Learning to Breathe

"You cheated!" she laughs, throwing the cards in her hand at him. He grins as he shakes his head.

"I didn't," he asserts, picking up the cards. They have been playing various card games ever since they returned to his room, and he finds that she is even better company than he'd originally thought she'd be.

"Oh yeah? Prove it."

"You know I can't!" he protests, gaping at her, amusement written across his features. She is still laughing at him, and her cheeks have rosy spots on them. They have been sitting next to the fire at her insistence; she claims that the only other warm spot in the room is his bed, and she blushes as she says it. Instantly he knows that she means it's only warm when they're both in it, so he says nothing else, and sits by the fire as she bids him to do.

He is crawling around on the floor, gathering the cards up in his hand, when she speaks again. "Happy Christmas, Draco." He stops where he is and turns to look behind him, where she is sitting with her legs tucked beneath her. The fire is behind her, and its warm glow makes her hair look as though it is aflame.

"Happy Christmas, Ginny." He turns back to the task at hand, not waiting to see her reaction to his calling her by her given name for the first time. When he has finished tidying up, he turns back to her.

"Thank you for letting me spend Christmas with you," she murmurs. "I thought I wanted to be alone this year, but I'm so glad I wasn't."

"Thank you for all of my gifts," he says quietly, meeting her gaze. It seems to him that she has returned part of his strength - at least while he's with her, he feels almost normal again.

"I hope you didn't think that the journal was stupid or anything," she says, averting her eyes to look at the flames. Suddenly it dawns on him that he knows what it was that she tucked under her arm downstairs - her own journal. This thought leads him to wonder what she writes about.

"It's not stupid. Do you keep one?" He asks, even though he already knows the answer. Her cheeks flush, but she nods. He wonders at her embarrassment.

"Yes, I do, although people tell me I shouldn't."

"Why not?" She turns to meet his eye.

"Do you remember your second year, when the Chamber of Secrets was opened?"

"Yes," he says, nodding. He knows that she is the one who opened the Chamber; his Father talked about it for weeks afterward.

"And you know that I opened it, right?"

"Yes."

"Did anyone ever tell you how that happened?" He frowns. Who would he know that knew about it, and would actually tell him?

"No, should they have?"

"I just thought that your father might have told you," she murmurs, looking down at her lap. His frown deepens.

"My father? What has he got to do with you opening the Chamber?"

"Remember the day in the bookshop that summer, right before the school year? The one where you and your father ran into me and my family and Harry?"

"Yes." He nods, and feels the heat creeping up his neck. He remembers that day well; remembers the day that the littlest Weasley took up for his enemy. There had been no one there to jump to his own defense, and seeing someone do it for Potter had made his blood boil. It incensed him even more that she was nothing but a little slip of a thing, but still she was not afraid of him.

"That day in the bookshop, your father dropped a book into my cauldron."

"What kind of book?" he asks, his heart speeding up a bit. He isn't entirely sure that he likes where this is going.

"A journal. It didn't belong to him, it belonged to a Muggle-born wizard by the name of Tom Riddle." Draco blinks at this. What would his father have been doing with a Muggle-born's journal?

"And?"

"Don't you know who Tom Riddle is, Draco?"

"No. Why, should I?" The way that she stares at him tells him that she thinks he should know.

"It was Voldemort's human name."

"What?" he asks, dumbstruck. "That can't be true."

"Which part?"

"Voldemort was a Mudblood? That's not true! My father never would have followed him if-" Something in her expression makes his voice die, and he feels lightheaded. "My father knew, didn't he?"

"They all knew," she whispered, nodding. "Every last one of them."

"They knew and they still followed him?" He takes several minutes to allow this to sink in before looking back up at her. "And the journal? What did it say?"

"It was empty."

"I don't understand."

"I didn't at first, either. I started to write in it, thinking that it was an ordinary journal, but when I wrote the first sentence, the ink sort of absorbed into the page, and then Tom answered me back."

"He what?"

"He answered me back. Whenever I wrote something, he'd write back to me and talk to me that way. He was very charming, and the more I wrote to him, the more he wrote back. It turns out that the more I wrote to him, the more I fed him, and he was able to control me because of it."

"Where were your friends and Potter when this happened?" he asks, indignant on her behalf. She shrugs.

"They were busy trying to figure out who the heir of Slytherin was."

"Let me guess: they thought it was Potter."

"Well, not at first. At first they thought it was you."

"What made them think it wasn't me?" he asks, not at all surprised by this revelation.

"Ron and Harry took some Polyjuice Potion and transformed into Crabbe and Goyle, then you led them into the Slytherin common room and talked to them." His eyes widen to the point of looking cartoonishly large, and he feels his throat constricting.

"I don't remember any of it," he admits, his hands beginning to tremble.

"I wouldn't expect you to," she says, shaking her head. "After that, they wondered if it was Harry."

"Did they ever find out who it was?"

"Tom."

"You almost died, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"Potter saved you, didn't he?" Always the bloody hero, he thinks bitterly.

"Yes."

"And after all that, you still keep a journal?"

"It's my closest friend, and I'm not willing to part with it. Besides," she says, struggling not to smile. "It doesn't answer me, so I think it's safe."

He is awed. Her acceptance of everything is incredible, and it makes him wonder what makes her tick. The fact that she doesn't hold his father's actions against him also makes him warm inside. The more that he hears about his father's extracurricular activities, the more he begins to think that maybe what he did wasn't so terrible, after all.

"Is that why you gave me one? Because you think I need a friend?" She looks troubled as he says this, and he tilts his head to one side to examine her as she thinks.

"Everyone needs someone," she says enigmatically. He wants to tell her that he doesn't need the journal to be his friend, because he has her. He doesn't speak the words aloud, though, because he doesn't want to appear too needy, and scare her away. He thinks that he may have already toed that line by asking her to stay again, and he doesn't want to cross it.

"But you have friends, and you keep one," he points out instead. She nods slowly, her expression filled with something that he can't comprehend.

"I can't tell my friends everything," she complains.

"Why not?"

"There are some things that they just wouldn't understand." He nods at this. He understands this feeling; the feeling that no matter how close you can get to someone, they will never really know you. "And besides that, there are some things that they just wouldn't want to know."

"Like what?"

She shrugs and a wry smile crosses her face. "Like my relationship with Tom. Keeping my journal, despite the fact that they think it's dangerous. The way I feel about some things."

"Your relationship with Tom?" he asks, his eyebrows raising.

"Don't make it sound like there was anything romantic about it," she chides gently. "There wasn't. I'm sure that he just thought that I was a silly little girl who was fortunate enough to know the people he wanted to get to. I just..." her voice trails off.

"You just what?" he prompts.

"Even if he was only pretending, he still listened to me, and talked to me, and gave me advice. It was nice to believe that someone cared about me for me, and not just because I was Harry's best friend's little sister."

He thinks about this for a moment in silence, and then: "I bet that your friends wouldn't understand this."

"What?"

"Us." She cocks her head slightly and gives him an openly curious look.

"How do you mean?"

"Last night, and today," he says, feeling his cheeks burn. "Right now."

"I expect you're right," she concedes finally. She reaches forward and surprises him by covering his hand with her own. When he looks up, the sincerity in her eyes washes over him like sunshine, flooding him with warmth. "They wouldn't understand, but that doesn't mean that we can't be friends."

"Do you consider me your friend?"

"Of course I do," she says, as if it's the most natural thing in the world. When she withdraws her hand, he wants to grab it back and never let it go. Instead he folds his fingers together stiffly in his lap. "You know, you're much easier to talk to than I would have ever imagined."

He supposes that this is because they've both been to dark places. He knows the manipulation that Voldemort was capable of, and now he knows that she was subjected to it. He remembers the darkness; the anger and betrayal he felt when he killed his father. He knows that one can't touch something like that and come out unscathed by it.

He wants to reciprocate the sentiment to her that she is easy to talk to, but he finds it difficult. It's not that she's not easy to talk to, it's simply that he finds it difficult to really talk to anyone these days. He's spent so much time in this tower since the war ended that the only person he really feels perfectly comfortable speaking to is himself. He supposes that that's why Dumbledore chose to put his room in the old Astronomy Tower; because he knew that Draco was destined for madness of some sort.

He watches her rise and take some things out of her bag, and head towards the loo. "I'm going to go take a shower."

When she's gone and the door is closed, and he is absolutely certain that she's beneath the spray of the hot water, he moves to her duffel bag and pulls out the journal. The spine is terribly creased and the book looks old, but if she's really had it for any length of time, that's to be expected.

He flips it open to a random page, and begins to read.

22^nd June

Harry is here, and he and Ron have been outside playing Quidditch all afternoon with Charlie and the twins. This is the first time that I've never been invited to play, and I think it's because they need some boy-time, if that even exists. Harry looks the same as ever. His green eyes are more beautiful now that the war is over and he has nothing to worry about, and his hair is still dark and wonderfully messy. Those are things that I don't expect will ever change. He is the same boy I used to like, but now I find that I have no feelings toward him that extend past friendship. How have things changed so quickly? I remember a time when I would have given my life just to have him favor me with a glance, and now I could really care less. Everyone here is happy, and I am happy too, I think. Hermione is supposed to be here in a few days, so the boys are trying to get jokes and pranks ready now. I don't know why they bother to hide them from her, she sees them anyway, and she knows about them. She isn't stupid.

Mum has been baking nonstop for two whole days, and the entire house smells of cakes and pies. It seems like every time we manage to eat one cake, she makes three more in its place. Dad has been trying to sabotage her for us by hiding the flour and sugar, but she just goes out and buys more and hides it herself. They are more affectionate towards each other these days, too, and it makes all of us feel better seeing them constantly hugging or touching (and even though Ron says it makes him sick to his stomach to see it, I know that he's secretly only jealous of them). We're all jealous of what they have, but we're happy they've managed to hold onto it in the wake of the war.

I've been thinking more and more about the things that happened during the war, and I can't help but think about him. He looked so empty. Things will not be the same at Hogwarts without Slytherin house, and definitely not without him and his goons. How will the school function without them? Where will the house rivalry and competitive spirit be during Quidditch, or for the house cup at the end of term? I'm not so sure that three houses is good for the school. What if we could rebuild Slytherin house...

Draco replaces the journal in her bag and goes back to sit in front of the fireplace. He knows that he shouldn't have invaded her privacy like that, but his curiosity was too great to bear. Now that he's had a taste, though, he wants to read more. He knows that she was referring to him, and he has a burning desire to know how much she's mentioned him in that book, even if just in passing.

He smiles to himself. Her writing has a bit of a melodramatic flair, but he likes it. He likes glimpsing her normality and her home life. Seeing it through her eyes is better than seeing it through his own - he knows that he is biased and has been brought up to look down on her. Looking through her eyes and learning through her words gives him the chance to feel the warmth and happiness she experiences, and for that he is grateful. She has given him another gift, even though she doesn't realize it

When she emerges from the loo, she is scrubbed clean and smells of sweet melons. She puts her dirty clothes in her duffel bag and lowers herself onto the floor next to him, penetrating his entire space with her scent, and it makes him lightheaded.

"You know," she begins, pulling a brush through her wet hair. "If you get tired of me and want me to leave, just tell me, and I'll go."

"Why did you spend Christmas with me?" he asks suddenly, turning to look at her. Her brush stops mid-stroke, and her eyes widen slightly.

"Because I wanted to."

"Is it just because you wanted company?"

She looks hurt. "No. I told you that I'd stayed away from home because I didn't want company, remember?"

"Then why?"

"Because I think you're interesting," she says, giving him a watery smile. "Because you can be fun, even if you don't think so. And because no one should be alone on Christmas." She pauses for a moment, waiting for him to respond. When he doesn't, she asks, "Is that a nice way of asking me to leave?"

"No, I don't want you to go."

"I won't, then." They regard each other in silence for a while, and finally he stands up.

"Are you ready for bed? I'm tired now." She nods and he helps her to her feet. She picks up her wand and casts a drying charm on her hair, which he arches an eyebrow at. She begins to turn down the covers on her side of the bed while he turns down the covers on his side.

"I didn't want to get your pillow wet," she explains. "I should have gotten my pillow and a warmer blanket from my room when we were down there, but I didn't think about it. Do you think we'll be warm enough?"

"We'll be fine," he reassures her, nodding. He watches her slide under the covers, and goes to the loo to change into his own pyjamas. When he comes back, the candles are still burning, and she is scribbling in her journal. She looks up and sees him coming toward the bed, and begins to put the book down, but he stops her.

"You don't have to stop on my account," he says quietly. "You don't even have to come to bed when I do - I'm not trying to order you around or control you, or anything."

"It'd feel weird not to go to bed when you do," she admits. "But if you don't mind my writing, I'd like to finish this. It will only take a minute, I promise."

"I don't mind," he says, shaking his head. He climbs into bed and turns his back to her before he pulls the covers up, wondering if she's going to write anything about him, and their two nights together. She finishes writing and puts the lights out, and pulls the covers up to her neck.

After several moments, he can feel her shivering from the cold, and he turns onto his back. "Are you all right?" he whispers into the darkness.

"Yes, I'm sorry. I don't mean to keep you awake."

"I do a fine job of keeping myself awake without your help," he quips softly. He is pleasantly surprised when she giggles.

"You sound like me."

"Do you always have trouble sleeping?"

"Not always, but more often than not."

"Just since the war?"

"Since I was a little girl," she admits. "Since the first time I saw a dragon up close."

"Really?" he knows that he sounds surprised, but he can't help it. The way that she's befriended him and the way that she leads her life has led him to believe that she's fearless.

"I got too close to it, and my hair caught on fire." He tries not to laugh, but he hears her exasperated sigh. "Go ahead and let it out. Everyone else laughs at me." At this, he snorts with laughter.

"I didn't think it was that funny!" she protests. He can almost see her frown, even in the dark, and he hears it in her voice.

"Sorry."

"No problem. Well, now you know one of my deepest, darkest secrets."

"Do I?"

"Not many people know about that one."

"Why not?"

"I was always too embarrassed of it. Only Mum, Dad, Charlie, and Bill know, because they were the only ones there when it happened, and I swore them to secrecy."

"So why did you tell me?" he asks curiously.

"I-" She swallows hard. "I don't know."

"I'm glad you told me," he admits. And he is glad; it's nice to be trusted so well. His chest swells a bit with the pride he feels at knowing something that only her parents and two of her brothers know.

"Me too," she says softly. They lay there for a while, and though she doesn't speak, he can tell that she is still not sleeping.

"Are you having trouble getting to sleep?" he whispers.

"A little."

"Do you need the draught?"

"No."

"We didn't take it last night, either of us."

"We didn't, did we?" She sounds a bit surprised at this. "But we both got to sleep pretty quickly, and we slept for a long time, just like when you take it."

He doesn't know what to tell her - doesn't know what to say, other than that he thinks it is because they were in each other's arms. He is afraid that that will sound stupid to her, so he remains silent.

"We're a right pair, aren't we?" she murmurs. He doesn't need to see her smile to know that it's there; he can hear it in her voice.

"How do you mean?"

"We both wanted to spend Christmas alone, and we wound up spending it together. We even managed to have a good time of it, too. Who would ever think it - you and I, friends?"

"I know," he admits, feeling his lips curve into a smile. "But then again, I always did like surprising people, remember?"

"I remember."

He thinks about what he's just said, and he wonders if it came out correctly. To him, it sounds as though he's comfortable with announcing their friendship to the school, and at this point, he's nowhere near comfortable about it. Announcing their friendship would require several steps that he is not prepared to take - letting the other students know that he is alive, talking to them, and sharing her with them.

He is especially not ready to share her yet, and he finds that somewhat disconcerting.

"Goodnight, Draco," she whispers. He can feel her moving on the bed, and his heart thumps loudly in his chest when he feels her move a bit closer. He wishes that she would ask him to hold her again, but he fears that that's hoping for too much.

"Goodnight, Ginny," he whispers back. He rolls back into his previous position, with his back to her. Silence fills the room for a long time, and he is about to move when she beats him to it.

He struggles not to move when she cuddles up to his back. He can feel her pressed against him, and his pulse roars in his ears like the tide. It is so loud that he's almost afraid she can hear it. She is so close that he can feel her breath on the back of his neck.

He considers this interesting development. She hasn't asked him to hold her, but she's instigated contact with him. He knows that she is cold, but he also knows that she'd be a lot warmer if he had his arms around her. Before he can think too much on it, he rolls over to face her and opens his arms.

To his overwhelming delight, she moves into them immediately.

He holds her close and closes his eyes, savoring the feel of her. It's a strange sort of familiarity that washes over him as they lie like this. It feels like a lover's embrace, though he laughs silently at that thought. They are the farthest thing from lovers that he could possibly imagine.

Almost immediately he hears her breathing steady, and knows that she's fallen asleep. He is comforted by this, and he falls asleep, too.

When Ginny opens her eyes, she is disappointed to find that Draco is not in the bed with her. She sits up and rubs her eyes, and that is when she hears the water running in the bathroom. She hurries out of bed and dresses before he can finish his shower, and then stokes the fire.

She brushes her wild hair and pulls it up into a loose ponytail just as he exits the bathroom. She turns and feels her eyes widen; he is wearing nothing but a towel wrapped loosely around his waist. He doesn't seem to notice her, though, and heads to his dresser to pick out his clothes for the day. She takes in his dripping hair, and is a little surprised to see that when it's wet, it reaches just past his shoulders. She wonders if he's let it grow out on purpose, or if he just hasn't bothered having it cut.

He is skinnier than she remembers ever seeing him. She smirks to herself as she thinks about the way he's eaten the last two days. If he keeps eating like that, she knows that he won't be so bony for very long. She loses herself in this thought, and only comes to her senses when she realizes that he's about to drop his towel to begin dressing. She sees the top of his bum before she clears her throat.

"Hey," she says, trying to hide her amusement. He whirls around and clutches the towel to himself. She giggles. "I'm awake."

"Sorry," he says. He is mortified. He should have checked to see if she was still sleeping, but he forgot for a moment that she was still there. "I'm sorry." He takes off running into the bathroom and slams the door, and she bursts into raucous laughter. When he emerges, she has moved to the bed and is lying face down. He can see her body shaking, and pushes down his embarrassment long enough to sit beside her.

"Are you all right?" he asks, worried that he has scarred her for life, or something equally as devastating.

"No," she mumbles. He frowns, and then it dawns on him. She's still laughing. Slowly a smile spreads across his face, and he starts chuckling, too. At this, her laughter is released and it fills the room. For the second time, they share a laugh so hard that they are crying by the time they are finished.

"Better now?" he asks, grinning.

She sits up and brushes the loose strands of hair away from her face. Her cheeks are rosy and her face is flushed, and he thinks that she is beautiful this way. "I hope you're going to tell me that you just forgot that I was here."

"You mean you didn't enjoy my little strip tease?" he gasps, feigning astonishment. She giggles.

"It's not that you're not attractive, or anything," she begins, holding her hands up in mock surrender. He arches an eyebrow, his heart fluttering at the compliment.

"But?"

"Exactly!" she laughs. His mouth drops open, and he laughs, too.

"Wicked," he says, shaking his head. Her dimple is back, and he tries his best not to stare at it.

"Don't I know it."

"Wench," he mutters good-naturedly, turning his back to her. He has his socks in his hand and is about to bend over to put them on when she surprises him and loops her arms around his neck in a hug. She squeezes gently.

"We really should do this more often," she says, half-laughing while she speaks. He reaches his empty hand up and touches one of her arms, giving it a gentle squeeze.

"We will," he says decisively. He is somewhat startled when he feels her rest her chin on his shoulder.

"Are you tired of me yet?"

"Not remotely."

"What shall we do today, then?"

"Do you have something already in mind?" he asks, feeling lost when she pulls away from him and reclines on the pillow she uses instead. She folds her arms behind her head and stares up at the ceiling.

"Not really. It's strange," she begins, wearing a puzzled look. "When I'm downstairs around everyone else, I'm always looking for excuses to get away and get out of the tower. Up here with you, I feel as though I could stay here all day and never tire of it. Why do you suppose that is?" she asks, turning to look at him.

He shrugs, though her words make him ache. The longer she stays with him, the more he grows attached to her. He knows that this is foolish and will end badly, but he can't stop himself. He has just under two weeks before the start of the new term, and he wants her with him for every possible moment of their break. He knows that when her housemates return, he will lose her to them, and that thought makes his blood run cold.

"I don't know," he says finally, pulling his socks on, and then turning to her. He decides to be daring this morning, and so he takes a deep breath as he reclines and uses the area just above her knees as his pillow. She doesn't seem surprised or upset by this in the least, and he wonders why even as he thanks whatever deities exist for it. "Maybe it's because your friends are all goody-goodies, and you're attracted to bad boys."

She snorts with laughter. "I expect you're right," she says, sighing melodramatically. He grins at her. "But you know, I realized something this morning."

"Don't tell me that you finally noticed how much wittier I am than all of those prats you live with," he says, waggling his eyebrows. She giggles again, and it fills him with light. He realizes that he will do anything to make her laugh and smile like that.

"Well, that too. No, I was just going to say that I've talked more to you in the last week than I've spoken to anyone else in the last month."

"I know," he says gravely. "I can't get you to shut up." She gasps, then removes the pillow from beneath her head and chucks it at him. He laughs and staves off her next attack with his hands.

"Pillock," she says, poking her tongue out at him. He wonders at the ease with which they interact this morning - is it because of their talk last night? Could it be due to spending the last two nights in each other's arms? He can't put his finger on the exact moment that brought them to this point, but he is thankful for it nonetheless.

"But you like me that way," he says, sitting up.

"Unfortunately enough for me, I do," she admits, smiling. She sits up as well and pulls her knees up to her chest.

"So you just want to stay up here all day, with me?"

"Can you think of anything better to do? And so help me, if you say tickle the pear again, I will have to hex you again."

He smiles at this. "What about eating?"

"The house elves can bring us food, can't they?"

"They always have before," he says, nodding.

"Then by all means, Master Malfoy," she says, bowing to him. "Ring for our breakfast trays!"

"You would have made an excellent aristocrat," he mumbles, grinning to himself as he rises to summon the house elves. "Ordering people around the way you do."

"I beg your pardon!" she protests. "I said please!" She watches as he tugs the small gilt rope that hangs beside the fireplace.

"Merely a formality," he teases. He has to duck to miss the pillow that subsequently flies across the room, aimed very accurately at his head. When the house elf shows up, he requests breakfast for the both of them. "And while you're at it, just bring our lunch and dinner up at the adequate times, as well."

Her brain is muddled beyond belief as she hears this. The old Malfoy is back, whether he knows it or not - he's just improved on what he used to be. Where there used to be only anger and contempt, now there is also kindness and compassion. She can tell by the way he treats the house elf - not as his inferior, but as someone who is doing him a favor. The thought makes a silly smile appear on her face.

"What?" he asks, still grinning at her. She pats the empty place on the bed beside her, and he sits down where she indicates.

"We're having breakfast in bed," she says happily. He laughs at her and shakes his head.

"Breakfast in bed is typically taken while you're still in bedclothes and beneath the covers." She frowns at this.

"I'm not going to get back into my pyjamas, but we can get back under the covers." She jumps up and dives beneath the coverlet, giggling as she does so. "I've never had breakfast in bed."

"I used to all the time, during the summers when I was home." He slips under the covers with her.

"What was it like?" she asks curiously. "Did they bring you champagne with breakfast? Did you have a tray that had a magazine thing on the side? When you wanted the tray gone, did you just ring for them to come and take it away?" He laughs at all of her questions, but before he can answer them, the house elves arrive with their food. Ginny lifts the lid from her plate and nearly squeals with delight. The elves have brought her pancakes with bacon and lots of syrup.

"Let me guess," he says, lifting the lid of his own plate. "Your favorite?"

"Of course," she says, taking her first bite of food. Her eyes roll upward and she whimpers. "I would never tell my Mum this, but the house elves' pancakes are so much better than hers!"

"It's hard to outdo the house elves at almost anything," he concedes, beginning to eat. She is silent while she finishes eating, and he finds that he even enjoys silence around her. It is an amiable silence; one with no pressure to speak. When they finish with their meal, the house elves take their trays away. Ginny lays back on the bed and he does the same.

They face each other, and she smiles. "The only bad thing about eating is that is always makes me sleepy."

"I understand," he says, stifling a yawn.

"Shall we take a morning nap?" she suggests.

"All right." She closes her eyes, and he does the same. He is almost asleep when he feels her thread her fingers through his. It startles him, but he does not open his eyes. He is beginning to understand that after going so long without it, they both need the physical contact. In his case, the need for it is so great that he finds it almost painful when they're not touching.

He understands with perfect clarity that they are helping one another heal.