The Caretaker Wife

"The past does not repeat itself, but it rhymes."

-- Mark Twain

Draco scowled. The letter in his hand was telling him precisely everything he didn't want to hear at that moment. He had his hands plenty full trying to deal with the aftermath of a massive war. Yes, it was three whole months ago, but people underestimate the amount of time it takes to heal from wounds that are inflicted by a full-blown war, both physically and emotionally. Most of the invalids had been moved from the East Wing of the Manor and were back at St Mungo's. The one good thing about a war like this was that after all was said and done, there were very few injured. Especially since the Death Eaters were famous for their penchant for the killing curse. Once all the healers were able to focus their energies on their patients instead of also trying to fight, things were cleaned up rather quickly. All that was left for the survivors to do was to arrange burials and get on with their lives.

Everything had returned back to normal, or, as normal as things were ever going to get. Draco went to sleep in the same bed he had slept in for the past six years, although when he woke up, the left side of his bed was pristine, not a fiber out of place in the expensive sheets. He dressed as normal, in his rather colorless clothing, but found himself studiously ignoring the other dresser taking up a large amount of space in his room. He ate breakfast as usual, barely tasting the food, focused instead on that morning's issue of the Prophet and his coffee, the reviews sitting untouched on the chair beside his. The house staff, human and otherwise, had gotten especially adept at removing things without having their presence noticed. It would take a blind man to miss the expression on his face every time he was reminded of his late wife. The fact that his habits regarding her hadn't disappeared, the removal of the theater reviews, the pouring of an extra cup of coffee, all those things angered him and yet he continued to do them. For some reason, in his mind, the cessation of such activities would be akin to forgetting. And that was not allowed.

The only thing that was out of place in the Malfoy ancestral home, besides Daphne being gone, was the fact that every now and then he would catch a flash of red out of the corner of his eye. Not the scarlet of fresh-spilled blood, but rather the fiery orange of someone blessed with that most volatile hair color. Of course, only one family was known for that hair color: the Weasleys. Yes, the youngest Weasley was still living in his house. Truth be told, he barely noticed. The Manor was certainly large enough for anyone to get lost in easily. It had been built in the time when all the important families had nine children or more. It was a precautionary measure, one would never know which child would live past infancy, or which would kill themselves in some fool's errand involving slaying a dragon to win a rather disinterested damsel's hand. It was simply easier to have too many children than too few. Ginny hadn't come right out and asked him if she could stay, and he had no objection to it, so no move was made to get her out of the yellow room. He had an inkling that she spent most of her time in the nursery with his children, and he was secretly glad for it. He assumed that she loved children, she'd have to at least be very good with them, seeing as how she had six brothers, and he had been told once that children had a way of healing a broken heart without the 'patient' ever noticing. One day, you were supposed to wake up and realize that everything was going to be okay. Draco scoffed at such conviction. That was ridiculous, even for a suggestion from his bed-cousin. And she was notorious for stupid ideas.

But back to the letter in his hand. The main reason Draco had very little idea of what was going on in his household at this time was because he had spent the past three months locked up in varying rooms of varying sizes with a varying degree of people of varying importance from varying countries discussing the varying problems facing the Wizarding World at large. With the downfall of Voldermort for the second and final (they hoped) time, the world stage was now open to any number of copy-cats. And they were sure there would be a few people desperate and insane enough to believe that they were the next avatar of darkness. If the whole situation wasn't so desperate, Draco would have laughed and brushed the whole affair under the carpet. It was what he had been taught to do, from his earliest memories. If you can't change something, ignore it. If it still insists on pushing into your life, destroy it. Well, this would probably be classified under the "destroy it" half of his father's timeless wisdom. It had been a stressful three months, almost as bad as when the war was actually going on. As one of the last surviving members of the British Wizarding aristocracy, Draco had been summoned to countless meetings, debating with the heads of state from every conceivable country. Could world peace be achieved, within reason? What precautions should be taken to make sure that something of this magnitude never happened again? The first few times, he had actually thought that he was asked to attend these meetings because the people there valued his input. In reality, all they valued was the clout his name wielded within a certain few circles, and his intimate knowledge of the Dark Arts. The fact that he now had an impressive scar bisecting the left half of his face, courtesy of his own dear father, didn't hinder the imposing figure he now cut. At twenty-seven years of age, Draco had finally grown into the man his adolescent self had promised in every delicate plane of skin. Tall, and muscled, as much from simple hard labor as from Quidditch or working out, his longish white-blond hair pulled back in a simple tail down his back, with his stormy gray eyes brooding and overshadowed by his strong brows, his austere face was always a sober reminder of the pains one can endure and still exist. The fact he still wore his wedding ring didn't hurt either.

Now he was sitting in his study, his black silk shirt sleeves rolled up, the top button of his collar undone, a half-drunk glass of Firewhiskey sitting on the table before him. He was just getting able to deal with the fact that it felt like someone was wrenching a knife somewhere in the vicinity of his heart whenever he looked at the portrait of his late wife. And now this? If he was inclined to believe that there was a God, he would have a few stern words to say to this man upstairs. Draco did not appreciate having his life trifled with like this. Scanning the letter in his hand again, he sighed, shaking his head at no one in particular. Any vain hope he might have harbored that the contents of this letter would have changed in the few minutes he allowed himself for silent cursing had vanished with that careless perusing. No, everything was exactly the same and yet completely different thanks to that piece of parchment in his hands. His frown deepening, Draco reached out, the letter falling to his lap, and picked up his glass of whiskey. Downing it all in one fast gulp, he blinked ineffectually at the tears that sprang to his eyes in response to the fierce burning in his throat thanks to that rash gesture of defiance. Passing a hand over his face, the skin of his scar slick and smooth beneath his fingers, he stood up, setting his glass down on the little table beside him a bit too forcefully, and began to pace. He didn't know if this perpetual walking back and forth between one spot and another actually helped him concentrate or anything, but it was more of a habit than anything else. Besides, his father paced when he was upset over something, and so it was an affectation that he had picked up over the years.

The only sound in the room for a long time was the steady crackle and pop of the fire dancing merrily in the corner of the room, and the soft 'thump' of his booted feet on the hardwood flooring. Pausing for a second to contemplate the floor beneath his feet, Draco stood with his hands shoved deep in his trouser pockets, his eyes glazing over as he stared down at the patterns in the varnished wood. If he looked closely, underneath the new polish applied almost daily by dedicated servants, he could see a track worn into the boards themselves. That was probably thanks solely to himself, and to the impossibly hard decisions he had to make over the years the war had lasted. He had inherited the estate early on in the war; after he had killed his father. Now, most people would be shocked to find that Draco really didn't care about whether or not his father was dead, and that he cared even less about the fact that he had died at his own hand. He hadn't complained about being used for his father's plans for greatness and glory for the vast majority of his life, but when it came right down to it, Draco was his mother's son, not his father's. And he certainly didn't like being offered up as a sacrifice to the Dark Lord when Lucius messed up. That was how Draco had acquired that impressive scar that dragged at his cheek and split his left eyebrow in half. He had been dueling with his father. That's how the nobility deal with matters of honor around here. None of this ridiculous poisonings or some such drivel. No, you would face your opponent at either ends of a long cleared space, and you would try to slash the other one to death. His father had insisted on swords, knowing Draco had paid more attention in school than he ever had. When Lucius was at Hogwarts, he was building an empire of sorts, recruiting as many people as possible to his cause. Draco was just antagonizing Harry Potter. Trusting in his age and presumed ability to wield a sword, Lucius was astonished to find Draco winning. It had been hard; harder than he'd ever admitted to anyone, even Daphne, to whom he told everything. Draco had spent most of his life practically worshiping his father. To have him offer his own son like he was worth nothing was probably the one thing that finally convinced him that there was nothing left for him with the people he associated with. Even Draco being the one who led the team to break Lucius out of Azkaban apparently hadn't been enough for his father. Well, Draco showed him. It had started to rain by the end, a light drizzle that quickly turned into a furious lashing of water from the heavens. Draco welcomed it, in the time the duel was drawing to a close, since it hid the tracks of the tears that were coursing down his face, the salty moisture burning in the open cut on his face.

There were no healers around after the duel, so he had to heal himself, doing a rather botched job in the process. In fact, there weren't even any spectators. No one around to challenge the soaked young man, blood coursing out of a myriad of wounds all over his body as he stumbled away from the scene of the carnage he had wrought, no one to inquire as to why he had to stop, holding onto a tree to support himself as great sobs wracked his thin frame, heaving dryly as the whole truth of the matter came crashing down upon him. Thankfully, he had become numb enough over time that the memory simply made his pale face even paler, more blank, his eyes more empty. He had a feeling that, more than anything else, convinced the people at Grimmauld Place that he was in deadly earnest about joining the Order of the Phoenix. With his input, and his knowledge of the Death Eater's plans, defenses, tactics, he had shortened the fighting time by years, or so they said. All Draco could manage was a small shake of his white-blond head. Maybe so, but the cost was more than they all could reckon.

A sudden creaking sound interrupted his morbid thoughts, and his head shot up, his whole body immediately tense, his hand reaching for his wand behind him. The staff knew to knock at every door before opening it, and there was no one else in his house who was hale enough to go walking through the myriad of corridors. He waited with bated breath for the bloody door to just open already, so that he could chastise the child who opened it or blast away the remaining Death Eaters who thought to gain glory by taking out the biggest traitor their cause had ever known.

A curious head poked through the open door, and Draco found himself face-to-face with the pale visage of one Ginny Weasley. "Oh," she whispered, her mouth forming a small 'O' of surprise. She stood like that, half in and half out of the door while deciding what to do with herself, and with Draco, who was still standing like a deer about to burst into flight. "I'm sorry, I didn't know anyone was in here," she continued, her voice growing stronger and more confident as she moved forward into the room, clutching what would appear to be a bathrobe around her slim frame, a tentative smile on her face. Draco caught himself, and pulled his composure together again, a politely distant expression settling over his face as he stepped back slightly, one arm spreading out in welcome.

"It's quite alright," he replied, out of habit again. Really, it wasn't alright, he wanted to be alone with his pity-party. "I was just pacing." Truth be told, he was thrown off by the slight redhead's appearance. He had managed to avoid her these past few months, but he should have known that it wouldn't last forever.

He stood awkwardly in the center of the room, not sure what to do with himself, and so he resorted back to the one thing he knew for certain: when upset, drinking is the best way to deal with your problems. So, he turned back to the table on which the silver tray with the glass decanter of Firewhiskey was sitting. Pouring himself a fresh glass, he motioned to one of the chairs strewn around the room. "Sit," he ordered without thinking, another automatic reaction. Pausing slightly, he shook his head at himself and amended his statement. "If you want to, that is." It sounded lame to his ears, and he flinched mentally. Oh well, there was no use crying over spilt milk. He turned back to her, his glass held loosely near his lips, his gray eyes roaming over her. It wasn't meant to seem predatory or in any way suggestive, but he was pondering whether or not his was a good idea. Blinking suddenly to clear his thoughts, he motioned back to the bottle. "Want one?"

Ginny turned, having been looking at the maps hung on the wall, and smiled slightly. "Sure, why not?" she asked, and turned back to the map in font of her. She was currently examining Europe, staring at the little colored dots that were placed seemingly randomly around the map. Having poured her a glass, Draco walked over to where she was standing, glass in hand.

"Here," he said softly, and held it out for her to take. When she did, her fingers brushed against his own, and he was startled to feel the intense head emanating from her slight hands. It had been too long since he had actually felt another human being's warmth. The thought startled him, and he found himself staring at her. Rolling his eyes mentally, he turned back to the map. "Relatives," he said.

Her head rose. "Pardon?" she asked, frowning.

He indicated the map. "It shows my relatives. Well, the ones that are still alive, anyway." He pointed to a dark green dot in the lower left part of England. "That's me." It was depressingly sparse, the concentration of dots. There were a few in Romania, and one or two in France, but the rest were pretty much nonexistant. He didn't like having the constant reminder of just how quickly his line would die out, but it had always been hanging there, in that very same place, for his entire life so far. He just didn't have the heart to get rid of it.

Ginny was examining the map with renewed interest, her Firewhiskey seemingly abandoned, her mouth moving silently as she sounded out the names of the places where Draco's family still lived. He allowed himself another slow perusal of her body. She looked much like she had done when they were still at school together. Of course, there were a few differences: for one thing, she had filled out quite nicely into a young woman, gone was the gawky girl with the ink splotch on her cheek. There was also something else about the way she held herself that reminded him of Daphne. It irritated him beyond measure, but there was also a bit of wistful longing in him when he watched her. She still had the same dusting of freckles across her pale cheeks, and her fiery hair still tumbled about her face in a profusion of unwieldy curls. For some reason, they didn't bother him as much now as they had when they were both in their teens. He slowly sipped his drink, more cautious this time than he had been a few minutes ago, and pondered the thought that just popped into his head. It was rash, and foolish on top of that, but he couldn't shake the little voice in his head that insisted that it was a good idea. Frankly, he was surprised she was so comfortable in his presence; only a year or two ago she would be horribly tense, her eyes shifting from side to side as she tried to locate the quickest exit. Now she was seemingly oblivious to him standing right next to her. He guessed it had to do with the fact that they had spent most of the last year of the war on a mission together, him as a spy and tactician of a general nature, having already divulged all he knew about the Death Eaters earlier on. He had welcomed the work, since it required actual work, not just mental strain, and besides, it let him fly again. He hadn't flown since school Quidditch matches, and it was good to get back in the air. Ginny had accompanied him and their team as their Healer (each team was alloted one healer), and also because she knew the terrain in which they were working. He had become reluctantly impressed with her skills, both as a tracker of sorts and as a spell-caster. He knew first-hand she was good with hexes, but over those dreary months, he learned she was also just as good with spells that knitted flesh together, repaired bones, counteracted spells. He just wished he had known her after the duel with his father. While not vain, Draco did appreciate looking good. Okay, well maybe he was a little bit vain. But anyone could become vain if they had people and mirrors telling them every day of their lives that they were gorgeous, and were gracing people with their astounding presence each time they deigned to set foot near mere mortals. His eyes narrowed slightly as his mind drew slowly to it's conclusion, his gaze locked on the creamy face next to his. Amazingly, she was still oblivious to his gaze, her honey-colored eyes fixed determinedly upon the map in front of them. As odd as it sounded, Draco trusted the spitfire young woman beside him, and they weren't even close. They still called each other by their last names, old habits die hard you know, and he still thought her family was completely off it's collective rocker. But he didn't have anyone else to turn to at that moment.

His face settled into a mask of determination, a decision made in the calculating mind behind his stony eyes. "Weasley," he said, placing his glass down on the table that was conveniently placed behind him.

"Mhmm?" she inquired, her attention still focused mainly on the slow path the bright purple dot was tracing down the Danube river.

He reached out, taking the glass out of her unprotesting fingers, and took her hand in his. That startled her enough to make her turn, her brown eyes wide as she looked up into his face. Steeling his suddenly nervous nerves, Draco sank down onto one knee, still holding her limp hand in both of his. Her eyes, wide to begin with, widened even more, a slow spark of comprehension dawning behind their depths.

"Virginia Weasley," he began, clearing his throat slightly. "Will you marry me?"