperately worked on the vanishing cabinet, visions of a future he could have had if he'd made better choices had swam before his tired eyes.
A deep breath and he pulled the creaking door open.
“Malfoy,” she greeted with a curt nod.
“Ginev…” he started to reply.
Her hand flew up, wand gripped between her fingers. “Don't,” she snapped. “I detest that name.”
“Ms Weasley then.” He reverted to pureblooded manners, drilled into him from childhood. “How can I assist you?”
Draco had switched sides in seventh year, secretly assisting the light whilst lurking in shadows.
Sauntering towards screams that echoed off stone walls. The briefest of glances at the glowing witch who’d lain twitching on the stone floor, the aftermath of that curse wracked through her.
An announcement that Headmaster Snape required Alecto Carrow in his office. He hadn't. Draco had mastered the occlumency required to perfect a lie the year before. Alecto’s scrunched up eyes implied she might not have fully believed him, but still she’d left.
The scowling witch on the floor had rejected his proffered hand. She’d spat her response, not needing or wanting his help.
Draco's heart had thumped against his ribs even as he’d nonchalantly commented on the demands Snape makes on his staff.
Her searching gaze as she'd scrambled to her feet had caused fiendfyre to race across his cheeks.
Her tongue had flicked out, wetting her lips. And then, without any warning, her face had been inches from his. For several seconds neither had moved, then she'd pressed her lips to his own. The briefest of kisses, but the tingle left in their wake had lasted for days. Even now Draco would trace his fingertips across his bottom lip and pretend he could still feel her. One kiss, but it had brought with it the hope of many more. A hope that he knew could never be more than a dream.
She stared up at him, stood on the threshold of his home. Her presence almost unbelievable.
“Why did you do it?” she asked.
“Do what?” he drawled, forcing his tone into his characteristic sneer to hide the way his stomach lurched with a marauding niffler disturbing its contents.
“Help me?” she demanded. Her face was set with a determined frown. “In my sixth year, your seventh,” she explained as though talking to a toddler, as though he didn't understand.
“We were on the same side.” He shrugged.
Her brow creased and then her lips turned up at the edges in the beginnings of a smile.
“Since when?”
“Start of my seventh,” he started the explain, the bile rising in the back of his throat. “There was an incident… at the manor.” His professor hanging there had chased any thoughts that he had been on the right side to beyond the horizon.
He took a step back, turning to flee ger presence, he didn't deserve this conversation, her look of compassion.
"Call me Ginny," she told him as she grabbed his hand. He'd treasure that contact forever if he could.
"But Potter," he protested weakly, staring at their laced fingers.
"Harry?" She laughed. "We broke up before he went gallivanting on his salvation mission."
"I thought..." They were together, he was sure of it.
"You thought wrong!"
The final battle over, the Dark Lord defeated, Draco had huddled with his parents on one side of the great hall. They'd won or lost depending on which way you looked at it. His father's white face made it clear he knew where he was heading.
Draco had clenched his fist around the hem of his cloak. Relieved it was over, finally over. Even Azkaban was better than the lurking snake that had stalked his home.
Ginny's tears had rolled freely down her cheeks as she’d knelt at her brother's bedside. Draco's stomach had revolted at the sight. If he'd made better choices, then maybe he could have saved her this pain.
Her eye had caught his, she’d managed a glimmer of a smile, beckoning him with the briefest twist of her head. He'd shaken his head in response. It had been a step too far.
“Why didn't you stop me?” Another question. Her tongue wetted her lips.
She took a step towards him. Her gaze flicked down for a moment.
Draco swallowed, a bludger caught in his throat.
“I…” he started, but then paused. How could he explain all that had happened, all that he wished had happened instead?
Her hand came up, a fingertip traced the outline of his jaw. His heart stuttered.
“You?” she prompted. Wand now pocketed, her other hand grasped the hem of his robe. He risked taking a step closer.
She took that as the answer he'd intended and with a measure of bravery he could only dream of, pushed up on tiptoes and captured his lips in a kiss. A true kiss. No whisper of lips. No flight from his presence. Just warm breath mingling. His fingers tangled in the flames of her hair.
Her tongue brushed his. Caramel and chocolate. The rich scent of freshly mown grass assailed his nostrils. Her hands travelled down his torso leaving a trail of fire in their wake.
Flushed pink and panting she eventually broke away.
They stood staring at each other either side of the doorstep. Her dark brown eyes flecked with gold searched his face.
"Draco," she murmured.
His name hung in the air. An invitation.
"Ginny," Draco said. "I think you should come in." He stepped to the side and gestured past himself to the door of the living room.
And with a dazzling smile, Ginny Weasley accepted his offer.