Harry Potter 1. Draco

**Title: Sometimes and Always**

**Author: fairytalemanipulator**

**Summary: Draco/Ginny post-war. Sticks to as much canon as possible with this pairing, and not AU or OOC. He harbors demons that wish to brand his soul. She banishes them with her radiance.**

**A/N: First D/G story of mine, I was inspired and sat down for two hours to write this all at once. Please review, I'm planning on a second part for this, let me know if there's anything in particular you'd like to see!**

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"The whole course of human history may depend on a change of heart in one solitary and even humble individual--for it is in the solitary mind and soul of the individual that the battle between good and evil is waged and ultimately won or lost."- M. Scott Peck

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Sometimes he was cruel. The words he would spit out of his mouth were sent at her with such vehemence that had she been anyone else, she would retreat.

But she wasn't anyone else, which was why it worked.

When he was cruel, she retaliated, for she had quite the mouth on her as well. They would retreat to separate corners of the house, each fuming, each sorry in their own way for what they had said.

He was always the first to seek her out and apologize.

Not what one would assume of the Malfoy heir.

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Sometimes he would cry. For the first few years, she pretended not to know, pretended not to be the one comforting him in the middle of the night as the Mark burned on his left arm, a terrible memory of what he could have done and who he had been. When he would cry, she would cry. They would wipe each other's tears and wake to a new day, and he would bring her coffee and lay with her until it was time to go to work.

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Sometimes he was uncomfortable.

"Stop acting like a child!" He would sneer at her actions, frustrated and utterly nonplussed at being in Diagon Alley with bystanders gawking as they always did, noses pressed against glass, when the couple stepped out. "Pick something and let's move on!"

She didn't snap at him on those days, because underneath the rudeness she knew how he felt. His reputation was wholly tarnished, nothing but a black stain where a silver crest used to lie. His family was in shambles, and it took all his strength not to break down in front of the witches and wizards who judged him for the things they assumed he did.

"I'm coming," she would murmur, placing a soothing hand on his arm, making her small stature equal with his as she craned her neck to look in his eyes. "It's alright, Draco,"

There was always a crowd inside Madame Malkin's, watching them open-mouthed as they interacted. They didn't hide their surprise, and the couple did not hide their disdain for the gossipmongers.

He would inhale sharply and pinch the bridge of his nose with his fingers, a nervous tic he had inherited from his father. Settling back in his chair, he would wait, his back studiously facing away from the whispering throng. Eventually Madame Malkin would notice his discomfort and shoo away the onlookers, brandishing her wand and threatening to hem robes around the waist. He never knew why she stuck up for him, Merlin knows he deserves the disapproving crowds. His wife once said that not everyone thinks in a Slytherin way—some people are simply kind, without asking for favors in return.

She was one of those.

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Sometimes he doubted their relationship.

She was a Gryffindor through and through, a fact that he told himself again and again he disapproved of until he almost believed it, but not quite. Her lioness nature was what kept him sane, and he never doubted his love for her.

He was hard pressed on occasion, however, to come up with reasons why he was good enough for her.

A pureblood former Death Eater had no place with an honorary member of the esteemed Golden Trio. He still received Howlers on occasion that penetrated their intense Manor wards which told him so, screeching so loud that she would come running, wand ready in a habit that never died after the war.

Everyone had assumed she would end up with the Boy-Who-Lived. After the war, he had seen the Daily Prophet reports of their rendezvous, and stopped reading it after it turned into nothing more than a gossip rag. Therefore he missed the screaming headlines of called-off nuptials, the detailed account of their marriage-gone-wrong, and their announcement to the public that yes, their romantic relationship was over, but they would always care for each other. He did however see, when he would go to the Ministry on business, the slight figure and shocking red hair of the jilted ex of the Chosen One. And when he saw her for the first time, two months after their supposed-to-be wedding with no ring on her finger, he couldn't bring himself to do much more than smirk at her in what he hoped was a haughty fashion.

He didn't feel much like his former self anymore, anyhow. Throwing insults at people who simply took them, or were scared off by the ex-Death Eater, was no fun. Oddly enough, he missed Hogwarts, the place that changed his life forever in ways he could not have imagined as a pureblood wizard of great ancestral heritage. He missed the challenge of bickering with Granger, watching the Weasel get red-faced and sputter, and exchange jibes with Potty.

And he missed watching the youngest Weasel's eyes light up in fire when he called her names, responding with words he was sure her older brothers must have taught her against her mother's wishes.

He missed seeing her in the Great Hall at dinnertime, although the time he saw her snogging her latest boyfriend he had half a mind to hex him into the next dimension before remembering who he was and what he was supposed to act like, and he averted his eyes before Blaise could catch on to what he was looking at.

He watched her often, because she was intriguingly different. He didn't want her in that way, or didn't think he did. He didn't know what he wanted with her. Didn't have a clue, and as a Malfoy, that was a frightening concept for him.

After the war he made excuses to visit the Accounting department of the Ministry, where the youngest Weasley was temporarily helping recovery efforts across England. She was bemused by his behavior, and he was positive she thought he was there on a vindictive mission of his own creation. He wanted her to trust him, but knew that he couldn't make her because he had done too much, said too much, and even if he hadn't carried through his actions still had spoken loudly of an untrustworthy fellow of shady reputation and character, and she was not the type of girl—no, woman—who would fall in with that sort of despicable crowd.

He teased her about her hair, sneered at her parents, threw insults at her brothers, the usual: but it lacked the typical Malfoy malice, and she picked up on that too. She took advantage of his change of heart and threw that back in his face, and let on that she knew what he was trying to do because _I'm not stupid, Malfoy, you can't hide who you are anymore._ So she teased him back as they fell into a familiar routine and he found himself smiling a true smile for the first time since he was fifteen years old. It was oddly comfortable to talk to her not as an heir of a grand fortune, a Death Eater that got off with a slap on the wrist, or a Slytherin, but as an everyday man—and he found himself enthralled with the easy way their relationship unfolded.

His parents were too busy with figuring out their futures to care, and the term "blood-traitor" meant nothing after the destruction of the darkest wizard in history. She was never one to shy away from someone because her family or friends would disapprove: she was too opinionated and hot-headed for anyone to control what she did, but he knew he was getting into hot water with the only girl in a family full of Weasley men. But when one day the teasing continued on into the night, past the time when he was supposed to be back at his office, and into a dimly lit restaurant where he held her hand and felt things in his heart whirr and click in a fashion he hadn't felt since, well, never— he just let it happen.

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Sometimes he felt his old prejudices resurface. He would catch up on the latest Muggle news and feel distaste for their savage culture, devoid of anything magical…how could they live like that?

When he voiced this to her, she didn't get angry the way he thought she would. She looked at him thoughtfully, reading glasses perched on top of her frizzy red hair, chin resting on her dainty freckled hand.

"I want to show you something," she had murmured seductively, sliding her arms around his back. He held on tight as they Apparated not to the bedroom, as he had hoped, but, to his surprise, to a Muggle place filled with lights and cheering people, enticing smells and beaming, chocolate-chewing children.

"What is this place?" He had exclaimed, eyes wide in what she knew was an impish delight at the Ferris wheel, carousel, and numerous game booths present in the nearby vicinity.

"Dad brought me here once with Ron, when we were little tykes. It's a carnival, Draco,"

She had never expected him to be so happy, so carefree, so—_childish_—and "un-Malfoy-like" in his behavior that night, and told him as such later that night as he perched on the sofa at the Manor, delightfully chewing at the cone of an ice cream.

"I had never seen anything so…happy," he had admitted to her, his eyes crackling in time to the fireplace. "And I have never seen something so beautiful,"

His eyes were trained on her, as she self-consciously pulled her tangled hair into a bun at the back of her neck, dim light glinting off of her wedding ring. He had insisted on riding the Ferris wheel three times, and it would take a lot of potion to de-knot her poufy mane.

He wouldn't have cared if she was doused in sweat. "Thank you," he whispered sincerely, words that rarely came out of a Malfoy's mouth. "Thank you for showing me." And she knew he meant it, that he had lost a childhood in the beginnings of a war that was not supposed to be his war to fight, and he was grateful for a chance to relive what could have been had he been a normal wizard.

She softly placed her arms around him, and hugged a delicate, innocent hug that he closed his eyes and enjoyed, taking in the scent of the beautiful woman wrapped around him.

Sometimes he was very, very grateful.

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Sometimes he felt distaste for her friends.

He was never put off by her parents in the way one would think—it was more that he wasn't used to the open friendliness of the entire household. He had always mocked the family he was now a part of, and had only mocked because he was distressed at the happiness that the seemingly impoverished family radiated and attracted. He was used to delicious suppers prepared by the house elves to be eaten alone in front of the latest copy of the Prophet in a lonely, ominous and cold home—not boisterous family dinners supplemented with creaking tables of food, food, and more food. The first dinner was, therefore, unbearably awkward: a house known for its allegiance with Dumbledore was now hosting a member of the enemy, and the heads of the Weasley family were none too comfortable with it.

However, they saw how the two looked at each other. And they knew he was changed. As much as he wanted to portray his bad boy image, he knew that in the post-war climate, he had to make people believe that he was not as evil as he had once been thought.

He mostly did it for her, because he knew that it hurt her when people called him names. So he didn't give them chances for that.

The big bad Slytherin was tamed, or so it would seem.

Even Weasel, the _ever imbecilic git, _suspected the softness growing in his heart. And neither would admit it, but Ron was grateful for the way he treated his sister, and he was grateful for the chance to have a normal life, something that would not have been possible without the powerful testimony of his former enemies at his post-war trial.

He was not on friendly terms with Granger, that relationship would remain rocky and he had no qualms about that—he enjoyed their banter, and knew that he had said too many things about her to be forgiven fully—but he never uttered the detested M-word again after the war.

Not once.  
Potter, however, he could not stand.

He never understood how she could forgive him for leaving her, although she always insisted it was a mutual decision and _"look what good came out of it!"_. The two of them remained friends, much to his dismay, and, unsurprisingly, great jealousy. Words were often exchanged between the two former rivals, Quiddich matches proposed to see the Auror versus the Death Eater, as the eldest Weasley brother put it so cheerfully.

However the reality of it was much less jolly, as he was insanely envious and Potter was unbearably calm towards him, thus reducing any satisfaction he would have gotten from pummeling the Boy-Who-Had-No-Temper.

She made him promise, though. And any promise he made to her, he would never break. He promised he wouldn't hit him, so he didn't.

He didn't, however, promise he wouldn't be jealous. And he told her this, only to have her laugh and say "If you weren't jealous, I'd be worried. I can't help but be jealous whenever Pansy comes over and I even know that you loathe her. I wouldn't have it any other way."

Sometimes, he just knew she was perfect for him.

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Sometimes his nightmares got the best of him. Some nights he was back at the Manor before it had been destroyed, surrounded by the Lestranges, his Aunt Bella, and that terrifying werewolf as his mother looked on beseechingly and his father, his ever respected father, looked everywhere but at his son or the Dark Lord looming before him. Or he was looking on with horror as the Dark Lord strung up Muggle after Muggle, be it man, woman, or child, and instructed his followers to do with them what they deserved.

He didn't think they deserved any of that.

She was a deep sleeper, so she never awoke when he yelped and shot up, heart pounding and sweat collecting on his brow.

But she would come downstairs in her golden nightgown when she felt the loss of his presence at her side in the bed, lights winking on in front of her to a muttered _Lumos, _gliding along like an ethereal spirit of beauty as he sat with a bowed head in his study, a book held unseen in his grasp flipped open to a random page.

She would without fail bring him a glass of water and slip into his lap, placing the book gently on the desk and without making any sounds, would snuggle against him, tracing patterns that gently soothed him on his scarred back. She would run her fingers through his mussed, silky blonde strands of hair, her arms wrapped around him in a comforting hug. He didn't always tell her what he had seen, and she didn't press. She didn't know everything that had happened to him during the war, and it was five years before he answered her questions about the scars on his body. Seeing the Dark Mark had scared her enough, and he didn't want to see that look of shame and fear on her face while looking at him ever again.

Sometimes, he just had to protect this dangerously beautiful woman who was the reason for his existence.

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Sometimes he would reminisce, a glass of good red currant rum in his hand and memories filling up his head. She had always told him that a Pensieve would be a good investment, for she worried about some of the memories he retained. However, he felt it justice that he would have to remember the things he did, and the things he didn't.

He would remember the Triwizard Tournament, the fatal end of it that would never be forgotten. He remembered, with a pang of regret and distant feeling of fear, the way the Diggory boy's body had looked when Potter had brought him back. That had been the first time he had internally questioned what the Dark Lord was attempting to accomplish, and the last time he would be foolish enough to voice those questions out loud to his father.

He would remember the days of innocence, the first year, before he knew of the horrors that lay ahead, where he would see bushy-haired Granger in the library at all hours of the day and admire her for her work ethic, competing wordlessly against her for title of the best in the class although he would never admit any of this to her had she asked.

He would see Lavender Brown snogging the hell out of whoever was foolish enough to get in her path, driving them away just as fast. Blaise was one of her conquests, and he had enough curses to say about her to last a lifetime. They often laid in the dormitory comparing girls, Slytherins and non-Slytherins, making lists of who had what assets and who would be the best at what position. Blaise had been his first best mate, and he regretted dragging him into the mess he made for himself. However, Blaise stood by him no matter what and he was ashamed to say he most likely would not have done the same in his school days.

And then he remembered her. The first time he actually took notice of her was when she went missing in the Chamber of Secrets. His heart had thud-thudded painfully because he had not known what it was like to feel that loss of someone, even someone you did not know. Then when she emerged, with the infamous Harry Potter in tow, he had felt victorious but did not know why. They were not on _our side_, as his father had put, and he should not have cared whether any of them lived or died.

He watched her on and off through the years, saw her grow and blossom in womanly ways and felt the tiniest inkling of attraction to her that he pushed away because she was a _Weasley_ and he was a _Malfoy_ and she was a _blood traitor_ and he was a _Malfoy_. He forgot about her eventually, and her radiant red-brown hair, banging the hell out of Pansy Parkinson to pass the time and becoming something of a sex symbol in the Slytherin house up until his sixth year.

He didn't like remembering what happened after that.

Sometimes, he believed it best to forget.

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Sometimes, he drank too much.

He would stumble in after a hard night alone hitting the firewhiskey, smelling of cheap liquor and slurring words of hatred for everything in his way. She would yell at him, and he would yell back, his voice raised in a desperate sort of way to talk over her. She made him sleep on the couch, making disapproving noises under her breath, untying his shoes for him and shooing the house elves away for the night.

She was, however, a Gryffindor through and through, and would end up sleeping with him on the sofa that was by no means large enough for the two of them because, as she would say to him in a disgruntled fashion in the morning, "I won't be blamed if you die of alcohol poisoning overnight!". And he would pull her into his arms and smell her deliciously fruity smelling hair, appreciating that she let him back every time, and not promising that he wouldn't do it again because a man with many demons needs some way to release them, even if only for a night. And she knew that, disapproved of it, but took him back just the same.

Always, he knew she loved him too.

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Sometimes, she scared the hell out of him.

One day he arrived home at the Manor to find smoke billowing out of the front door, enveloping the yard in thick gloom, with house elves yelping inside. Swearing and using Merlin's name quite creatively, he dropped his briefcase and sprinted to the house in his Italian dragonhide loafers with his wand out.

Stepping into the kitchen, where he found the source of the smoke, he was faced with a wailing young woman with a face blackened by smoke, soot-covered hair, and a formerly white apron. Immediately scooping her into his arms he did a hasty check for injuries before asking her to bloody well tell him what in Merlin's name happened to their home.

"I just wanted to cook the Muggle way for you!" she sobbed into his collar, rubbing her smoke-covered face all over his expensive robe. "Mum always said it was more—more—satisfying than cooking like a witch!" She hiccupped, bouncing against his shoulder with a sniffle.

He wanted to yell at her, wanted to lash out at her for making his heart stop as soon as he entered the gates but couldn't bring himself to scold this darling woman who just wanted to, as she put it, "satisfy" him.

He assured her that he was plenty satisfied and with instructions to the house elves and quick waves of his wand, he set things right again.

He would surprise her, a few days later, with a wrapped package on her side of the bed. Opening it, she would beam with a face full of sunshine at him, tossing the book of "How To Cook Muggle: A Witch's Guide" onto the bed as she leapt into his arms, never losing her youthful exuberance. They used the cookbook together, with him sneakily using wandless magic to keep her from setting the house on fire or exploding something. It was worth it in the end, after two hours of hard labor, to eat a disgustingly watery pot of pasta with home made sauce and bread with his wife feeding him while sitting in his lap.

Sometimes, he truly and absolutely knew he was in love.

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Sometimes, he was so happy that he just waited for the other shoe to drop—but it never did.

She announced her pregnancy to him in a way one would announce an impending raid: she rushed into the bedroom with her wand glowing pink, brandishing it with her hair in disarray and half-dressed. It took him approximately five minutes to grasp what the bundle of energy what attempting to get across, and when he did finally understand, he could do nothing but stare at the miracle that was currently residing in her body.

His child.

Their child.

He was going to be…a father.

She knew he was terrified by it, just as much as he was ecstatic, because the word "father" brought up repressed memories and even the word "mother" triggered something of an involuntary reaction. He didn't have to say anything for her to know that it wasn't that he was unhappy about being a parent—he was frightened to be like his father.

She would remind him on almost a daily basis for nine months that he was not Lucius, and she was a Weasley and therefore automatically knew how to raise children. He would make a snide comment about that, but not too rude because he had grown to like Molly, even accept her as his family. She would make him smile to keep him from dwelling, and told him that even if he didn't know how to be a parent it would come naturally. Nevertheless, he visited every wizarding bookshop in Diagon Alley and ordered all of their parenting books, both in and out of stock, and spent each month poring over a new section. By the end of it, he had accumulated so much useless information that she was practically begging him for a Pensieve so he could have room for the important things in his mind.

By month two, he was already on edge, watching her every move and tempted to hire a bodyguard for his risk-taking wife, as ridiculous as it sounded. She refused to quit her job, but there was not much she could do as a Quiddich player during her pregnancy so she became a temporary commentator, which she begrudgingly accepted. He Apparated back and forth constantly between his work place and hers, so often that he elicited complaints from both sides while she sniggered at his overprotective attempts. He would sigh and agree with her mother that while he was being a good husband he needed to leave her be, so he would sit at his desk and work, twiddling his pen while staring at their wedding photo and imagining an extra addition.

He was going to be a father.

By month seven, she was snapping at him constantly, and he was taking it as best he could because he knew, just as he had seen when Granger was pregnant, that she really couldn't help it. It didn't stop him from snapping back sometimes, and sometimes he would have to leave and walk around for a bit, fuming and swallowing his pride to Apparate back and present his wife with a carton of the Muggle ice cream she so secretly coveted.

At month eight, she was placed on bed rest for exhaustion, and he hovered constantly, keeping a healer on call twenty four hours a day until her due date. Her small frame was being wreaked havoc by the child that was growing at a constant rate inside her, and he was plagued with fear that the mediwizard had instilled in him that if she did not deliver on time they would have to induce to prevent harm from coming to both mother and child.

He couldn't lose her. He refused to lose her. He sat by her side while she was awake, entertained her with anecdotes and making her laugh, then slept in a chair next to the bed while she slept in their king sized bed in order to give her all the space she needed.

He held her hand all the time, even when her friends came to visit, because he didn't care if they thought he had gone soft anymore.

Truth is, he had. And at the particular moment he couldn't give a hippogriff's arse who found out.

His worrying and constant insomnia had been for nothing, because when she delivered it was quick and the baby was healthy, and the first thing he heard was the child crying.

His heart stopped, and he peered in the double doors of the maternity ward to see her looking at him, her red hair matted with sweat, brown eyes glowing with new-mother pride, and he burst in to take over for the healer sponging her forehead down with cool water. As the baby was placed in her arms, she looked down into the steel grey eyes she grew to love so much that were now present in her child and he was amazed by the shock of dark, deep red hair that covered her tiny infant head.

He recognized his daughter immediately, and she recognized him. The bond between father and child was instantaneous, and as soon as he held her he realized he needed to get rid of all those parenting books. As she looked at him and he looked at her and they held their daughter in between them, neither could think of any words to summarize the experience. And as the entire Weasley family marched in, with Granger leading the way blubbering like a buffoon, he could not stop the huge canary-eating grin that was beaming from his face.

Always, he knew this life was worth it.

**End of Part 1**

**Please review! Second part from Ginny's perspective coming soon.**


	2. Ginny

**Chapter 2: Ginny**

**A/N: Aww, no reviews? This makes me very sad…I didn't think it was that bad! Please review, they make my world go round and I like to know that you're enjoying what I write. I love you guys! Enjoy!**

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Sometimes, she thinks it's all a dream.

Because in reality, how could her former enemy be—dare she say it—in love with her? She was a redheaded firecracker of a woman, impulsive and dangerous to be around when her temper rose. She was passionate, equal parts loving and driven—just like him. That's what made their relationship work. Of course it didn't hurt that they had some mind-blowing physical chemistry between them as well, which she was reminded of every single day on their month-long honeymoon.

People always say that you cannot change a man, you have to wait for him to want to change. Her father had been the first to drive this into her head as soon as he realized what a pretty young thing his daughter would be: _"Gin, the lot of 'em, they can't be trusted. I know how you young girls like those bad wizards, because you think you can save them, but you can't."_

Then how can this be explained?

She supposed it was rather simple, actually. He had never been bad, he had grown into it. It was expected of him, really. He had a mask he would slip on and off, between Malfoy and Draco, bastard and everyday man. She saw it first at school during her fifth year, when she would catch him crying in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom while walking back from a late night of flying alone on the pitch. He never knew she was there, she just peeked out from behind the door, catching a glimpse of the broken young man who was carrying too much on his plate. His silky locks had grown long by then, his eyes were no longer a calm slate of grey, and she had known, implicitly, that he had the Mark.

When he came to the Accounting office, she knew he wasn't looking for a fight: no, he was looking for a friend. Although that word would never cross the lips of such a prestigious ex-Dark wizard, she knew. And he did, too.

So she was nice to him, as nice as she could be at least. He knew how to press her buttons, and she returned the favor. He would blink in surprise at her witty retorts, perhaps put off by the fact that she could be just as Slytherin as him.

She supposed it had been a gradual change, really. No one had thought too much about it, because no one really paid attention to the Malfoy family after the war. They had defected to the Light with Narcissa's betrayal of Voldemort and none seemed too put off by it considering that they were not on the losing side, and really, what else mattered to a Malfoy besides saving your own skin? There were too many other things for the Aurors to worry about, such as the Death Eaters roaming the countryside, so they put the Malfoys to a quick trial and promised to

He avoided the word _Mudblood_, a word she had grown to despise due to his frequent mocking of Hermione. He avoided it like the plague, and he even hesitated to say Muggleborn now. His prejudices, which she had long suspected to be family-influenced, were gone seemingly overnight—but it could never be that simple.

He would make attempts in public to rectify his family image, but she knew that sometimes he was itching to lash out with things he couldn't say anymore. She knew because he told her, confided in her, _her of all people._ While she would file paperwork, he would lounge in a chair, ankles crossed, slouching in a way she never thought would be possible. And they would just talk.

Of course, if someone were to come into her office, he would jump into a regal posture, sneering down his nose as everyone still expected of him. Oh, no, no one else saw him changing.

She would like to think that she helped him become the man he was today. Not a perfect man, not even close, but nowhere near the arrogant Dark Lord errand boy from her school days.

Then again, maybe he was already changed when he first came to see her in the dark little corner office at the Ministry of Magic. So perhaps, what they say is correct. People won't change unless they want to, are willing to.

Sometimes she was comforted by the thought that it really wasn't a dream, and people can surprise you in the greatest of ways.

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Sometimes he scared her.

She hated to show it but she knew that she had an involuntary reaction she couldn't control, unlike him—he could hide anything under that cool glare and steely-eyed smirk, even when startled only his fists clenched and his eyes widened almost imperceptibly.

One time she asked to see his Mark. They had been seeing each other, casually, for a few weeks and she lost her patience with him and his bad mood of the day, calling him a Death Eater goon, shouting _"Why don't you just Avada me already since I'm boring you to death!"_

She regretted it as soon as she said it, because he gave her a long, searching look that chilled her to the bone, got up and abruptly swept out of the room, not even bothering to take his cloak. She lived in a tiny flat in the middle of Diagon Alley, and she could hear his footsteps reverberating on the staircase outside. Against her better judgment, she threw open the door and dashed after him in her bare feet, swearing as the dirty concrete blackened her soles.

"Malfoy!"

He had stopped at the end of the stairs, facing away from her, his head bowed and she knew he was working his jaw like he always did when he was agitated and trying to control his words around her. He looked so out of place in her drab discoloured building in his black robes trimmed with green in stark contrast to his shock of blonde hair. His fists were clenching and unclenching and she took an unconscious step back.

"Malfoy, I—"

"You WHAT, Ginevra?" He spat acidly, turning to face her with rage in his eyes. "You think it fair to throw accusations in my face, to say I want to kill you? Perhaps I deserve it, yes, but I didn't think it would be from you!"

She descended the stairs quickly, not recoiling to his obvious surprise, her light steps contrasting with his own heavy footfalls. "Draco, it isn't like that. You know how I can be, and I'm sorry! I should learn to control my temper…just like you should learn to control your mood,"

He sighed, running his hands through his disheveled hair, looking disgruntled. He didn't feel like fighting about this. He never really wanted to argue with her.

"Malfoy, come back upstairs, people will hear,"

He silently agreed, making his way back up the stairs as he saw nosy eyes peering around doors.

"Why are you so sensitive about it, Draco?" She would ask softly, not accusingly, and he found himself biting back a remark he could have made.

"You know I have the Mark, Ginny."

She worried her lip with her teeth. "I know."

"Doesn't it scare you?"

"Should it?"

"I was one of them."

"No you were not," She said stubbornly, forcing his chin upwards to look in his eyes. "Oh, no you were not." And for one moment he forgot that he didn't deserve such a vibrant young woman in his miserable life.

"Can I see it?" She whispered, and the arm he had thrown around her stiffened. His left arm.

"You don't want to, it got uglier since He died,"

"I have to, Mal—Draco,"

"Why?"

"It's a part of you," she would say softly, touching his face with her impossibly tiny hands. "I want to know all of you."

And no one had ever said something quite like that to him before, and as she drew his arm close to her and lifted the fabric he couldn't stop her.

For a moment he wished he had when the utter horror reverberated off her face. He snatched his arm away, covering it up, and sat ramrod straight on the sofa, his eyes facing ahead.

She didn't know what to do then, she had reacted inappropriately and she knew it. So she did the only thing she felt was right at the moment. He jerked with surprise at the feel of her arms around him, brows furrowing in confusion as he realized she was _hugging _him.

She held onto him for a very long time, and after a while his arms came up and held her to him, his lean muscles digging into her back and they fit together, like two pieces of a puzzle, and she didn't want to let him go.

That night they had their first kiss.

From then on, she encouraged him to wear short sleeves when they were alone, because he never wanted to show off the scar of his past. She encouraged him, telling him it was okay because it wasn't him, it wasn't his future or his present, and he believed her because those warm brown eyes could influence him in so many ways.

Sometimes, she was glad he scared her like that so she could prove that he meant more to her than words and tattoos.

------------------------

Sometimes he made her cry.

He didn't always do it on purpose, but he had to have known he was pressing her buttons. Earlier in their relationship, when they fought, he would pull out insults about her mother, talk about her home, her friends, her _pathetic little school girl life_, and she found herself wondering if he cared for her at all.

After their fights, they would not talk for days, with him brooding and sulking over things he knew he shouldn't have said and her apologetic for jinxing him.

He only lasted two days like that, at the most, because he was hard-pressed to admit that he couldn't stand being in a spat with her. Especially, especially because, he knew it was his fault to begin with. For the most part.

She would always take him back. Her friends would tell her he was no good, he would hurt her, but she didn't listen to them because she trusted him, she believed in him, and she knew the difficult battles he fought were not only during the war. She understood his internal rage, and wanted to help him.

Astoundingly, he let her.

Sometimes, when they fought, it just led to more understanding, so she was grateful for the chances.

---------------

Sometimes she was too independent to ask for his help.

She knew he was having a difficult time readjusting to post-war wizarding society, so she didn't want to add to his burden with her problems. When he found out, from Harry of all people, of her work woes, troubles with friends, and tear-filled nights fighting with her parents, he was enraged that he hadn't been able to help her. He was furious that she hadn't come to him.

One night when she arrived home from work after him, he took one look at her and didn't say anything. He just followed her into the bedroom, where she crawled under the covers, facing away from him and placing a pillow over her head. He had swallowed, and she had heard his intake of air, thinking he would just leave her alone since he admitted before he didn't know how to comfort, well, anyone.

Imagine her surprise when she felt the bed dip, a warm hand rest on her back and trace lazy circles around and around in just the right way to make the tears she had been holding in overflow.

That was the first time she cried in front of him, the first time she allowed herself to be weak with him.

He told her to never again keep her pain hidden from him. Yes, he was also having difficulties, but together they needed to help each other. She had nodded, looking into his concerned grey eyes, and chuckled through her tears thinking of the strange circumstances, a Weasel being comforted by a Ferret, a Weasel _loving_ that Ferret.

Always, she knew she could depend on him too.

----------------

Sometimes she was in awe at the way he could make her feel.

His hands were magic, surely practiced from touching many girls, but his ways with her were not only sexual. He would rub her shoulders, his long fingers digging into the perfect muscles that relaxed, ever so gently, under his touch. He was never too gentle with her, never too rough and he knew that's what she wanted.

In the morning sometimes he would wake before her, and she would open her eyes to sunlight streaming in, feet pattering in the kitchen and the smell of something delicious hanging in the air. Her groggy morning rituals were discarded as she forgot about her hair, forgot that she looked like a banshee and walked into the kitchen to find him in boxers frying up some quick bacon and heating coffee. He would make them both a plate and pull her into his lap, feeding her and not caring that her hair was tangled knots of red and her face looked even more freckled than usual. His hands would caress the sides of her face as she chewed, and she would grab those hands and kiss them because she loved them so much.

Their love making was, to say the least, magical. Their first time had been quite a while after they started dating, and she was shocked that he hadn't pressed for it earlier, after all this was the Slytherin God of Sex. But he respected her as a woman, thought of her as more than open legs, and let her set the pace in their fledgling romance and when the time was right all she had to say was "_I'm ready, Draco_" in a breathless voice and he was down by her waist, doing things to her that should have been outlawed. She wasn't a virgin, but hadn't known what "making love" was really like until just then.

Her friends expected that he would only stay til the shag then disappear the morning after as he had been rumored to do back at Hogwarts. She almost believed them, almost, so when the morning after she cracked open one eye expecting to be alone she was slightly stunned to find him still there, snoring with one leg carelessly thrown across hers.

What did her friends know of romance, anyhow?

He bought her flowers and gifts, but not in the careless fashion of an elementary relationship. Everything he gave her meant something, and she, with her little supply of money, was determined to reciprocate. He accepted her tiny gifts with good grace, because he loved her and he loved anything he gave her. She was almost bashful at the beginning to present him on his birthday with a new set of ostrich-feathered quills, considering his gift to her of a golden-patterned broomstick, but he kissed her and declared it the best gift he had ever gotten and whenever she would visit his study at the Manor those quills were sitting there, looking worn-in and well-used.

She was happy about that.

When he asked her to marry him, he made a long, elegant speech and she almost believed he wasn't nervous until his lower lip trembled while he waited for her answer and she caught sight of his shaking hands moments earlier. He didn't present her with a large, gaudy ring—no, he gave her a traditional Malfoy gold band that had once belonged to his great-grandmother set with two sparkling new diamonds, winking right in the center.

Later, when she asked him why he chose two diamonds to outfit what had surely been a huge expensive ring, he said she wasn't the type of girl to go for the expression of wealth. Although, as a Lady Malfoy, she would be infinitely rich, he knew that she would never be like the rest of the pureblood Slytherins, and that was what he loved about her.

"The two diamonds symbolize our present and future," he had whispered while they were laying in bed that night, heads together with red and blonde mixing on the pillow. "Because the past doesn't matter," she had completed for him, tracing his lips with her finger.

Always, she knew he would make her feel like the most lovely woman in the world.

**The end.**

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