If You Only Knew

OvO OvO OvO OvO OvO

Dear Prat,

How have you enjoyed your vacation? What have you been up to? Harry mentioned you'd stopped by the other day to see him and Hermione at their offices. Nice to know where I rank in the scheme of things, as I've not seen hide nor hair of you.

I'm sure that whatever you're doing, you're enjoying yourself immensely, since you're apparently too busy for your little sister. No, no, it's all right, I'll carry on somehow, burdened with the knowledge that my own brother has better things to do than spend time with his only sister. But honestly, I'm glad you're having a rest. Have you thought about taking an extended leave? You've been working far too hard. I haven't seen you in ages, and we all miss you.

Love,

Ginny

OvO OvO OvO OvO OvO

Dear Favorite Sister,

Why are you owling? I'll see you tomorrow night at the Burrow, little idiot ... which is also why I haven't contacted you. I've only got one week of freedom, and I have a lot to get in before getting back to the taxing life of a world-famous Quidditch star. It's not because I don't want to see you.

As for taking an extended leave, are you mad? You want that git Toby Markham to take my place, is that it? You've no idea how cutthroat the competition is, Gin. Every day I hear of new recruits who are younger, faster, stronger, you name it. It's all I can do to hang onto my job, and now you want me to tell them I'd like to go off on an extra-long vacation? Sure, I could do that, and I'd come back to a special new position -- benchwarmer.

But I'm glad to see that even though we haven't seen each other in "ages," you haven't completely changed. You're still the daft girl I remember.

Speaking of you and daftness, what's this I hear about your setting Hermione up with Malfoy??? I don't think I need to tell you that this is your worst matchmaking attempt yet.

With love from your favorite brother,

Ron

OvO OvO OvO OvO OvO

Dearest Deluded Sibling,

Draco and Hermione are perfect for one another. They'll be my greatest coup yet. I know you don't like Draco, but you don't really know him. He's wonderful, and funny, and sometimes he can even be kind, to the people he likes anyway, and Hermione deserves someone like that. I love you, but you and I both know that you guys were miserable together. I hate to see her unhappy, and she needs to get over you once and for all. And don't tell me you're all that broken up about it; I know you haven't exactly been a eunuch. You've a new witch on your arm every time I open the papers.

You're a fantastic Keeper! I don't think it would be so unreasonable to ask for some extra time off. You're always training or on the road or otherwise risking serious bodily injury in games -- surely they encourage players to take breaks now and again, so as not to burn them out? Anyway, I'm worried about you, and I just think that now would be a good time to step away from the Quidditch scene for awhile.

Gin

OvO OvO OvO OvO OvO

What the hell are you talking about? Now's a good time to step away from the Quidditch scene? You've been around Malfoy too long; you're getting as cryptic as he is. As for "wonderful, funny, kind"??????? I'll have you know you made me bring up a perfectly nice dinner with that. He's got you snowed, the bastard. You and Hermione both. I wouldn't be surprised to learn he's got you both under some hex. Or a potion he slips into your morning coffee.

As for Hermione, she's my friend. One of my best friends. So regardless of whether or not we're right for one another romantically, I care about what happens to her. This might surprise you, Ginny, but I actually want what's best for her, too.

Now can we please stop owling? It's late and I want to go to sleep. I'll see you tomorrow night.

OvO OvO OvO OvO OvO

See? See?? You're getting burned out. You never used to tire so easily. You're running your body down, Ron, and it's not good for you, mentally or physically. I really think you ought to consider stepping back and giving yourself some time. Just for a few weeks.

As for Draco, it's not so much a hex as it is that he's a right tiger in bed that's got us hooked.

OvO OvO OvO OvO OvO

Having complete mental breakdown. Can't write. See you tomorrow if I survive the night.

Harry was approximately twenty seconds away from ripping the wand out of Hermione's hand and bludgeoning her to death with it.

They'd arrived at his flat a few hours ago, exhausted after having spent far too many hours in the company of Aurors Malfoy and Weasley. Harry loved Ginny dearly, but if he never met her in a dark alley that would be all right with him. Her professional persona was downright scary, and while Harry had a long history of dealing with a scary woman, Ginny was ever so slightly more unsettling than Hermione had ever been. Add Malfoy, and Harry was sure there had never been a more forbidding team.

The thing that really made it work was how innocuous Ginny seemed, all petite and kind. You expected the sort of behavior Harry and Hermione had been treated to earlier that day from Malfoy; the bullying, the badgering, the outright disdain; but coming from Ginny, you really felt it, and it rankled Harry to no end to argue so heatedly with his old friend.

The argument hadn't actually been as severe as Harry had felt it was at the time, but he'd been so frustrated with Ginny and her faithful allegiance to everything Malfoy wanted (never mind that she'd actually opposed Malfoy more than once during the meeting; Harry's tired, worried, frustrated brain knew no logic), he'd been ready to strangle her. Her insistence that she be the one to tell Ron about the killer had baffled Harry, even after Hermione reluctantly agreed that it was probably for the best.

Sure, now that the red haze had passed, Harry was willing to concede that Ginny had been right. But in the moment, he hadn't been able to see anything but the emotion of it: Ron was his best friend, and no matter the things they'd gone through, both together and apart, this was what they did. They rallied around each other and plotted in secret to overthrow the awful thing threatening their happiness and the happiness of those around them, and Harry hated that things weren't the same as they'd always been. He hated it and there was nothing he could do about it.

"Please, Harry," Ginny had said. "I know my brother. He's going to be a prat about it no matter what, no matter who tells him. I -- with everything, I really do think it's best that it come from me." They'd shared a look then, and it was that look more than anything, Harry realized now, that had finally gotten him to back down. In some ways, Ginny did know Ron better than anyone, even Harry and Hermione, and she had his best interests at heart. Harry needed to respect that, whether he agreed with it or not.

He just hoped Ron would take the news better than they feared.

"And the bed," Hermione said, the disgust in her voice interrupting his private musings. "Harry, are you even aware of how to make it?"

"Yes," he said tightly. "Shockingly, I've been making my own bed for years now."

"You wouldn't know it to look at it, would you," Hermione muttered to herself. Her tone was quite chastising, and Harry was more than a little annoyed.

"Hermione, we do this every time you come round," he said, tilting his glasses high on his forehead so he could massage the bridge of his nose. "Why can't you just leave it alone?"

"And leave you to be eaten when all the dust and mold finally evolves into a sentient being?" A disbelieving gust of air was furiously blown from between her pursed lips. "Really, Harry, you simply can't be trusted with your own welfare."

With a sigh, Harry turned back to his writing and left Hermione to her not-so-quiet muttering and mad cleaning. Dinner had been take-away roasted chicken and assorted side dishes Hermione had Apparated in with, dressed ridiculously in a low-cut top that looked like it was made for someone Malfoy would date. Harry shied away from the thought and was equal parts grateful and resentful when, after dinner, she abandoned the top in favor of one of his older, rattier t-shirts so she could clean. The elaborate, gravity-defying hairstyle she'd arrived in vanished almost instantly as she got to work, and Harry tried his best not to appreciate the view she presented too much, as the last thing he needed was a good slap to the head.

The article was nearly half done; between the two of them, it should have taken an hour at most to come up with a first draft, even with the insane limits Malfoy and Ginny had put on them.

They'd spent hours being debriefed, Ginny and Malfoy putting on a great show of tag-teaming first Harry then Hermione, as they made them repeat every little detail they'd seen at least three times. Harry had never enjoyed reliving traumatic incidents, but being forced to do so by Malfoy was especially grating, particularly when he made a great show of pulling Hermione aside to whisper something in her ear that made her blush. Harry had been sorely tempted to strike him. Finally, this horror at an end, Aurors Weasley and Malfoy gave them a very strict list of information they were not allowed to leak into their story. This, combined with the nasty habit Harry and Hermione had of getting distracted when they were meant to be working (Harry because he liked to avoid work as much as possible, and Hermione because the horror of Harry's living conditions were simply too much for her to bear), meant very little actual work had been accomplished.

He hadn't always been this way, Harry recalled; there had been a time in his life, before Ron, before Hogwarts, before his life really began, when work had been the only thing he was allowed. Picking up after Dudley or cooking breakfast while Aunt Petunia clucked around him had almost been a relief; as long as he was busy doing their bidding, the Dursleys nearly forgot he was there. Hard work had been the closest thing he'd had to an Invisibility Cloak in those days. Unfortunately, he was not unique to the rest of the population in that his upbringing greatly affected his current psyche. The older he got, the more he tried to avoid hard work as if it were Devil's Snare.

"Dear Lord, Harry," Hermione's tearful voice said from somewhere beyond him, "I think there actually is something alive in the kitchen."

Harry ignored her and tried to concentrate on the article. It mocked him with its half-blank page and unwritten words. The pathetic excuse for a start they'd made seemed all wrong and insignificant; Harry wanted to go over it with the InvisoQuill and start from scratch. Hermione would have a fit, but then, Hermione was already having a fit, wasn't she? She'd been perpetually on edge since Malfoy informed them they wouldn't be debriefed until Monday, and that no amount of whining, begging, or threatening on Hermione's part would do her any good.

Whining and begging had never been Hermione's forte, but threatening Malfoy was old hat. Sadly, the prat was quite used to it at this point and barely blinked in the face of her onslaught.

"It's all right," she called out with an edge to her voice. "I've killed it."

"Good show," Harry mumbled. It was almost painless as he mercilessly erased every word. He then began scribbling furiously; he might like avoiding hard work, but Hermione's wrath over wasting time by unnecessary re-writing was more terrifying than a pack of Dementors.

Their coworkers at the Prophet had been trying to convince Harry and Hermione to switch to an automated quill for years. The latest thing was the Quick Sync Quill that, when the proper incantation was made, actually read your mind and copied down your thoughts without embellishment. Hermione was deeply opposed to it because she thought it took the fun out of writing; part of her enjoyment, she claimed, came from organizing her thoughts just so before putting quill to parchment. Having the Quick Sync Quill, in her opinion, was like cheating on the creative process, and one thing Hermione Granger did not do was cheat.

Harry, on the other hand, was just unnerved by the idea of what the quill might write down without his consent.

It wasn't just the idea that his -- infatuation, he decided, was a kind word -- was well spiraling out of control; an hour ago, when she'd been charming his plants back to life, Harry had decided that Hermione learning he was arse backwards in love with her might not be the worst thing to ever happen in the history of the world. No, Harry was far more concerned that, in a fit of frustration, the quill might spill every secret he had, and before he could stop its tidal-wave of purging, someone not Hermione would see, and then he would be forever revealed.

The Boy Who Lived was an icon; Harry felt him like another entity, a shadow that hovered over his every waking moment. The Boy Who Lived was perfect; he had no fear, no hate, and everyone, save Draco Malfoy, loved him. The Boy Who Lived wasn't in love with his best friend and he didn't have to make excuses to work in the field he enjoyed. The Boy Who Lived was everything Harry knew he would never be, and wasn't even positive he wanted; he was just sure that not being that boy might kill him.

"Have you ever cleaned the bathroom, Harry? What about that potion I gave you for the tub? Honestly, it takes five minutes."

Assuming he didn't murder Hermione first, then take his own life when the guilt consumed him.

"I lost it," he said quietly, and ignored her when she said "What?" from the other room. As he'd hoped, she didn't persist in her line of questioning; instead, he heard a muffled scream, then the sound of furious banging. He let her at the bathroom and began scribbling so fast his hand almost became a blur. It all poured out of him, the facts, the emotion, anything and everything he thought Malfoy and Ginny would let past their barricade of controlled information. The changing room, the stillness in the air, the way he didn't recognize the smell of blood until he saw it -- Hermione would likely edit that out, as she disliked too much gore sensationalizing the facts -- everything poured out of Harry in vivid flashback.

He had a gift for translating his memories into the written word. Proper expression had failed him when he'd been younger. If he tried to speak, to explain himself, it would all come out a jumble of ers and ums and ahs. His first summer out of Hogwarts, there had been so much wrong with his life, with Ron, with everything, Harry had set out to find a new way to express himself. It had actually been Ginny's idea -- she'd gifted him with a leather-bound journal, "brown and manly," she'd assured him, "with absolutely no connections to You-Know-Who." It had stunned him speechless at the time, and she'd sensed his hesitation, because she added, "It really helped me. You know. Before. Writing everything down. I think it might help you, too," and smiled shyly, because when she'd been that young, she'd still smiled shyly at him.

Ginny's gift served him better than either of them had ever imagined it would. He began writing about everything, from the terrible first ten years of his life, stuffed in a cupboard, sometimes going days without proper meals, years without proper clothes, treated with less respect than a house-elf, to that first magical, frightening year at Hogwarts. As he'd relived it all, filled page after page of the journal with the bad memories he possessed, he'd slowly realized that even the worst recollection brought something positive along with it. His parents had died, but he lived; he grew up in a house full of loathing, but he grew up; the most evil wizard to ever walk the earth wanted him dead, but he made the greatest friends of his life and forged relationships that would literally mean the difference between life and death.

Once he'd filled every inch of parchment and made his final markings on the last page, the last thing he'd written had stayed with him. He remembered little else of the prose (often incoherent) that had filled his gift from Ginny, but he recalled those final words: 'Great or ordinary, hero or lucky bloke, I know one thing of myself that will mean more to me than all the statues and accolades in the world: beyond a single night of infant serendipity, I lived.'

After committing the sentiment to memory, Harry had murmured an incantation and watched the journal burn to ash.

When Ginny asked him later how it had turned out, he'd smiled, and said he'd written a few pages, then forgotten about it. He was sure it would turn up later, but it had helped. It wasn't the first time he'd told a lie to someone close to him, but it had struck him more profoundly than any of the others. He tried to assign logic to his decision, but it seemed to be decidedly illogical. There had been no reason to lie to Ginny, when the truth would have served them both far better: Ginny would have known her gift had been well received, and Harry would have been able to share his purging with a friend.

It wasn't until far later that he realized why he'd done it. He'd thought that by pouring all his pain into the book, then wiping it from existence, he had effectively burned away the horror in his past along with one thousand bound sheets of parchment. He'd felt reborn, a free man, able to make his way in the world. Professional Quidditch seemed like the natural next step, and with Hermione looking after Ron, who was doing his best to put the war and all its terrible baggage behind him as well, Harry became a new man.

Except he wasn't a new man. And he realized it shortly after the accident. He was the same old Harry; the pain wasn't gone, it was just faded, like the scar on his forehead. There were countless scars on him, so much a part of him that he sometimes forgot to notice them. The pain would never be gone; it was with him like Hermione and Ron, like the Weasleys and the lightning bolt-shaped scar on his forehead. Through an incredible feat of denial, however, he'd managed to deny it for the better part of a decade.

There was no more denial left to him now. He had been confronted with his pain, and his love, and Hermione going on about his grout problem, and he didn't know whether to kiss her or strangle her, and all these assorted and sundry thoughts were exactly why the last thing he needed was a Quick Sync Quill.

"Done," he said aloud, not realizing until he'd spoken that it was true. Four pages of parchment sat before him, covered in his familiar, messy scrawl. Hermione would go through it and throw half of it out, adding more concise accounts, sharpening up his grammar, rephrasing things so the Prophet didn't end up getting sued for Harry's unauthorized editorializing. She'd been keeping him honest for most of his life, and he didn't know what he would ever do without her.

"Good heavens, you are not," Hermione said, sounding exasperated as she emerged from the bathroom. Her hair was in more disarray than usual and she was sweating. She looked over his shoulder and he tried to tell himself that the way her now-gross hair brushed his cheek wasn't endearing, but his quota of denial was all used up for one lifetime, so he leaned in a little closer and breathed her in. She was disgusting smelling, frazzled, and nagging at him, and Harry loved her with every beat of his heart.

"Harry," she said a few moments later, "you didn't have to do all this. I would have helped as soon as I'd finished making sure you weren't going to erode away under all this mold."

"My flat is not moldy," he said. "It's just lived in."

"Do you really want me to show you what I've just killed in your bathroom?" She arched a brow at him. "Do you remember sixth year at all, particularly the lessons Snape gave on the sort of things that grow in wizarding homes, and how if they aren't properly maintained with the right sorts of potions--"

"Agagh!" He gestured wildly with his arms in case the inarticulate sound he made wasn't clear enough of an indication he wished her to stop. "No, of course I don't remember sixth year or much of anything from Snape's class, but yes, I do have a faint recollection of the potions because you've brought them round twice a year since I've lived here. I've never used them."

"Obviously," she said with great superiority.

"But you have," he added. "So I can only conclude that you've been doing it all wrong."

The look on her face was worth any retribution his words might have engendered; fleetingly, he wished Ron were here with them to see it.

After work on Monday, Ginny went back to her flat to change into more comfortable, everyday robes for dinner that night. She'd owled her mother at midday and offered to get to the Burrow early to help with the preparations, but Molly insisted she had everything under control and all Ginny had to do was show up.

Ginny was not looking forward to dinner. It wasn't that she didn't want to see her brothers (it was a rare occasion indeed when everyone was available at the same time), but these large family gatherings invariably turned chaotic, and she'd found over the years that she enjoyed seeing each of her brothers on more of an individual basis, rather than when they were together and prone to encourage each other in their rowdiness.

Eyeing her bed with longing, she removed her Auror garb and donned more casual clothing. All she really wanted to do was turn down her covers, crawl between the soft sheets, and get a good night's rest. Instead, she was on her way to the very opposite of peace and quiet.

At least Ron would be there. She was looking forward to seeing him, not just because it had been awhile, but because she wanted to use the opportunity to get him to stop playing Quidditch. Not forever, obviously, but at least until the Quidditch player killings had stopped. It made her blood run cold to think of Apparating to a murder scene to find her brother's lifeless body, stuffed into some locker like a discarded Quidditch costume...

And if he didn't see sense, well, she was his little sister. She would just have to beat it into him.

"No more, Mum, I'm stuffed," Ron groaned, patting his stomach. He was so fit from playing Quidditch there was no indication of how much food he had consumed, Ginny noted enviously. He seemed to be able to keep the weight off naturally. She, on the other hand, knew she'd be paying for this meal with hours at the gym, or risk being jibed by Malfoy about her "softness" the next time they worked out together.

"But you've only had two pieces," said Molly, looking unhappy. "Was there something wrong with it?"

"No, no, it was great, Mum. Fantastic, really," Ron hastened to assure. "It's just that I've eaten enough for three people, and there's only one of me."

Ron, Ginny, and Arthur had all overeaten in order to compensate for the fact that the family dinner had turned out to be quite a bit smaller than planned, consisting of the eldest two Weasleys and the two youngest. Fleur was having complications with her latest pregnancy and Bill had opted to stay with her, a small herd of dragons had gotten loose in outer Mongolia and Charlie had been drafted as part of the recovery team, and the twins ... Ginny couldn't remember why the twins weren't able to make it, but they had promised to stop by later. As for Percy, he'd attended his final family dinner quite some time ago. His hand on the clock had pointed to "With Merlin" for several months before Molly removed it, saying she didn't need a reminder for something that was indelibly printed on her heart.

"What am I going to do with all this food?" Molly cried, gesturing at the teeming table. Ginny knew there was even more in the kitchen.

"I'd love to take some of this home with me, Mum," she said. "I don't always have time to cook, and it's much simpler to reheat something. And I could never make these dishes half as delicious as you do." Ginny tacked on the compliment not only because it was true, but so that it might bring a smile to her mother's face.

It had the opposite effect. "Well, whose fault is that, Ginny Weasley? Perhaps if you spent a little more time learning how to be a proper wife, one of those boyfriends of yours might actually ask you to marry him one of these days. As it is, I just don't understand how you can spend all of your time running after criminals and putting yourself in danger. Think of your future! What kind of mother will you make?"

Beside her, Ron dropped his head to avoid looking at her or their mother. Ginny knew her brother well enough to know it wasn't a sign of indifference; he just knew his place. Ron was aware of how much this argument of Molly's bothered her. If Molly didn't drop it and she and Ginny started rowing, it would be Arthur and Ron's jobs to step in and mitigate the situation. Arthur would ask Ginny to compromise and see her mother's side of things, and Ron would entreat their mother to see Ginny's. It was a scene they had played out many times before. They were all -- with the possible exception of Molly -- hoping they could skip Act II: Family Squabble and go straight to the conclusion.

"I'm still young yet, Mum," Ginny said as patiently as she could. "When and if I have a family, I will rethink my career. All right?"

"How can you ever have a family, when all you do is work? We hardly see you any more. That Draco Malfoy sees more of you, and we're your family! Don't you think it's time you looked for a less perilous job, where you might meet a nice bloke from a nice family..."

"I enjoy my work," Ginny said firmly, hearing the edge in her voice and hoping that Molly wouldn't press the issue.

"I know you do," Molly sighed. "But I want you to be happy--"

"I am happy."

"--and I don't want you to regret that you wasted the best years of your life--"

"I'm not wasting them!"

"--because good men don't grow on trees, you know. Not since the Ministry banned it, but that was before you were born. My point, Ginny, is that life is short. Just think about it, won't you? Think about the choices you're making now--" Molly held up a hand to prevent Ginny from interrupting, and continued on, "--and maybe you don't even know you're making them, but you are, sweetheart, and I'd just like you to consider how they will affect your future. Will you do that?"

A diatribe was on the tip of Ginny's tongue, but she managed to grit out, "I will," before falling silent.

After a beat, Ron took his cue and looked up, all smiles. "That was a great dinner, Mum, as always. Dad doesn't know how lucky he is."

"She reminds me often, though," Arthur said jovially, taking his cue to pretend that Molly and Ginny's discussion had never taken place.

Molly hit her husband's shoulder in exasperation and began to gather up the dishes. "I'll package some of this up for you, dear," she said to Ginny. "And how about a slice of chocolate pie? We didn't even have a chance to cut into that tonight."

"Oh," Ginny said, hedging slightly. "Well, if you wouldn't mind, I'll take the whole pie."

Three sets of raised eyebrows turned toward her.

"Well, I don't have time to bake!" she said defensively. "And Mum's chocolate pie is the best."

"The whole pie it is, dear," Molly said cheerfully.

"I don't know where you put it all," said Arthur. "You're such a little thing."

"Maybe she's feeding two," Ron joked. At the looks on his parents' -- not to mention his sister's -- faces, he quickly added, "I've never been more kidding in my life."

"You're not really feeding two, are you?" Ron asked as they retired to the family room.

Ginny ignored the question, since she didn't have an answer that would satisfy him. She knew they had to have this conversation quickly, before their parents finished with the dishes. She had no desire to discuss the topic with them, given that it would only fan the flames of discontent with her mother where her job was concerned. They could just read the watered-down version in the paper tomorrow along with everyone else.

She sat on the couch and pulled him down next to her. "Listen, Ron--"

"Can you believe no one else showed up? What am I, chopped dung beetle? Apparently no one cares whether they see me or not. You're the only one who loves me, Gin." Ron sighed dramatically.

Ginny didn't have time to play Ron's favorite game of Pity Me, which he had started indulging in more and more after the war. She wasn't sure if it was a symptom of the hex he'd been unable to dodge, or simply of the war itself. In any case, there were more serious issues at hand, so she waved her hand impatiently at him to get his attention.

"Ron, you have to stop playing Quidditch."

His head lolled toward her and his eyes were open wide in disbelief. "Not this again. Have you gone cracked? What is with this--"

"There's someone out there killing Quidditch players."

Ron's eyes seemed to widen with shock. Then he laughed. "I'm sorry, I thought you just said--"

"I'm serious, Ron."

He sat up, all casualness deserting his frame. "Care to explain?" he said evenly.

So she did. It was similar to the briefing she and Draco had given Harry and Hermione earlier in the day, though with much less detail, both because there wasn't much time and because he didn't need to hear the worst of it. By the time she was through relating the facts of the murders, Ron looked as though he'd been hit by a sledgehammer.

"I don't understand how this could happen," he said.

Ginny placed a comforting hand on his arm. "I know."

"I suppose now's the time to complain to the Committee about security measures." He laughed a little, but the sound was unnatural.

"Nothing is foolproof," Ginny reminded him gently. "We're doing everything we can--"

"We?" He twisted his head to look at her.

"Yes ... Malfoy and I have been assigned to the case."

"What? Ginny, no. You have to get out of it somehow. This is far too dangerous."

"I could say the same to you."

Ron looked away, but didn't say anything. He seemed to be doing some serious thinking.

"Listen to me," Ginny began. "I don't have a choice; I was assigned this case. It's my job. I can't just turn it down." None of that was strictly true; she hadn't been assigned the case until she and Draco had petitioned for it, and she could probably get out of it by citing conflict of interest, with her brother in the League. "But you--"

"I don't have a choice either, Gin," Ron shot back. "Playing Quidditch is my job, and I'd be putting my entire career at risk if I were to take an extended leave now. My team has a game on Wednesday, and I'll be there, broom in hand. If everyone else goes about business as usual, I'd get branded a coward. No thanks."

Ginny took a deep breath. She knew there would be no changing Ron's mind, not when his self worth -- or at least the appearance of it -- was at stake. "Unless we can convince the Commissioner to put the season on hold," she suggested quietly. "If that happens, you won't have to request time off. No one will. And, career wise, you'll be no worse off if no one else is playing either--"

"You can't do that!" Ron exclaimed. "You can't just shut down Quidditch! It's -- well, you just can't. No one would stand for it. You'd have rioting in the streets. It would be chaos. The Ministry would be under siege..."

Ginny wished she could dismiss Ron's concerns, but the truth was that he was probably right. Quidditch fanaticism in the wizarding world ran deep. "Maybe. It might not even be in our best interests to do it, so this is very premature. Just promise me you'll be careful."

"Cal Canderer," Ron said, shaking his head slowly. "I was playing chess with the guy not two weeks ago!"

"Did you?" said Ginny in surprise. Her first instinct was to question him further, but knew he probably needed some time. "I'm sorry, Ron."

"Yeah," Ron said softly. "I guess you never know when it's your time."

Ginny didn't say anything in response, knowing there was nothing anyone could say that would help him come to terms with his friend's senseless murder.

"Who would do something like this?" Ron ran careless fingers through his short red hair, slouching again. "I mean ... Canderer could be a right git -- and was one, frequently ... ask anyone, we've probably all said at one point or another that we'd like to kill him ... but no one really says that and means it, do they? People have said that about me, I'm sure, but Merlin, who would actually do it?"

The pleading look in her brother's eyes made her heart ache for him. "That's what Malfoy and I are going to find out."

"Have you any leads so far?"

"I can't discuss the specifics of the case with you, Ron," said Ginny. "But it would be helpful if you could tell me anything about your last visit with Cal Canderer that might have stood out to you as being odd, or if you know of anyone who might have wished him harm..." she trailed off leadingly.

"I just told you we've all had it in for him at one point or another -- the guy was a shameless glory hound. Played a mean game of chess, though."

"No, not like that. Wasn't there anyone who -- you know what, never mind, forget it." Ginny smiled. It was unlikely that Ron would be able to provide information that they didn't already have, and it wasn't worth making him even more upset.

"Well ... there was one thing," Ron said slowly. "Probably doesn't mean anything, though."

Ginny's heart rate sped up a bit. "What?" She tried to sound calm, as if she agreed that it was likely nothing, not wanting to alarm him.

"I met Canderer at Quiberon Stadium probably two weeks or so ago. We were going to have dinner, he was going to show me around Paris ... but then we got a bit drunk at the pub we went to after we ate and there were these two witches--"

"I don't need to hear this part," said Ginny, waving her hand.

"All right, well -- the weird thing is, when I got to the stadium, he wasn't where he said he'd meet me, so I went looking for him. I found him eventually, but he was yelling at this guy who wasn't taking being yelled at very well, because he was waving his finger in Canderer's face, saying something, and he sounded really angry."

"Do you know what he said? Or what they might have been arguing about?"

Ron shook his head. "It was all in French. When I asked Canderer about it later, he didn't want to talk about it. Just said that the guy was getting too big for his britches or something. Apparently he was with stadium security, and was always getting on Canderer's back about something ... not that I blame the guy; I told you he rubbed people the wrong way."

Stadium security. That sounded familiar. Of course -- one of the security guards had been on location at the time of the murder. Ginny and Draco had gone over all of the interviews that Captain Montagne's team had gathered yesterday and nothing about the report on this Alain Beauchamp had stood out, but perhaps it was worth another look.

"Ron, I'd like to bring Malfoy in on this. Can you repeat everything you just told me? He might want to ask you some additional questions."

Ron looked dismayed. "What? You want me to talk to Malfoy? But I just ate."

"Come on, Ron, this won't take very long. I'll use my ring. It'll reach him immediately."

He didn't look any happier about the prospect, but he did look at her ring with interest. "So how does one of these work, anyway? I've never seen you use it."

"It's a communicator," Ginny said, smiling at her brother's boyish interest. He was a lot like their father in some ways; they were both fascinated by gadgets, though Ron didn't require them to be of the Muggle variety. "If I want to locate Malfoy, all I do is hold it in my hand and say the proper spell. Then an image of him will appear before me, and we can talk as if we were standing right next to one another."

Ron looked intrigued. "Can I see it?"

Ginny twisted the ring off her finger and dropped it in her brother's hand, watching as he turned it around, inspecting it.

"Doesn't look very impressive."

"We're on a Ministry budget," Ginny defended. "And most Aurors are men. Do you think they want to wear something fancy and sparkly?"

"So does Malfoy see an image of you, too?"

Ginny nodded. "Well, the person who gets 'summoned' actually sees the entire scene." She gestured around them. "That's why I'd like to summon him and have the two of you talk."

"What if he's, you know, busy?"

"He'd better not be 'busy,' as you put it, since I know Hermione's with Harry tonight putting the article together for tomorrow's Prophet about the murders."

"Oh. Ew. Malfoy and Hermione. I had forgotten about that. Gross." He shuddered.

To her surprise, Ginny didn't feel like defending her matchmaking. In fact, she felt rather sympathetic toward her brother.

"And ... wait a minute. Harry and Hermione know about the murders? And they didn't tell me?"

Ginny knew Ron was very sensitive about being excluded from anything Harry and Hermione did; the three of them had always done everything together in school. It had been all right when he and Harry had both been playing Quidditch, because they'd all been on their own schedules, but now that Harry and Hermione were working together, Ginny knew it bothered Ron that his two best friends spent a lot more time together than either spent with him. "They barely knew anything until today," she said. "Malfoy and I only briefed them on it this morning, and we all agreed that since I'd be seeing you tonight, I would be the one to tell you." Well, she, Harry, and Hermione had agreed, once Ginny had convinced Harry not to go haring off to tell Ron everything himself. Draco had suggested keeping Ron in the dark -- out of kindness, he claimed, since Ron probably never read the paper, he could go around being oblivious to the terror around him.

"I suppose," said Ron, though he still sounded put out.

"So shall I summon Malfoy?"

Ron let out a deep sigh. "Fine, but can I take a piss first?"

Ginny waved him away. "I'm going to check on Mum and Dad. Meet me in my old room."

After making sure that her parents were still occupied -- the dishes were done but they were now putting away all the food, dividing up what Ginny was going to take home with her (she double checked that the chocolate pie was packaged up tight) and what the twins would want if they showed up later -- Ginny went up the stairs and turned down the hall that would take her to her old bedroom. Ron was already there, lounging on the bed.

"My ring?"

"What? Oh, here." He reached into his pocket and tossed the ring at her. "Can't I try it?"

"It'll only respond to me or Malfoy," Ginny explained, shaking her head. "Collusor Reperio!"

"Oh, it's you," Draco said once his form appeared. "What do you want, then?" The teasing note in his voice made up for the coolness of his words. Then he took in his surroundings and his eyes opened wider than she had ever seen them. "Are you going to tell me that all my fantasies are about to come true?"

"Oi!" said Ron, sitting up in bed indignantly.

Draco's eyes widened even further, if that was possible. "You know, I never really believed those things I used to say about you and your brothers, but--"

"Oh shut up, the both of you," Ginny said. "Ron, he's just kidding."

"About which part?" he shot back darkly.

"All of it," Ginny said firmly, ignoring that Draco had opened his mouth to speak. "I've told him," she said, directing the comment at her partner. "It turns out Ron spent some time with Canderer a couple of weeks ago, and he told me something that might be of interest to our case."

"Really," said Draco, not bothering to hide his disbelief. "And what might that be?"

Scowling but cooperative, Ron repeated what he had told Ginny downstairs.

"How did you know Canderer?" Draco asked when Ron had finished his recitation.

"We played together early on, when I was first drafted to Pride of Portree," mumbled Ron. "We became friends in the year or so he was still on the team."

"And were you good friends?"

Ron shifted uncomfortably. "We weren't the best of friends or anything, but professional Quidditch is a fairly small world; we were on good terms and we tried to get together occasionally, but it didn't always work out." He shrugged. "You know how it is."

"And yet you thought you'd break out of this mold of convenient friendship by meeting him in France. Why?" Draco asked the question casually, but Ginny knew him well enough to hear the suspicion that laced his words. She didn't like it, but it was a good question. She was sure Ron would have a good answer.

"So I wanted to see a friend; so what?" Ron asked testily.

Draco crossed his arms, and without prompting, Ginny took the reins. "There's more to it than that. Why don't you just tell us, Ron?"

He looked as though he were going to object, then caught Ginny's eye and deflated. "All right ... I'll tell you, but I haven't told anyone else yet. So just ... don't go around saying things to people, all right? I'm not even sure, I mean, it's really new, and--"

"If you don't spit it out in the next five seconds, I swear to Circe, Weasley..."

"My girlfriend wanted to go to Paris," Ron blurted.

Ginny looked at him in surprise. What girlfriend? She hadn't known Ron was seeing anyone.

"And upon arriving in one of the purportedly most romantic cities in the world, you immediately ditch your girlfriend, look up a bloke, and get plastered with him," Draco ticked off. "I don't know if you've ever considered working out some of these issues, Weasley, but you might look into professional help."

"She was with her family that day!" Ron snapped. "She has cousins or something that live there. We haven't been dating very long, and we both agreed it was premature for me to be meeting distant relatives, so I made myself scarce."

"Who is it?" Ginny asked. "Why were you trying to keep it a secret?"

"It's -- Cho Chang," said Ron, not able to meet Ginny's gaze.

"Cho Chang!" Ginny exclaimed. "How -- I mean, why --" It seemed entirely too bizarre. Her brother and Cho? Though Ginny had gotten over her crush on Harry by the time she was in her fourth year at school, it was hard to erase the sting of rejection she'd felt when he'd made it very clear the year of the Yule Ball that Cho Chang was the sort of girl he preferred. So while Cho had never done anything to Ginny directly, it didn't mean she had to like her.

"Was that the bird Potter went bonkers for in fourth year?" Draco asked musingly.

"Yes!" Ginny and Ron snapped.

"Nice bit of revenge scheming there, Weasley," said Draco, sounding almost admiring.

"It's not -- look, just shut your trap, Malfoy, you don't know a thing about it."

Draco shrugged, seemingly disinterested. "Have it your way. All right, so Canderer got into a bit of an altercation with this Beauchamp bloke. We'll look into it. Was there anything else?"

"No, so you can just go back to your wanking off," said Ron, standing and making for the door.

"All right, I will," said Draco.

Ron made a noise of disgust and swung the door open. "Come on, Gin."

Ginny followed him to the door and gently pushed him out. "You go on, Ron. I want to chat with Malfoy for a bit. I'll be right down."

Once her brother was gone and she had closed the door firmly behind him, Ginny turned to address Draco, but was perplexed when he wasn't where she'd left him. She found him peering at the objects sitting on top of her bureau, before moving on to her desk and then her bedspread. Despite the fact that she was now a grown woman, Ginny could feel heat rising to her face.

"So what do you think?" she asked, attempting to sound business like.

"I think I need to come over one day when I can actually pick up some of these things and examine them properly," Draco said.

"No," said Ginny.

"Why, are you afraid that I'll spread around your love for ... let's see ... My Little Hippogriff dolls?" Draco grinned. "Or that I'll know too much about you?"

Ginny shuddered to think what kind of profile he'd piece together on her from her belongings as a young girl. She decided to be honest. "Yes."

Draco stepped closer to her, and even though she knew he was nothing but an image, she held her breath as if he were going to touch her. "It's too late. I already know all about you, Ginny," he said softly, and his expression was tender.

Ginny felt some odd emotion making itself known in her stomach, and in confusion, she looked away. "I'll set up a meeting with Beauchamp tomorrow," she said. "What did you think of the debriefing with Harry and Hermione? I thought it went well."

"It was fine. Want to come over?"

"What?" Ginny was startled. "You want to look over the interviews some more?"

"Interviews," said Draco. "Sure."

"Well," she hesitated. "I'm really supposed to be spending time with Ron and my parents..."

"Oh."

"But the twins should be here soon," Ginny amended. "And this is really important. Lives are at stake."

"Yes, think of all the lives."

"And I have something for you," Ginny said mischievously. "I think you'll like it very much."

Draco looked delighted.

"Not that," Ginny said in disgust.

His expression fell.

"But it's almost as good. Chocolate pie!"

"I love chocolate pie," Draco said, his face brightening again. "Did you make it?"

"Er..." Truth was, there might have been a time or two in which Ginny had brought Draco some pie that her mother had made, and didn't disabuse him of the notion that she had been the one to make it from scratch, in her own kitchen. "My mum helped," she compromised.

"Well, I'm sure it will be good anyway. You know I love the idea of your little hands making a pie just for me."

"Right," said Ginny, feeling guilty. She had deliberately gotten her mother to package up the pie for the sole purpose of giving it to Draco, so that was pretty much the same thing, wasn't it?

Draco looked so happy that she decided it was.

Hermione didn't know if she was anticipating the afternoon, or dreading it. On the one hand, it would be like old times, the three of them being together again; on the other hand, she would have to withstand Ron's constant haranguing over her supposed affair with Malfoy. Harry would probably convince Ron that Hermione and Malfoy were meant to be, and she would seriously consider homicide or suicide right there at the table.

They had always been maddening, her boys. She'd been possessive of Ron and Harry almost from the moment they'd met, but just because she loved them so dearly didn't mean they couldn't drive her batty. Harry had always been impetuous, and Ron more so; together, they had almost no sense at all, haring off into danger and near-expulsion without stopping to think about the consequences. Bad enough at school, when expulsion had been the only consequence, but their daredevil behavior continued into young adulthood, nearly gave her many a heart attack during the war, and provided her a cause to pray for every night, without fail. Please, she would pray, please let Ron and Harry grow out of this. They had grown out of it, of course; she'd just never assumed it would be at the expense of them growing apart.

Childhood friendships weren't meant to last forever, but Hermione had been so sure theirs would. It had flourished into adolescence and young adulthood, but recently, time and distance had put it through the ringer. She hoped that, if nothing else, today's lunch would serve to remind them why the three of them were better together than apart. Maybe Ron would make time to come home more. Maybe she and Harry could attend a few more of his games, not for work, as Harry sometimes did, but just to show support for their friend.

Who, speak of the devil, was making his way through a throng of people toward her. She'd chosen to sit outside because it was such a lovely day, and this was one of the few wizarding establishments that accommodated outdoor dining. Ron strode through the patio quickly, smoothly avoiding a collision with a waiter who wasn't paying attention. He sent her a grin as he pulled out the chair next to her.

"Quidditch star's grace in motion," she commented.

"That's why they pay me the big Galleons," Ron confirmed. "If I may ask, why have you chosen to sit outside with the bloody sun blazing down on us?"

Hermione frowned. "It's not that hot, is it?" The weather was glorious to her, considering she spent most of her days locked in an office at the Prophet. This was the first truly nice day she'd been able to enjoy in months. One of the things you learned growing up in England -- wizard or Muggle -- was that sunny days were rare and precious gifts.

"No," Ron groused, "but I get enough sun as it is, and Mum says it's beginning to disagree with my fair complexion."

"Yes, I see what she means," Hermione noted gravely. "You are beginning to look a little red around the eyes. Oh, but maybe it's not the sun at all, maybe you're just getting old."

"Silence, woman," Ron ordered. "I am eternally twenty-one and there isn't a thing you can do about it."

She smiled fondly at him, and he reached over to take her hand. There had been a time when she'd begged him for public displays of affection; he'd replied they weren't his style, that he showed her how he felt in private, and wasn't that enough? Hermione had always assumed that it would be, and she wasn't that demanding, not really. She hadn't wanted him to throw her down across the table and snog her silly; she'd just wanted something simple, something that showed he cared.

Was it really so much, wanting him to hold her hand? And now, just like Ron, here he was, doing something she'd always asked him to do, a day late and a Sickle short. But when she sighed at him, it was with affection, and she gave his hand a squeeze, because one look in his eyes told her that he had absolutely no idea that his casual gesture had brought up so much turmoil in her heart.

Just then, Harry Apparated at her side, and she was shocked to feel a flutter in her stomach. It was Harry, after all, and just because she was in love with him didn't mean he should be causing her insides to flutter. But his hair was a little messier than usual, and his clothes looked rumpled, like he'd just rolled out of bed in them. Hermione liked things to be neat and tidy, orderly to the extreme. Most of the time, she would exorcise from her life anything that didn't fit just so, that made her feel less than completely put together.

Harry was not one of those things.

"Sorry I'm late," he said, then seemed to take in Ron and Hermione holding hands with a slight pause. "Or maybe I'm not?" His tone was measured and made Hermione blush, though not from embarrassment; he was getting the wrong idea, and he obviously felt like he'd intruded on them. It made her angry because Harry would turn around right now and leave her and Ron to each other if they asked him to. It made her angry because she'd never, ever wanted to use Ron in any way, particularly not in a fruitless attempt to make Harry jealous, and now she had. How was holding Ron's hand any different from the pathetic show she was putting on with Malfoy?

At that moment, Hermione was just a little bit sick of herself. Ron seemed totally unaware of any undercurrents.

"I can't believe you're letting her see Draco Malfoy," Ron said in lieu of a formal greeting.

"Sorry, I thought you'd met our Hermione," Harry noted as he took the seat on Ron's other side, across from Hermione. "The word 'let' isn't in her vocabulary."

Ron waved his hand in a vague way that translated into, 'Oh, go on with you and your rubbish.'

"It's no one's business but mine who I'm seeing," she said with as much dignity as she could manage, considering she desperately wanted Harry to realize that it was his business and ought to forbid her from seeing Malfoy again.

"But you've obviously gone mad," Ron pointed out, "and it's up to us, as the people who love you most in this world--" with that, he brought her hand to his heart and made a great show of looking worriedly into her eyes, "--to make sure you don't do irrevocable harm to yourself during this time."

"Excellent use of the word irrevocable in a sentence, Ron," Hermione praised him, sliding her hand out from beneath his and patting his shoulder once, fondly.

"I'm glad the Word-a-Day calendar I brought back from Muggle London wasn't a total waste," Harry commented, though he seemed a bit withdrawn from the conversation.

"Yes, very thoughtful of you," Ron said. "Nearly as thoughtful as letting me know some bloke was going around killing Quidditch players. Oh, wait, that's right; you didn't do that."

"Oh, Ron, don't be cross," Hermione said immediately. "We wanted to tell you, but Ginny thought it would be better--"

"Yes, yes," Ron said, waving her off. "I'm only joking around. It's fine. I could be killed at any moment, but it's fine."

"I assume Ginny mentioned that this might be a great time to extend your vacation," Harry said.

"She did indeed," Ron said jovially.

"And I'm sure she stressed how dangerous the current situation is," Hermione continued.

"It's as though you were both there," Ron said.

"Ron," Hermione said warningly.

"Hermione," he said in the exact same tone.

"Let him alone," Harry said after a moment of tense silence. "He's never listened to a thing you've said to him; I doubt he'll start now."

Hermione thought that sounded a little more bitter than Harry had perhaps intended, but when she tried to catch his gaze, she found he was staring at some point beyond Ron's left shoulder. It bothered her, because Harry was obviously bothered, and there was nothing she could do about it. It bothered her that Ron wasn't picking up on it, when once he had probably been more attuned to Harry's moods than she had.

It bothered her that the three of them were all together, sharing a meal, for the first time in months, and there was anything to be bothered about.

"That's not true," Ron said, and Hermione forced her attention back to the conversation. "I've listened to loads of things she's said."

"All right," Harry conceded, "you've listened, but have you actually heard what she has to say and taken her advice?"

Ron remained stubbornly silent.

"There's your answer, then," Harry said, and while his tone was friendly, Hermione could tell he was tense. She wondered if he did feel jealous of her and Ron, and hated herself a little more when she consciously leaned closer to Ron to test her theory. A muscle in Harry's jaw flexed and she was flabbergasted. And a little giddy. His tenseness only lasted a moment; as soon as it passed, he changed the subject and began discussing the newest broom or some such with Ron. Hermione wasn't sure, as she started to tune them out at that point, as she had done for years, and let the boyish enthusiasm they displayed when matters concerning Quidditch were discussed buzz around her like a pleasant white noise.

The giddiness she felt in her belly was slowly being replaced with cold, numbing realization. Harry had been jealous before, she remembered, but not because he wanted Hermione for himself, or anything of the kind. It'd been the summer before their fifth year; Harry had felt like they were leaving him behind to be together, even though that had never been their intention, and it had hurt him deeply. Hermione wondered if he still felt that now, even as he pushed them together, every time they would break up and start up again; she wondered if he felt like he was losing his best friends over and over again.

Harry had never talked about any of this to her, but Hermione liked to think she knew him fairly well by this point, and, being one of his best friends, had at least some rudimentary understanding of his psyche. He'd grown up almost completely alone, surrounded only by people who hated and feared him. The first friends he'd ever made in his life had been her and Ron, and eventually, they'd become more enamored of each other than of him. Ron had been the most important thing in the world to Harry during fourth year; it must have killed him when Ron chose her to be his most important thing.

Or at least, that's how Harry must have seen it. In truth, Hermione wasn't sure she had ever been first on Ron's list of priorities; sometimes, she wondered if she had even made second. He'd loved her, yes, but she'd always gotten the feeling he loved Harry more; the brother he'd actually got to pick instead of being born with. Then there was the need Ron had to distinguish himself from the rest of his family, to stand out. Percy had been selected Head Boy; Bill managed to be a top Gringotts Bank employee, as well as an invaluable member of the Order; Charlie was brilliant with dragons; the twins were always getting into trouble; Ginny was the girl. It left very little for Ron to do to distinguish himself, but there had always been one thing Ron did better than anyone else: he was Harry Potter's best friend, and Harry needed him.

They'd drawn such strength from each other when they were children, Hermione remembered. She'd almost felt like an interloper half the time, putting a damper on their fun because someone had to be sensible about things. But the two of them, oh, they'd been thick as thieves; the expression was practically invented for them. It reminded her of the way Lupin and Snape and nearly everyone else had always talked of James Potter and Sirius Black.

As she always did when her mind took such side trips, Hermione said a silent thanks to anyone listening that Harry and Ron were still here with her, still whole. Maybe not as close as they once were, but the connection was still there; you could see it in every word they spoke, in the comforting familiarity that surrounded lifelong friends no matter how much time or distance separated them. They were each a fundamental part of the other's history, as connected as family, and twice as affecting for being a part of each other, not by blood, but by the power of their choosing.

"Sad to say, I think we've lost her," Ron said, and as always happened, Hermione's subconscious chose to clue her in when her attention was most needed.

"You've done nothing of the sort, Ron," she said primly, giving him her full attention. "I was just waiting for you to exhaust the subject of Quidditch before I interjected any thoughts of my own."

"I'm surprised you let us go on so, what with a mad killer on the loose," Ron said. "Say, why is some bloke taking a hack at us poor, defenseless Quidditch stars, anyway? We're making a useful contribution to the world, bringing it joy and entertainment, and bringing hope to the lives of little tiny children with very little to look forward to. Why doesn't this madman go take a hack at someone like Malfoy, who contributes very little joy and entertainment to the world, and I can almost guarantee brings absolutely no hope to the lives of tiny children with very little to look forward to?"

"Ron," Harry scolded lightly.

"Really, Harry, he's always had very little tact," Hermione said. "Don't go acting shocked now."

"Oh, sod off," Ron told them both.

Hermione laughed, and it was the sort of laugh she hadn't had in ages; it was the kind of laugh she used to have before the war, even during the war, when the three of them were together; even with the sky falling down around them, they were invincible. Ron had always been able to make her laugh, even when she'd wanted to strangle him; it had gotten them through a lot of difficult times in their relationship, and it had been the thing she'd most missed while he'd been recovering. It felt so good to hear him make jokes now that she was filled with a wary kind of joy that was threatening to burst out of her. Right then, she didn't care about Malfoy's insane plan or making Harry fall in love with her, because he was with her, with her and Ron, and they were together, and why had it ever gone this long without that being true? How could they have possibly survived so many months -- years, if she was honest -- without this feeling?

"I love you both so much," Hermione said, and she covered one of each of their hands with hers, unashamed of the tears in her eyes.

They both looked uncomfortable. Ron looked almost horrified by the unprompted display of affection, and Harry couldn't meet her eyes.

"I mean it," Hermione continued. "You're -- you're honestly the most important people in the world to me, and I wouldn't know what to do without you, and no matter what, that is one thing that will never, ever change."

"Um, us too, Hermione," Harry said, when it became clear Ron wasn't going to speak.

"Oh, sod off," Ron said again, but he was beet red, and Hermione couldn't stop smiling.

"You know you love us, too," Hermione prompted. "Go on, say it, it'll make you feel better."

"It will not," Ron said vehemently.

Harry had finally begun to work out of his embarrassment, Hermione could see, because he slid his chair closer to Ron's and put a hand on his friend's shoulder.

"Ron," he said seriously, "it's all right. You can say it. I love you."

"Stop it, you lunatic," Ron muttered, and she slid closer to him as well, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. Ron returned the gesture, and Hermione kissed his cheek. Then, faster than she'd thought him capable, he turned his head and kissed her full on the mouth. Over Ron's shoulder, she could see Harry's eyes widen and his chair scoot back, almost on its own.

Hermione was so stunned, she didn't pull back immediately, and when the kiss ended, it was because Ron broke it. He grinned in a very self-satisfied way that made her long to strike him, her earlier fuzzy thoughts dissolving, as they often did, in the face of her indignation.

"Ron," she fumed, but he held up a hand.

"That was payback for all the mental pictures I got while I was having a conversation about a dead teammate with my baby sister and Malfoy," he said, then shuddered. "Honestly. Bad enough I have to live with the idea of her prancing around with him every day at work, but for my soul mate, the only woman I will ever truly love" -- it was actually stunning, she thought, that anyone so full of crap could actually continue to walk around amongst humans without exploding -- "to fancy him on top of it all -- well. I had to teach you a lesson."

"You're right, Ron, and I am duly chastised," Hermione said. "Never again will I cross you for fear of retribution in the form of a kiss, truly the vilest punishment you have ever conceived."

It took him a moment, but once he'd processed what she said, Ron narrowed his eyes. "That's it," he declared. "You have gone too far. I'm sorry, Hermione, but not even our friendship can save you now. You must pay."

He was tickling her a second later, and amidst her protests of "I'll tell your mother," "I'll get my wand," and "I swear, Ron, I'll box your ears myself," she caught Harry watching them with a sad smile on his face. That smile tugged at her heart, because she'd seen it on his face a thousand times, usually followed by a lecture in which he begged them to get it right, because he couldn't stand seeing them hurt each other when they were obviously so in love. Ron backed off on his tickling, and Hermione halfheartedly promised that she'd learned her lesson, whatever it might be, and they set about ordering lunch. Harry was withdrawn for the rest of the afternoon, but Ron more than made up for it with a series of boisterous tales of life on the road, and adventures within the Weasley household. There were very few pokes at Malfoy, for which Hermione was grateful; she didn't feel up to feigning defense for him at the moment.

When they parted, Hermione's heart was heavy, and her mind was made up; she was very good at lying to her best friends when it was necessary, but this foolishness was not necessary. She would return the hideous clothes Malfoy had had delivered to her, and she would end this farce before it went any further.

What point was there, really, in trying to win the affections of a man so dedicated to the love he thought you had for his best friend?

On the whole, Ginny'd had better days.

The only good thing about this particular bad day was that Draco had a share in it. It was true: misery loved company. Well, hers did, anyway.

It began at seven in the morning, when she arrived at work. They had both wanted to get an early day, knowing there was a lot of work ahead of them. The only hitch to this plan was that the coffeemaker was broken -- again. No matter how many times they requested a new coffeemaker, the maintenance department insisted that the old one was fine and just needed a little fine tuning. After losing to Ginny at Rock, Parchment, Scissors, Draco was obliged to run out and get them both lattes, grumbling all the while.

The moment he arrived back at the office with two cups of java, the morning paper came in. Ginny let him have it first. Though normally she might have enjoyed a pre-breakfast tussle with him over the Prophet, today all she wanted was to get some caffeine into her system, and as quickly as possible.

She'd just taken a sip when Draco spewed coffee all over the paper and began shouting curses, turning the air blue with his language.

"What's the matter?"

"Look," he said, shoving the paper in her face.

"I can't read it when it's two millimeters away from my nose," she responded calmly, taking it from his white-knuckled grasp.

The proud headline of the Prophet read: RECENT DEATHS LINKED TO "QUIDDITCH CUTTER"

"Oh, no," Ginny said in dismay.

"'Oh, no,' is right," Draco snarled. "This is what we get for trying to placate those attention mongers. Your friends," he nearly spat.

"My friends?" Ginny responded hotly. "One of them is your girlfriend, if you'll recall. Why didn't you have her put a lid on it? Too busy taking care of other matters, were you, Malfoy?"

Draco looked as if he wanted to shake her senseless. Then he seemed to reconsider and took a deep breath instead, rubbing a finger over his chin. Probably has no response to my dead-on assessment, Ginny thought acidly. Stupid, typical, bastard man.

"I don't know how she could do this to me," he murmured, sounding perplexed, "after all the tender moments we've shared."

Ginny flung the paper at his head in reply. Draco raised his hands to protect himself, then picked up the loose pages and smoothed them out.

"You're so easy to wind up. 'Aurors with the Ministry have few suspects, and fewer leads,'" he read. "'Ministry officials declined to comment on whether the deaths of Thomas Kittridge, Henry Thorpe, and Cal Canderer are linked, but those of us at the Prophet believe them to be the first in a line of serial victims.'" Draco snorted. "Do they have trained monkeys over there that write this rubbish?"

Harry and Hermione hadn't known the latest when they'd put the paper to bed last night -- not that Draco or Ginny had rushed to inform them. The forensics had come back on Canderer, and it'd been no surprise to find he'd been killed the same way as the previous two victims, with one notable exception: the killer hadn't cleaned up after himself. Canderer's crime scene had been far more gruesome, indicating that either something had happened to prevent it, or the perpetrator was escalating and was no longer concerned with being careful. They'd also found a fiber under one of Canderer's fingernails, and though additional tests were being performed on that small piece of evidence, it could very well turn out to be nothing.

"'The motive and gender of the "Quidditch Cutter" remains unknown.'" Draco binned the paper with far more force than strictly necessary. "And it will remain unknown to the two of you for much longer, if I have any say in it," he said darkly.

He stared at her. "Are you suggesting that I would reveal confidential facts of this case for sex?" he asked incredulously.

Ginny felt a funny lurch in her stomach that threatened to make her latte come back up. "Anything is possible," she said, trying to sound properly severe.

Draco looked at her as if he didn't recognize her. "I'm not even going to dignify that with a response, Weasley," he said coldly.

Ginny pressed her lips together and excused herself to the loo. She splashed water on her face and willed her hands to stop shaking. What had come over her? Of course Draco wasn't going to tell Hermione anything, regardless of her romantic status with him. He was a consummate professional, and had never given her even the slightest concern that he didn't take his work seriously. He didn't deserve her accusations, especially as they hadn't come from a place of rationality, and she wasn't sure why she'd given voice to them in the first place.

"I'm sorry," she said as she reentered the office.

Draco nodded in response without looking at her. Biting the inside of her cheek, Ginny went to work quietly at her desk. She hated quarreling with him; it tied her up and made it difficult to concentrate on the task at hand. When she found herself rereading the same sentence for the third time, she forced herself to pay more attention to the words. What the hell does this say...

"Thanks," Draco said suddenly, breaking the silence.

Ginny looked up. "Pardon?"

"Thanks," he repeated. "For the pie last night. It was the best one yet."

She knew this was his way of apologizing to her, and was so relieved by his overture that she responded, "It was, wasn't it?" before realizing how immodest that would sound to someone who believed she'd baked it herself. "I mean ... that is ... I changed the recipe a bit to make it, um, better." Ginny wracked her brain for some baking knowledge. "You know, to make the chocolate ... chocolatey-er, and the crust, um, crustier."

Draco nodded solemnly. "It was definitely both chocolatey-er and crustier."

"I'm glad you thought so," said Ginny, smiling a little. He smiled back, and the knots in her stomach loosened.

They worked in companionable silence this time, until an owl arrived bearing an official French Ministry tassel and a letter. They'd managed to secure an interview with Alain Beauchamp for that very day (really, the request been out of courtesy; if he'd refused to see them they would have gone to France and compelled him). After getting a quick bite to eat, they'd Apparated to Quiberon Stadium once more.

At first, things went swimmingly. Beauchamp was courteous and professional. Sure, underneath the veneer of civility was a clear disdain for the British (or perhaps anyone who wasn't Beauchamp himself), but it wasn't the first time Ginny had encountered disdain from others, and she'd learned early on to ignore it. Other people could think of her however they liked; she knew who she was and wasn't about to let anyone make her feel inferior.

Draco, of course, hadn't been willing to let it go at that.

Ginny conducted the interview while he circled the room like a vulture sensing carrion. At one point she even thought about asking him to stop, because he was making her nervous.

Initially, Beauchamp appeared unaffected, and Ginny had to admire what a cool customer he was. If he was hiding something, they'd be hard pressed to find it out from one interview. But Draco seemed determined to make the other man break, and eventually, he did. Ginny and Draco had gotten approval from Beauchamp's supervisor to spend as much time with him as they needed, so they did just that. After nearly three straight hours of being questioned and orbited, beads of sweat began to dot the Frenchman's forehead. The moment he broke was when Ginny asked the same question for the fourth time, and before he could answer again with the same neutral statement he always responded with, Draco suddenly whirled on him and snarled the question in French. Beauchamp had turned beet red and answered in kind, and suddenly there was rapid-fire French dialogue between them that Ginny only vaguely followed, as her French was spotty at best.

She thought she might have caught the phrase "giant flesh-eating wombat," but that couldn't be right.

Afterward, trudging back to the office, Ginny remarked on the uselessness of the entire session, as what little evidence they had didn't necessarily point to Beauchamp as the culprit. By the time they'd left, they had accomplished nothing more than flustering a security guard.

"And what did you say to him, anyway?" Ginny questioned.

"Oh, I was just trying to get his cooperation by mentioning my grandmother. He didn't know I was from that Malfoy family. As if there are so many," Draco sniffed, then grinned smugly. "But he won't be making that mistake again."

"Malfoy ... you didn't ... I mean, there wasn't any mention of a giant flesh-eating wombat, was there?"

"What? Oh, Maurice? You heard that part, did you? I didn't know you could speak French, Weasley."

"Only a little bit, but that's not the point! You're going to get us in trouble for threatening a witness! What if he reports us?"

"I didn't threaten him, and he won't report us," Draco said in that way he had, seeping outrage that she would dare suggest such a thing. "And anyway, he's not really a witness, so even if I did threaten him, it's fine."

Ginny had been too drained to argue further.

When they arrived back at the office, an owl was waiting for her from Harry, who wanted to know if she'd like to meet up for drinks later. No doubt he wanted to know how things had gone with Ron. Well, he'd have to wait for the answer, as Ginny didn't anticipate being able to leave for hours yet.

To her surprise, Harry responded to her request for a rain check with a plea to reconsider, saying that he would meet her as late as she wanted. Ginny's first reaction was that it would be late and she just wanted to go home. Then she caught Draco smiling to himself, obviously not thinking about anything work related, and she decided that perhaps having drinks with Harry was just the ticket. She suggested going to Unrobed, a trendy new restaurant that she and Draco had been to several times in the recent past. (He absolutely loved the place.) Ginny had to admit the atmosphere was wonderful, as was the food, which was why she suggested it. She probably wouldn't have a chance to eat before then.

Ginny thought about inviting Draco along, but when she casually brought up the possibility of dinner, he looked at her blankly and said that he already had plans for the evening. And she didn't want to probe any further than strictly necessary, knowing that, however irrational it was, if he said those plans were with Hermione it would render her unable to enjoy her night.

Even at nine on a Tuesday night, Unrobed was packed to the gills. Ginny had to get past the uppity hostess (who was a lot less friendly when Draco wasn't around) in order to squeeze through the mass of people who seemed determined not to let her through. After a bit of searching she spotted Harry's thick mass of unruly dark hair and trademark glasses, so she began to make her way over to him.

"Isn't this place insane?" she gasped, scooting into the booth. "Nice table."

Harry shrugged. "I didn't have anything to do with it."

Ginny laughed. "You only think you didn't. Do you know how difficult it is to get a table like this? Right next to the window?"

Harry scoffed, just as she'd known he would. "It was luck," he dismissed, uncomfortable as ever with his fame. "I arrived just as this table opened up. I've ordered a G&T for you."

"Bless you," Ginny said gratefully. She removed her coat and settled in, the drinks arriving just as she flashed Harry a smile. "Cheers," she toasted, then downed most of her glass in one gulp.

"Hard day at work?" Harry asked mildly, taking a small sip of his beer.

"Long. Very long," Ginny replied. She pointed a finger at him. "You're not trying to use our friendship to get information out of me, are you?"

"If I thought it would do any good, I might," he said, grinning. "But since I know you'll be a wall of silence, I'm just asking as a friend."

Ginny flagged down a server and ordered a beer with a chaser, which Harry seconded. "Good. I'm just beat enough that my will might not be as indomitable as usual."

"Thanks for the tip."

Ginny watched him as he sipped at his drink. Harry had always been a contradiction to her, which had probably contributed to her silly crush on him all those years ago. There was a casual air that hung about him, as if he didn't have a care in the world, but she knew he carried a lot of weight on his shoulders. He'd been a young boy with the responsibility of a dozen men, yet rarely had he ever managed to look as tired as he did just then. Rolling her head around, trying to ease the tension in her own shoulders, Ginny eyed her friend closely. "You look really uptight, Harry."

"I do?" He sounded genuinely surprised.

"Yeah. 'Fess up, Potter -- what's bothering you?"

"Nothing," he answered, too quickly.

"Yeah, nothing's bothering me, too," Ginny muttered. "Come on, we're here as friends, right? You can tell me. Is it just that you're tired from your job of making Ministry Aurors sound like incompetent morons?"

He didn't even have the good manners to look ashamed. "Ah, read our article, did you?"

"It was kind of difficult to avoid, given the screaming headline. The Quidditch Cutter -- I like it. Catchy."

"I bet Malfoy loved it." Now he just looked ridiculously satisfied.

"Oh, he did, he did," said Ginny. "He raved about it. Read select passages out loud, even." Harry laughed. "But officially, my position is that I'm terribly angry with the two of you, the way you took advantage of us kind, accommodating souls in order to write a sensationalistic article that serves no higher purpose than to stroke your own overly large egos."

"Hmm. Quoting anyone in particular?" Harry raised his eyebrows.

"Maybe."

"How'd it go with Ron last night?"

"Oh, it's just one happy topic after another with you, Potter." Ginny sighed and shrugged. "About as expected, I'd say."

Harry nodded. "Hermione and I had lunch with him today."

"Did you?" Ginny was surprised; then Harry already knew what Ron was going to do, so why had he wanted to meet? "Did you manage to change his mind?"

"What do you think?"

"Just once, I wish he'd --" Ginny stopped. "But that’s my stupid brother, storming in head first without weighing the consequences. If he can even see the consequences anymore."

Harry rubbed his forehead wearily. "Yeah. It's sort of useless trying to admonish him, isn't it?"

"Well, that's always been true," Ginny said. "Even before the war."

They were both silent, and Ginny knew they were both reflecting on the past. She also knew he was probably thinking of what he might have done differently that might have made things better. Harry often did that; took things that weren't his fault and felt guilty about them. She wondered where he went sometimes, when his eyes got that far away look and he wasn't really in the present anymore, almost like a Time-Turner had hurled him halfway into the past. Ginny, on the other hand, spent a lot of time thinking about Percy and how grateful she was that Ron was still with them, however frustrating he could be at times.

"How was everyone else?" Harry asked after they'd both finished their drinks. "And are you hungry?"

"Starved," Ginny said.

After some consideration, they ended up ordering a salad and garlic bread to share, as well as a couple of hamburgers, chips, and two more beers.

"No one else was there," Ginny answered when the server departed. "Everyone ended up canceling for one reason or another. The twins might have showed up later."

Harry looked surprised. "I'll bet Ron wasn't too happy about that."

"Well, who can blame him? He barely gets any time off as it is, and when he does, no one can even make the effort to see him," Ginny said. "It's not as awful as all that, of course, but you know how Ron is."

Harry nodded. "Yeah. He didn't used to be like this."

"I know," Ginny said quietly, remembering the easygoing nature her brother had had before the war.

"At least the twins always manage to lift his spirits," Harry added, trying to sound cheerful. "But you don't know if they were there?"

Ginny shook her head. "I left a little early last night." She buried her face in her hands guiltily. "I'm such a hypocrite, talking about the others, when I'm no better!"

"At least you were there for most of it," Harry pointed out reasonably. "And I'm sure you had a good excuse for leaving."

"Well, yes," said Ginny, not sure why she was feeling a twinge of conscience. "Malfoy and I had some work to do."

"You did? What was it? Okay, you don't have to be specific, but did you find something else? Has there been another murder?" Harry kept his voice pitched low, but there was no mistaking his interest.

Ginny shifted uncomfortably. "No ... nothing like that. We went over the interviews the French Aurors conducted at the stadium."

Harry looked surprised. "I thought you did that on Sunday."

"We did," Ginny said. "But ... we need to be thorough. It's our jobs to be thorough."

"I understand that, but does it really require you to--" Here Harry stopped, studying her intently. For some reason Ginny wanted to avoid his gaze, but instead met it steadily, hoping to brazen her way out of the situation, though she wasn't quite sure what the situation was. "Of course," Harry murmured. "That makes total sense." He lifted his mug and took a deep gulp.

"What?" Ginny demanded. Her palms were tingling and she felt a little flushed. How much had she drunk? Only a couple of beers ... and a couple of shots ... and a G&T. It was nothing. They'd barely even started.

"You," Harry announced. For the first time, Ginny noticed the telltale flush on his neck, indicating his less-than-sober state. "You and him."

"You're drunk," Ginny said in disgust.

"No, I'm not," Harry denied. "But it wouldn't matter even if I were. It's as plain as the freckles on your face. You like him."

"I don't even know who you're talking about," Ginny scoffed, although she knew perfectly well. She wanted to derail him early if she could.

"Malfoy. You like him. You want to have sex with him."

"Harry!" Ginny's screech was so loud that it drew interest from several patrons. This was Unrobed, after all -- anything could be happening. She leaned forward and drew her mug close to her face, trying to hide behind it. "I don't," she hissed furiously. "Draco's my partner and that's all."

"Ha! You just called him 'Draco'!"

"So what? I call him Draco sometimes."

"Yes, but when you say it, it sounds like 'Draaayyyyy-co,'" Harry mimicked, "all lovey like."

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Harry Potter, you are so drunk I can't even listen to you. Next you're going to be telling me and that guy over there that you love us and want to live with us."

Harry looked over at the bloke Ginny had indicated and gave a delicate shudder. "No, I'm not drunk. Or at least, I'm still sober enough to know what I'm saying. And I do love you. But I hate you, too."

Now it was Ginny's turn to be surprised. Harry had looked down immediately after his proclamation, and looked so miserable that she knew he was telling the truth. "You hate me? Why?" Ginny was, naturally, hurt. And, all right, maybe a little tipsy. But why should he hate her?

Harry took a deep breath and ran both hands through his hair, looking so overwrought that Ginny's hurt gave way to curiosity. Something was clearly bothering him, but he was being so damn reticent. She'd have to coax it out of him. "Harry? What is it? What did I do?"

"You set Hermione up with Draco," he mumbled.

Their food arrived, but Ginny ignored her rumbling stomach and focused on Harry. "Not that again," she said. "I don't want to talk about that." If she could go back in time and keep herself from ever coming up with that idea, she would. But time turners were rare, and she doubted she'd get Ministry sanction to use one for this purpose, anyway. She was ready to admit that, for whatever reason and despite her initial intentions, Draco and Hermione being together bothered her. Ginny didn't know why it was, but after questioning herself constantly and coming up short on answers, she'd decided to accept it as just one of those things.

"Well, too fucking bad!" Harry snapped, making Ginny stare at him in amazement. She didn't know if he'd ever used that tone with her before, and he almost never cursed. "You did it, it's all your fault, and I want you to undo it!"

"I can't undo it," Ginny said. "I would if I could!"

"They're dating," Harry whispered. "They like each other." He looked like he might cry, which made Ginny feel bad. "Oh God, I think I'm going to be sick."

"You just need to eat something," Ginny said encouragingly. "You haven't eaten in hours, and you've had a lot to drink. Eat this burger." She pushed one of the plates at him.

After looking at it dubiously, Harry picked up the proffered item and took a tentative bite. His next bite was large and healthy, and soon he was devouring the burger ravenously. Watching him reminded Ginny of how hungry she was, so she began to eat her own food.

After they were through, they asked for two glasses of water, which they drank thirstily.

"Do you think we'll need sobriety potions?" Harry asked.

Ginny shrugged and stifled a yawn. "We'll probably be okay."

"Just in case..." Harry said dubiously. "Maybe we should brew some. I've got things to do tomorrow, and I really don't need to be hung over."

"All right, then. I don't have the right ingredients, though, do you?"

"No. But didn't you say last time that Malfoy said--"

"No! We're not going there tonight."

"Why not?"

"Because ... because I saw him earlier, and he was ... with Hermione." Ginny bit her lip.

"Oh."

Subdued, the two of them picked at the remaining chips on their plates.

"What were they doing?" Harry sounded extremely reluctant to ask the question, but couldn't help himself.

"Nothing," Ginny hastened to assure. "She'd only just got there."

"There?"

"Malfoy Manor. It looked like she had brought overnight things. I cut off our communication before they felt like they had to explain. It was very uncomfortable." It also explained why Draco had been so surly when she'd accidentally contacted him with her ring, though, of course, she hadn't realized it was what she'd done until later. Ginny didn't quite know what had happened; one minute she was placing it on her finger after getting dressed from the shower, and the next she'd been looking around Draco's study. He hadn't seemed to notice her, so intent was he on what he was doing -- clacking away on that old Muggle typewriter she'd given him.

She'd been so surprised to see him using it (thinking he'd consigned it to the rubbish heap long ago) that she blurted, "What are you doing?" forgetting that her presence was, at the very least, unexpected. And indeed, after he'd recovered from the shock of her presence, they'd proceeded to have a mild row in which she tried to explain that her ring had malfunctioned, but he'd been maddeningly unsympathetic, practically biting her head off and generally being a complete jerk about the whole thing. She didn't understand what the hell his problem was, but Hermione showed up before she could straighten him out, and Ginny had left bitterly.

"So she's spending the night there?"

"I don't know," Ginny said, trying not to think about it. Harry looked so morose that even though she wanted to drop the subject entirely, she offered, "I know you're concerned about her, but you really shouldn't be. Draco really is a wonderful person. He'll treat her right. He's not the sort of man who cares about people easily, but when he does--"

"That's what I'm afraid of!" Harry said.

Ginny gaped at him. "You don't want him to care about her?"

"No!"

"But ... why?" Ginny was at a loss. She would have thought that if Hermione, who was one of his best friends, cared about someone, Harry would want to see those feelings returned. "Look, I know you didn't get along in school -- let's face it, none of us got along with him -- but don't you think it's past time that we let bygones be bygo--"

"It's not that," Harry interrupted. "I mean, I'm glad he's being decent. He'd better be. She deserves that. But..." He trailed off and wouldn't meet her eyes.

It was then that Ginny was struck with the realization that none of this had to do with Draco at all. "You're in love with Hermione," Ginny breathed, feeling both delighted and horrified at the same time. What had she done? A little voice in her head that sounded suspiciously like Draco lectured her about the pitfalls of matchmaking, and she ruthlessly silenced it.

"Of course I love her!" Harry said, a dull flush creeping into his cheeks. "I mean, she's my best friend--"

"Oh, don't give me that bullshit," Ginny said bluntly. "It may have taken me awhile to get there, but now I can see right through you."

Harry opened his mouth as if to argue further, then appeared to give up. "You and Hermione both," he said.

"Oh, Harry," Ginny said sympathetically. "I feel so awful. Why didn't you tell me? Or rather," she quickly amended when he gave her a withering look, "why didn't you tell her?"

"Tell her?" he repeated incredulously. "Why in the world would I do that? So she can look at me with pity and discomfort while she finds a way to let me down gently, which, despite trying, will probably fail because she's never quite mastered the art of honesty with tact? Not to mention that by doing so, I'd be irrevocably altering our friendship to the point where it could never be the same. I couldn't take that. Look what it did to her and Ron. I couldn't lose her like that"

"What? Hermione and Ron are still friends," Ginny pointed out.

"Yes, but it's never been the same. She doesn't look at him the same way, and when she does ... it's because she's forgotten for a moment, and I can see it, Gin, I can see what happens to her face when she remembers again, and I can't ever have her look at me that way. It would kill me."

"Maybe it's not their relationship ending that's affected the way Ron and Hermione relate to one another. We're all different from who we used to be, Harry," said Ginny. "The war changed us. But you and Hermione have maintained a strong friendship even after all this time. I have to believe that's a good sign."

"Even if you're right, it's too late now," Harry said, taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes. "I was hoping that with a little time she might, I don't know, start to see me differently. But now there's Malfoy, so I might as well give up."

"That's not true," Ginny protested. "You could win her back! They've only just started seeing one another; she likes you loads better than she likes Draco, I'm sure."

"Yeah, but in a totally different way," Harry said darkly. "Besides, do women usually end things with Malfoy?"

Ginny opened her mouth to say that of course Draco had had his relationships ended by his girlfriends plenty of times ... only she couldn't think of even one instance. Usually they'd just stop coming round, and when Ginny mentioned it, he'd just shrug and say he'd gotten bored, clearly uninterested in pursuing the topic further. Also, she could name at least two separate occasions on which she'd needed some form of consolation after a relationship had ended (whether or not she'd done the breaking off), and Draco had been a good friend. But she couldn't remember a single time when he'd needed to be consoled about the ending of a relationship. Therefore, she had to admit reluctantly, "Not really." Then she brightened. "But there's a first time for everything! You could break them up, Harry, I know you could! I could help!"

Harry looked dejected. "No ... if she's really happy with him, I don't want to jeopardize that."

"Sure you do!" Ginny said insistently. "Tell her he snores."

"Does he?"

"Who cares?" Ginny brushed the question aside impatiently. Honestly, Harry was behaving as if he'd never prevaricated before, and she knew for a fact that was not the case. "No. But oh! Tell her he's really messy, and leaves dishes and clothes lying around all the time."

"That would drive her crazy!" Harry said, his eyes lighting up.

"Only ... if she spent any amount of time with him, she'd figure out fairly soon that he's obsessively neat," Ginny said thoughtfully.

"So is she," Harry said, looking depressed again. "They're obviously perfect for each other. Hermione's number one complaint about me is how ridiculously messy I am. This plan would only work if I had something to offer her that Malfoy didn't, and it's glaringly obvious that I don't."

"It'll work!" Ginny insisted. "We're just not thinking hard enough. Let's see, what else ... well, to be honest, she already knows most of his negative qualities. He's conceited, and sarcastic..."

"Condescending," Harry supplied helpfully. "Rude ... chauvinistic ... dismissive ..."

"He's not all those things all the time," Ginny said loyally. "Only sometimes. But the point is, she's already aware."

"And she's fine with it." Harry finished off his water. "I think I need another beer."

"No, you don't," Ginny said. "I need your brain at full capacity so we can think of how to break them up."

"Why are you so determined to break them up, anyway?" Harry asked, looking at her suspiciously. "You're the one who wanted to get them together in the first place." In his voice was a world of condemnation.

"I just want to help you," Ginny responded primly.

Harry leaned forward and looked at her even more closely. She tried to meet his eyes, but after a couple of seconds had to pick up her own glass of water.

"No you don't!" he exclaimed. "I was right before! You're upset because he has a girlfriend he really cares about, and that bothers you, because you want him for yourself!"

"I don't think of Draco that way!" Ginny protested hotly. "But yes. All right? Yes, I admit it, thinking of the two of them together bothers me. Not because of what you're suggesting, but because ... I don't know, it's childish and stupid, but I think it's because the two of them were my friends first, and now they're -- well, now when they want to go out for drinks, or have dinner, or whatever, they won't think of doing those things with me. They'll have each other to do those things with. It's completely selfish, but now it's as though I've lost two friends, which isn't really the case, I know, I've admitted it was irrational ... but that's how it feels. And I'll get used to it; it'll just take a little time. It's hard when your best friend gets involved with someone. Well, you'd know."

"Yeah," said Harry glumly. "And I can understand how you might feel that way. But you know, Hermione will always be your best friend. She's told me loads of times that there are just some things she'd only feel right sharing with another woman."

"Right," said Ginny, shifting uncomfortably. "But I was sort of talking about Draco."

"Oh," said Harry. "Really? Not ... I mean, not that I don't think he could be someone's best friend" -- his tone implied otherwise, but Ginny let it go -- "but this isn't the first time he's gotten involved with someone since you've been partners, is it? He's always got a girlfriend."

"Not always," Ginny said defensively. "None of those other twits count. They weren't his friends. He was still my friend when he was going out with them. I could still depend on him." She noticed she was playing with her straw and forced herself to stop. "That's important to me."

"Well, of course it is," Harry said. "You have to feel you can count on him; your jobs and your lives rather depend on it."

Ginny looked at him, startled by the simple truth of that statement. "That's true. And he's different with Hermione than the others, so I'm not used to it." And while she knew she ought to be happy about it -- and in fact, would be incensed on Hermione's behalf if it were not the case -- it still made her feel inexplicably sad. "But like I said, it's just a matter of getting used to it. Draco would never let his personal life interfere with his work, so really, I don't have anything to worry about."

Harry sat back in his chair and said, "I don't really believe you. I think you do like him that way, but can't admit it to yourself."

"Fine, believe whatever you want, Harry. It doesn't bother me," Ginny lied. What she really wanted to do was argue with him until he understood with absolute certainty that she had zero romantic interest in Draco Malfoy, but she suspected that her protestation would only make him more set in his opinion.

"You know, it would be a lot easier if you and I had fallen in love," Harry mused.

"Much," Ginny agreed with feeling. "My family loves you..."

"... and I love them," he inserted quickly.

"I really like you and respect you..."

"Ditto."

"...and we get along really well."

"And we've known each other for a really long time."

"And frankly, I'm getting a little tired of the dating scene," Ginny said, sighing. "I mean, Jim is fine, but--"

Harry's brow furrowed. "I thought it was Peter. And didn't you guys break up?"

"No, there's another one. Jim. But we've only been on one date. In any case, Jim, Peter, whatever, it's all starting to feel the same," Ginny said, sighing. "There's this tedious process of getting to know them, and then at some point we figure out whether or not we actually even like each other, and more times than not, the answer is 'no.' And yet we're expected to be intimate and spend loads of time together. Does that make any sense to you? Dating is such a backwards, asinine process. People should be friends first. Like you and me."

"I agree! Figure out if you can even stand to be around one another for an extended period of time before starting anything else."

"Exactly. Harry," Ginny said hesitantly. "Why do you think we never tried to make a go of it?"

"I suppose it's because we don't like each other that way," said Harry thoughtfully.

"But how do we know? Have we ever tried?"

"I suppose not. When you liked me I was a bit of an ignorant prat, and when I liked you--"

"You liked me?" Ginny repeated in amazement. "When?"

Harry shrugged. "Oh, it was only for a couple of months in seventh year. But I was hardly alone. Suddenly, you had this body..." He waggled his eyebrows, then blushed a little. They both laughed.

"But see, that's exactly what I mean!" Ginny said, grinning. "It might have worked out, if only our timing had been a little better. But it's not really too late, is it?"

Harry's eyebrows shot upward. "What do you mean?"

"Well, we're sitting here talking about breaking Draco and Hermione up, when the real solution might be something far simpler and less destructive. Just think, we could even double date," she joked, although the idea of witnessing Draco and Hermione out on a date made her physically ill. But if she were in love with Harry, surely that wouldn't bother her?

"That's true," said Harry. "I admit I'm curious. And I've had enough to drink that this all makes a kind of sense."

"Me too," Ginny said. "I like experiments. And if it actually worked out, wouldn't it be great?"

"It would be great," Harry agreed.

"Okay, so are we really doing this?"

"Yes. Wait, are we?"

"I think so. I mean, don't you think?"

"Yes?"

"Okay, let's just do it."

"Okay. Yes. All right. Go."

Harry leaned over the table, resting his weight on his arms. Ginny, being smaller, had to move one of her legs up to the seat to push herself forward far enough.

And then she kissed him.

Draco leaned back in his chair and propped his feet up onto the desk. He read the passage over again, highlighting the parts he wanted to consider rewording at some future time. It'd been at least a week since he'd last touched the manuscript, and he'd missed it more than he expected. Writing a novel hadn't always been one of his life ambitions, but inspiration had struck one day whilst he'd been studying the old Muggle typewriter Ginny had given him one Christmas as a gag gift. He wasn't sure what he wanted to do with the thing -- tossing it out with the trash sounded like a good idea (where most, if not all, Muggle things belonged) -- but the thought had suddenly occurred him that he could use it for its intended purpose.

He flipped through a few more pages, refreshing his memory and re-immersing himself in the story.

He'd told himself he was just going to type a word or two so he could see how it worked, to prove how very inferior Muggle technology was. He knew the answer in theory, but he'd never tested it before, and Draco never fully trusted anything until he'd examined it from every angle. To his surprise, the second he had put his fingers to the keys, he'd begun to feel an affinity for the contraption. He began typing ... and typing ... and typing. After awhile he actually learned where all the letters were (typical of Muggles to create an asinine system wherein the keyboard resembled some unsolvable puzzle) and began to formulate words. Even more surprising, the story had started to form itself. He'd never fancied himself a novelist, true, but he wasn't shocked to discover that he had yet another talent.

Where had he left off last time? Oh, yes ... Draco took a sip of his drink and began to type.

"What are you doing?"

Ginny was standing in his living room.

It wasn't actually Ginny, of course, just a wispy, unsubstantial representation of her, but she could still see what he was doing, and since he hadn't expected her in the least, Draco still had a small heart attack when she spoke.

"I'm not afraid of ghosts," he barked, quickly (but hopefully not obviously) angling the typewriter so she didn't have a prayer of reading what he'd been writing. He hoped the typewritten pages he'd carelessly left on the table near his leather couch wouldn't draw her attention. "What?"

"Isn't that my line?" She sounded vaguely impatient, and he thought she had some cheek when she was the one who'd just barged in unannounced.

"Did you want something?" he countered.

She gestured at him and enunciated her words slowly. "What do you want?"

He was genuinely confused. Was it not really Ginny at all, but a ghost come to lecture him on the terrible life he was leading and to make him repent his ways before he regretted it forever? "You mean ... in life?"

"No, not in bloody life, right now! What did you want?"

"For you to go away," he snapped, the aggression in her voice sparking his own.

"Then why did you summon me?" She placed her hands on her hips in apparent exasperation.

Was he going mad? No, it had to be her. "I didn't summon you."

"But... then how..." She glanced down at the ring on her finger. "It must have malfunctioned," she said, looking a little embarrassed. "I just found myself here. I thought I must have missed it blinking or something. Sorry."

"Yes, well, leave immediately and we won't speak of it again," he said easily. Now that the shock and pique were beginning to recede, he began to worry. How long had she been there? Had she been standing behind him at any point? Had he mumbled some of the words aloud, as he tended to do, when he was writing? Was she going to push him to know what, exactly, he was doing hunched over the stupid typewriter?

"What are you doing?" she asked, looking at him curiously.

Apparently she was.

"Nothing," he snapped. "Why are you still here?"

"Excuse me," she said, looking annoyingly gorgeous in her casual clothes. Was that what she'd been wearing under her robes today? Shame he'd missed it until now. Though Ginny in Auror robes looked good, too. It always irritated him a little bit when she looked more gorgeous than usual, though he didn't know why. It used to irritate him that he thought she looked gorgeous at all, but he'd gotten used to it after the first year or two they'd been partners. "Apparently someone gets surly when guests show up without pie."

"You're excused," he said magnanimously.

She looked as though she couldn't believe he was being so dismissive. "Fine," she bit out.

"Fine," he said back, just as shortly. "You apparently can't manage to control your own ring; that's your problem. But now it's infringing upon my evening, and I don't appreciate it. We work hard, Ginny, and my private time is very important to me."

He felt like a bit of an arse even as he said it, but he'd been on edge all day, from the moment he'd read that pathetic article by the laughably hard-hitting team of Potter and Granger. Ginny had all but picked a fight with him earlier, and while he'd forgiven her for it, he was still irritable where she was concerned. All he'd been looking forward to was coming home, having a brandy, and putting in some work on his novel.

Yes, explaining all that to her would go over smashingly. Not only would she laugh him out of his own study once she found out he was writing a work of fiction, but she would probably tell Potter and Granger and her prat of a brother and the four of them would have a great guffaw at the expense of that Malfoy git. He knew Ginny was on his side for the most part, but sometimes he feared that if her loyalties were ever truly tested, he would find that they actually lay with the lot of goody-two-shoes she'd grown up with rather than her Ministry-assigned partner.

Draco didn't fancy the news of his novel as being anything revolutionary enough to test anyone's loyalty, but he was annoyed and obviously in the wrong where this spat with Ginny was concerned, so wallowing in a bit of self-pity for possible slights helped ease his conscience a little.

"All right," Ginny said, looking ever so slightly miffed. "Sorry to have caused so much trouble for you. I never realized my presence in your life was such a disturbance. I'll try to keep it in mind the next time you come round to sleep on my couch because you can't stand..."

She trailed off at the sound of quick footsteps out in the hall. Draco turned his head toward the door and a second later, Hermione Granger, weighed down with parcels, barged into his study.

"Oh, what fresh hell..." he muttered under his breath, glad when neither woman seemed to hear him. This was just another in a long line of unpleasant surprises determined to ruin his evening of quiet solitude and creativity. Had Granger ever even been to Malfoy Manor before? What the bloody fuck was she doing here? And didn't anyone believe in the courtesy of announcing their intent to visit prior to the fact anymore?

"Sorry," Granger said, looking between them. The head of steam that had obviously propelled her inside seemed to dwindle. "Your butler let me in. I didn't mean to intrude--"

"No, you didn't," Ginny said immediately, looking like she wanted to be anywhere but there at the moment. Then it seemed to dawn on her that she wasn't actually there, and she brightened. "It's fine. All my fault, really, sorry, total mistake. I didn't realize you were coming. I'll see you tomorrow, Malfoy."

Without giving him a chance to respond, she was gone, leaving him alone with Granger, which was possibly his least favorite thought of all time. Ginny's hot-and-cold moods where his "relationship" with Granger was concerned were starting to genuinely perplex him. She made a lot of noise about wanting him to find a nice girl and settle down, but when he finally did seem to be going along with her idea of what would make him happy, she still wasn't satisfied.

It was somewhat tedious, being so central to someone's existence. He decided that while she wanted him to be happy, Ginny would absolutely hate it if he weren't available whenever she needed a shoulder to cry on or a sympathetic ear to listen to her whine. Her couch was his second home (no matter how often he might try to pretend that it was too lumpy or wasn't nearly soft enough for him), and he wasn't particularly interested in changing that. The sort of women he normally dated suited him fine, just as his friendship with Ginny suited him fine, and her annoying habit of meddling in other people's business was just mucking things up. Ribbing her about Granger would show her the error of her ways, and hopefully, several years would pass without another insane matchmaking attempt. Draco sighed in satisfaction. Yes, if ever there had been a doubt (which there had not), he was truly a master of the human psyche -- Ginny's in particular.

Coming back to the moment, he noticed Granger still standing by the door, face scrunched up like an angry raccoon. "What do you want, then?" he asked, resigned to being kept from his novel for the rest of the evening.

"I'm here to return all this rubbish," Granger said, letting the parcels she held drop to the floor near his leather couch. "I don't -- I don't need any of it anymore."

Draco tried to appear interested. "Well, I'm glad to hear you've gotten Potter to come around already--"

"Bugger off," she hissed. "He hasn't come around at all, and you know it. What neither of us has admitted is that ... he never will. It's not -- I'm just not what he wants, all right? Better for everyone to admit it and end this insane scheme."

"Must we really go through this again?" Draco asked with a sigh.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Granger informed him primly.

"You most certainly do," he said firmly. "You come to me, blustering about how ridiculous or underhanded you find our plan. I organize my thoughts until you're finished, then I remind you that you desperately want to get inside Potter's trousers, and after a few moments of truly tense indecision, you agree to continue until we've landed you a Harry of your very own."

"You're a pig," Granger spat, "and I want nothing more to do with you."

"If you're going to be angry with me, I welcome it," Draco said, "but please do us both the courtesy of being angry with me, and not simply using me as a receptacle for all your frustration and humiliation about Potter." The idea of receiving even Potter's castoff frustration was enough to turn Draco's stomach.

To his horror, tears began to fill Granger's eyes. It was utterly intolerable that he would have to comfort a sobbing Hermione Granger, and so he quickly shifted tactics.

"I've also got a bloody bone to pick with you," he said, rising from his desk chair.

"About what?" That was good. Her voice was still thick with unshed tears, but she was getting her hair up like a wet cat, so it was unlikely she would cry. Hex him, perhaps, but not cry.

"Your article," he spat the word, "that appeared in the Prophet this morning."

"I thought it was quite good, actually," Granger argued. "Factual, not at all sensational, and I told you we'd be giving the killer a name."

"The Quidditch Cutter?" Draco exclaimed. "Why not ... the Slayer of Innocent People, or Hacks McGee!"

"Hacks McGee isn't at all accurate," Granger said logically. "It doesn't mean anything, does it?"

"I'm not going to strangle you right now, Granger, and I'll tell you why," Draco said calmly. "It's because if I did, they would write me up in the paper and give me a name like Reporter Roper and I couldn't bear the shame of it all."

For a moment, it looked like she was going to fight back, to say something equally cutting in response, but then she practically deflated.

Luckily, this new defeated Granger seemed to not want to burst out into tears, so Draco cautiously rejoiced his good fortune.

"I love him so much," she whispered, "and he doesn't want me at all. He never will, and all the clothes and makeup and hair charms in the world aren't going to change that."

Draco spat upon fortune, as this might be worse than tears: she was being vulnerable. He walked over to her and patted her shoulder once, quickly, before retracting his hand again.

"Buck up, Granger," he said cheerfully. "We've only just begun this campaign. By the time we're through with him, Potter won't even think another woman's name."

"I'm being comforted by Draco Malfoy," she mumbled, sitting heavily on his leather sofa and burying her face in her hands. "I can't believe it's come to this."

"We all have little ironies that make up our lives," Draco said brightly as he strolled to the trolley that held the liquor decanters and freshened up his drink. "Brandy?" he asked. There was no response. "Honestly, Granger, I know you didn't grow up in a proper house, but surely you've heard that when you're a guest in someone's home, and they offer you a drink, you're meant to make a resp-- put that down!"

Granger's eyes were wide as saucers as she held a stack of neatly typed paper in her lap. Draco spilled a few drops of brandy on the floor as he crossed the room in a few long paces, making a desperate grab at the pages.

"She loved him," Granger read aloud as she skillfully evaded his grasp. "He was her partner and the only person in the world she trusted beyond reason, and she loved him without knowing why or how, without knowing if he loved her back. She would tell him, Georgia had decided. She would tell Deacon in all his elegant perfection and superior grace; she would confess the secrets of her soul and hope that his cold, twisted heart could love her back." Her arm went limp, and Draco seized the opportunity and the pages she still held.

Draco clutched them to his chest protectively, barely even able to speak from outrage. "You had no right--"

"You're writing a book," Granger said incredulously.

"Yes, yes, so I'm writing a book--"

"You're writing a book about you and Ginny," she went on like an absolute lunatic.

"What? Don't be so ridiculous," he scoffed.

"Deacon and Georgia?"

"Very common names for fictional characters," he insisted, smoothing out the pages and placing them safely on his desk.

"Is she a redhead?" Hermione asked casually.

"You wouldn't know anything about the creative mind," Draco snapped, "but since you're so damnably interested, allow me to enlighten you. We novelists--"

She snickered. He ignored her.

"--take things from our every day lives and make them different, bigger, better--"

"So you're saying Ginny being in love with you would be better," Granger inserted.

"--to weave a complex relationship into something more easily understood by a traditional, mainstream audience," he continued as if she hadn't spoken.

"I see," Granger said, as though the secrets of the universe had been revealed to her. "So it's not that you fancy Ginny, it's that you're pandering to your audience."

It only took him a moment to decide which was worse. "Yes," he ground out. "Sex will make the book easier to sell."

Granger seemed to be weighing his sincerity for a moment, then smiled. "Since you're obviously in complete denial, and because you are an infinitely pitiful creature, I am going to leave this alone, Malfoy," she said.

"Very gracious of you," he snapped. Was he supposed to be grateful that she had ceased trying to turn his novel into some kind of twisted expression of his supposed unrequited desire for Ginny? Just because she was projecting her own pathetic situation with Potter onto him didn't mean he had to go along with it. However, she was incredibly pitiable herself, and Draco decided on a rare demonstration of mercy. "Come on," he said. "I could do with a walk. It clears my head when I'm writing, and God knows you're strung higher than a giant's guitar."

To his surprise, she laughed; if he'd known punning was a way to manage her ... well, he wouldn't have done anything, because he still greatly disliked her.

"A walk actually sounds lovely," she said, looking surprised.

"However," he said, holding up a hand in warning, "this offer in no way is meant to indicate that I like you."

She sighed at him. "Perish the thought," she assured him. "And I'm still not keeping the clothes."

"We'll see," he said, and rifled through one of the bags until he found a form-fitting lavender suede coat with large buttons down the front. "Why don't you just try this, hmm?"

"You're like the devil," she said quite seriously, but she held out her arms and allowed him to help her on with the coat.

At the front door, Draco accepted his own coat from one of the house-elves, pointedly ignoring the disgusted look Granger sent his way. He was almost disappointed she didn't make a fuss about house-elf rights, as it would have been good for laugh, but Draco dealt well with his disappointment.

Granger hadn't asked where they were walking to, and Draco was glad, because he honestly didn't know. Sometimes, the walls of the house just started closing in on him and he couldn't stop seeing things he'd rather forget, like the look on his father's face the day Draco had almost killed him, or worse, the look on his father's face the first time Draco could ever remember making him proud. Those were the nights he usually found himself on Ginny's couch, not only because he couldn't stand to be in the house another second, but because she was the safest place he'd ever known.

"Sickle for your thoughts," Granger said.

In a rare moment of candor, he answered her honestly. "A Sickle isn't nearly enough for what I'm thinking."

"A piece of advice, Malfoy? Never say something that interesting to a reporter unless you actually want her to pry."

"I could go for a bite," he said, smoothly changing the subject. "Have you eaten?"

"Not since lunch," Granger said. "What time is it?"

"Well past dinner time," Draco answered. "Come on, I know a fantastic place. I'll treat. You can bore me to death about your love life."

"How can I resist sweet talk like that?" she muttered, but took out her wand and followed his instructions. They Apparated to a small shop a short block away from the restaurant, as Hermione had never been to Unrobed before.

"What kind of novel is it?" she asked once they were walking again.

Draco shot her a look of discouragement. "I might have known you wouldn't really let go of something. You're like a badger."

She wrinkled her nose. "How is my not letting go of something being like a badger?"

"How should I know?" he asked. "I just assumed you'd try to hit me if I compared you to a dog."

"Not an entirely incorrect assumption, actually," she conceded. "So come on. What's it about?"

They had nearly reached the restaurant and he stepped up on the curb. "Captivated by my stunningly gifted mind, are you, Granger?" he asked. He thought he saw her roll her eyes, but it might have been a trick of the light. "No, it's all right, you don't have to be ashamed. Since your life is so pathetically devoid of any specks of joy, I'll humor your curiosity. But be warned: if you breathe a word about it, Potter's going to be hearing from me and we'll have a nice, long chat about your pathetic obsession."

"Whatever petty threats make you feel secure, Malfoy," she said as they walked past the large window that gave the patrons of Unrobed a view of the street.

He ignored her cheek because he was actually rather keen on the idea of talking about his book. Granger wouldn't have been his first choice ... or second or third or even two hundredth, but she was at least passably intelligent, and would do in a pinch. "It's a mystery about two Aurors who are deeply in love and deeply entrenched in finding a homicidal killer. Not at all based on fact." They'd reached the door and he held it out for her, but she didn't move. "Granger, I know you haven't been to a lot of expensive restaurants over the years, but they're just like the cheap places Potter takes you to; you've still got to walk through the door yourself."

Then he got a good look at her face. She looked like she'd been punched in the stomach, but the instinct to double over hadn't quite hit her yet. Her skin was paler than usual, and if she'd been about to cry earlier in his study, the sound that would surely escape her mouth when looking like that would summon werewolves to them. Not really wanting to know what had caused such anguish, he followed her line of sight to one of the tables that could be seen clearly through the window of his formerly favorite new restaurant.

What he saw was Potter and Ginny, wearing the outfit he'd thought her so gorgeous in earlier (I knew she wouldn't have worn that to work, Draco thought, because it was the only sentiment that actually solidified in his mind), and they were doing a lot more than exchanging information. Red hair brushed Potter's cheek, and Draco saw Ginny's lips moving on Potter's mouth. Draco averted his eyes before the picture was burned into his brain, another image to add to the collection that forced him out of his dark, empty house in the middle of the night. He wasn't sure he'd succeeded, and he had the hollow thought that, even if he had, where was he supposed to go now that Ginny was one of the things he was escaping?

He had almost forgotten Granger standing beside him, still shocked, heart breaking so loudly he thought he could actually hear it. Without a word, she shook herself, turned, and fled.

Weighing the decision for barely a second, Draco followed.