Fidelity

Author's Notes: The title is taken from the Regina Spektor song of the same name and it's written in honour of Draco's birthday. Obviously, it's pretty belated, but if not for my friend (and writing partner) Becca, I probably wouldn't have started it at all, so "Fidelity" is dedicated to her and I hope you all enjoy it. As always, comments and constructive criticism are very much appreciated.

Alternate Universe: "Fidelity" is set in a universe that Becca and I created. For the purposes of the story, you only need to know that Draco became a spy for the Order after the events of HBP, but many people remain sceptical of his true loyalties; Harry cheated on Ginny a little less than a year ago; Draco and Ginny work together as cryptowizards (similar to cursebreakers) in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement (and Moreslock is their boss); and Draco is in a relationship with Ginny as part of a plot to improve his family's reputation in preparation for his father's trial, though of course, she doesn't know it.

Disclaimer: The Harry Potter characters and universe are the sole property of J.K. Rowling, et al. I just like to play with them :3.

It's his twenty-third birthday—not a milestone, by any means—and thank Merlin because it's been pretty miserable so far. He'd be furious if he had reason to remember it next year. He still thinks it should warrant more than the tearful kiss his mother presses to his temple and the words she murmurs in his ear, but he knows she has less and less to spare from his father. These days, she spends as much time in Azkaban as they'll let her and the rest she spends begging for his father's life with all the poise she'd once saved for her son. Granted, she had offered to celebrate with him tonight, but he'd claimed to have plans and he thinks she might actually have believed him because she's said nothing more on the subject. However, Blaise is in Italy on business, Astoria is his ex—or at least, the media would say as much—and Ginny is already furious enough. She might actually break up with him if she thought he'd spent his birthday with a woman he'd dated and their relationship is falling apart faster than he can hold it together.

He has no one to blame but himself. They hit a rough patch after she started to mend fences with Potter because though progress was slow, the headlines were swift. The world was ready to believe she'd tossed the Malfoy heir aside and eager to think she'd done it for their hero. Draco knew better, of course. He had a superior vantage point and no stars in his eyes, but it set his teeth on edge every time she and Potter shared a joke—and locked him out of it. He didn't utter a word, at first, because he knew her reasons were good. Her ex-boyfriend has a close relationship with her family, to say the least: her parents have all but adopted him, her brother is his best friend, and for six years, he was her prospective husband. She doesn't have to forgive him, but it's easier in the long-run and any fool can see that she wants to. Draco's done nothing to discourage it, either. He empathized, even as the speculation grew louder and more persistent, even as the bile reached his back teeth because he couldn't risk jealousy and didn't think it became anyone. However, he couldn't keep his mouth shut when Ginny asked him to. He was frustrated with the news reports and with her lack of pride and lack of loyalty, with her faltering convictions. He'd said that aloud because she wouldn't let him say 'I love you'; his only saving grace was that he didn't and it was no help to his father.

He can't even pursue someone else. He doesn't have time and at this point, it won't help. It's Weasley or no one and he'll likely have to settle for the latter because they've been on a break for the last two weeks. It's only a matter of time before they're broken up. Their argument was so nasty, he's surprised she didn't end the relationship at once and he can't account for the delay because they don't discuss their personal life at the office—or anywhere, of late—and ten days have passed since he owled her with no response at all. However, he won't be the first to admit defeat. He needs her if he can have her—his father does—and he can't hand her one more thing to hold against him. Ginny can find it within herself to forgive infidelity, but not to forgive him. Of course, both his crimes and his detractors outnumber and outrank the Golden Boy's, but Draco was penitent where Potter scarcely had been and he'd believed his girlfriend would see it sooner or later. He'd believed because she'd given him every reason to and with his father in a cold, dank cell, it was no comfort that she'd believed his lies, too. She'd not wanted to hear the best one; she'd made it clear that he'd failed. He knows that even if she takes him back, he'll have to settle and if there were anything less at stake, he'd hardly mind. In fact, he might celebrate, but the concept is a foreign one now.

Draco doesn't expect birthday wishes when he arrives at the Ministry. Very few people encounter his personnel file often enough to know he turns twenty-three today and even fewer would acknowledge it. Aside from his boss and a few accountants, he's pretty sure no one knows—not even Ginny. It's never come up. After four-and-a-half months, it probably should have, but he researched her date of birth in the first week of their partnership and presumably she's never thought to ask for his. They rarely discuss minor details like this; they've known each other for half their lives and though their history strangles them like a rope, sometimes they forget it means more for them than their family's disapproval and their colleagues' muted horror. They forget that they don't know as much about each other as such a long acquaintance would imply for other people and they don't focus on the little things, even now that they're lovers. The little things prove nothing and proof is what Ginny's after—what Draco's so anxious to produce—it's all that really matters, but the silence is nonetheless like a blow when he steps into their office. She doesn't look at him as if it's meant to hit him. In fact, she doesn't look at him at all and if she had a point to prove, she wouldn't be able to stop herself, but for eight hours, they barely speak and when the clock hits five, they mumble their goodbyes.

He only stays an hour after Ginny leaves, though not for self-indulgent reasons. On the contrary, he'd rather spend a whole night at the Ministry than any time in Azkaban, but it's his birthday and his father can no longer come to him. However, Draco does not have quite as much freedom as Lucius Malfoy did. He can't spend the day with him and he doesn't want to spend the two hours allowed him, so the visit is brief. No more than twenty minutes, but every second feels like it's wrung from him and he has to bite an apology from his tongue the entire time. You don't admit defeat until it's the only option left, and it's not. Weasley could change her mind. If Draco can figure her out, he might actually manage to convince her that she should change it, but he's had little success. His efforts so far haven't had enough of an effect and he's received no encouragement from her, no hint of what she needs. There's no reason to expect any outcome but defeat, and there probably never has been, but his family won't voice it until the verdict's read, the appeals denied. For now, he tries not to think he might never again hear his father say, "Happy birthday, Draco. See that the celebrations aren't too raucous, hm?"

It's all he can do to keep his voice steady when he replies, "I make no promises. Take care, Father."

He goes home to wash the grief from his body and change from his work robes to a trendier set, better-suited to Parisian clubs and a French crowd. He rifles through presents from his friends as well—Quidditchtickets from Blaise, cologne from Pansy, cards from former classmates at Hogwarts and Beauxbatons—and he feels a little better, but not nearly good enough. Draco only goes as far as his family's West End apartment. He could've chosen a hotel instead, but he doesn't want to risk the press coverage and he can easily imagine the controversy it would create if he ordered a bottle of Ogden's Old and two tumblers to go with it. Better to celebrate in the privacy of his own home—at a table for two, right beside one of the floor-to-ceiling windows—and with no one to frown on his actions except the house elves and his mother, none of whom will ever know if he can help it. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn't consider anything like this, but he's frustrated and miserable and none of his friends can afford to give a shit. He deserves one night of—of freedom from responsibility and he doubts very much the Ministry will come to call, though he knows they won't forgive him if he's drunk when they do; he still slams the Firewhiskey back like an alcoholic. In truth, he doesn't drink much—he doesn't like the risk—but he can hold his liquor as well as any Hufflepuff, if not better.

Unfortunately, he has more caffeine in his system than food and he only manages a third of the bottle before he begins to feel buzzed, even tipsy. He needs it—the ache in his throat and the slow, easy warmth in his belly—but the speed with which the alcohol takes effect throws him off a little. If he's honest, it makes him nervous because Draco can't bear to lose control on any terms but his own and he expects his body to fall in line. When the lock clicks, he fumbles his wand and his reflexes aren't quite fast enough to catch it before the door opens. "Weasley?" His words, at least, are clear, but even a slur couldn't make the situation much worse than it is. He exhales a sharp breath, lifts his wand from the floor, and standing, squares his shoulders, but she simply steps further inside the room and looks around, wary, maybe anxious until her eyes fix pointedly on the untouched glass sitting across from his. Her gaze narrows before it even reaches Draco's face and he colours in a way he can't blame on alcohol.

"Expecting someone else?"

For a moment, he doesn't understand the question. He expected her to tell him how pathetic he is, not to accuse him of infidelity and his teeth clench at the implicit comparison between himself and her ex-boyfriend. "Like whom?" he snaps, "I'm not Potter. I don't pick and choose women while I'm in a relationship and I couldn't get away with it, either." His glare is pointed and he can see the retort in the curl of her lip, but the whiskey is hot and his tongue is quick, "I don't want to. I just didn't expect you, of all people. How in Merlin's name did you get here?"

"Either come out and say it or keep your mouth shut." He clenches his teeth together, determined not to say anything that will drive her from his flat, despite the words that crowd his tongue. The pause is long and begging to be filled, but until she says, "I Apparated," there's complete silence. "I want a straight answer, Malfoy, not evasion tactics."

He didn't mean to avoid the question, but it's so absurd that he didn't think to answer it with the gravitas she so obviously expects. He didn't really think much before he responded—avoidance is for him a force of habit—but now that she's put him on the spot, he wishes he could dismiss it. However, Weasley's caught on and it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth to know she has him figured out. "I didn't expect anyone," he admits after a moment. "You're welcome to stay if you don't believe me."

"You have two glasses in front of you, Draco, and you have no reason to drink alone on your birthday." He is silent, but his grimace should be answer enough. "I'm not stupid," she insists, "I don't believe you."

"You knew it was my birthday?"

She flushes. "Penelope asked about it. That's why I'm here. I didn't think you'd have plans that included a bottle of Firewhiskey, two glasses, and an empty apartment."

"Ginny, don't act like you caught me in bed with another woman."

"Maybe if I'd waited," she snarls back. "I don't believe-"

"So break up with me," and he senses her incredulous stare more than he sees it. He can't fault her. She's never threatened to leave him—not aloud—and she probably didn't think he'd bring it up quite so baldly. It's a gamble, but the odds are stacked against him as it is and liquid courage is burning in his veins. "Confused, Weasley? It's your ultimatum. If I can't convince you that my friends ditched me, my girlfriend's furious with me, and my parents just don't have the time, what else can I say? You're determined to believe I'd cheat because I've an extra glass on the table and a Death Eater like me can't possibly have a good reason for it, right?" He probably shouldn't ask, "What did Potter say about all the signs you missed? How much longer do you want to take it out on me?" He shakes his head, "If you think I'm lying, our relationship isn't going to last."

She grits her teeth and her fingers curl like a vise around her wand. "Are you still jealous of Harry?" she demands. "I mean, you can't seem to help shoving him in my face and you accused me of having an affair with him, like I ever would. Or maybe you're looking for justification for your own actions, Malfoy." There's hurt in the lines around her mouth and it's almost as intense as the fury in her gaze, in her voice.

"I keep bringing him up because you assume the worst of him is a given in me. I've never cheated on a woman in my life and frankly, it's not worth the risk, nor do I value commitment so cheaply. You might find it hard to believe, Weasley, but my parents did instil a sense of loyalty in me. I'd not betray them or you, even if I were tempted and I haven't been." He lifted a shoulder. "If you'd listened two weeks ago, you'd know that I wouldn't risk losing you like that, Ginevra. I won't."

He watches her chest rise and fall, the sigh drop soundlessly from her mouth. "Draco, it's. I've heard it before and I trusted him—I trusted Harry—more than I trust you. He was so close to my family, he was in my house," and needless to say, he was the saviour of the wizarding world. "I had every reason to think he'd be faithful." She hefts a shoulder. "He wasn't and as much as I'd like to believe history won't repeat itself with you, I haven't got a straight answer about the glass, have I?"

It galls Draco that she can't accept partial truths because they should be good enough, but she seems to trust him less now than she did before they became a couple—or maybe he's just more conscious of how little she thinks of him. She's obviously not afraid to say it aloud and pushed as hard and as far as he's been, the Malfoy heir relents with a long, slow exhalation and an inscrutable look. "It's a tribute, Weasley. To all the people who would have had my back if they'd survived the war."

Her brows furrow, perhaps in disbelief, and she stares like it's the last thing she expected. "You're serious," she mutters. His tone of voice left no doubt, though his expression was under near-perfect control as he spoke. She knows better than to trust it, but she sounds bewildered, confused, when she says, "Why didn't you just tell me?"

"It's…not something I like to talk about, and I hoped you'd take me at my word, but evidently it's too much to hope you'd trust me even half as much as you still trust Potter."

"What the hell—?"

"How much time did he spend persuading you he was really, truly sorry before you believed it? I'm not accusing you of forgiving him, but."

"It's nothing to do with you," she snaps, like the crack of Apparition, and he feels like his heart's been splinched. Just a little. He feels, for a moment, like he's going to fail—or already has—but his voice is strong and his face implacable.

"No, of course not. You can interrogate me about a damn glass, but Merlin forbid I expect the same privilege." He stops himself with effort and his words are cut sharp, "Just tell me what Potter's done that I haven't—besides the obvious, of course; I'm looking for a little originality, Gin."

"I've seen you twist the truth before, Draco. I've seen you and you're good at it-"

"Thanks."

She ignores him and all his bitter feelings, "You could—"

"Yes, Weasley, I could, but not because of my pedigree. You know by now that anyone could betray you."

"Yes, but I'm in no danger from Harry. I know I'm not."

He hears, of course, what she does not say; she made no effort to hide it and he is as gratified as he is frustrated. "If you want anything, Weasley, you're always in danger of disappointment, but I won't disappoint you like he did. I'll try not to disappoint you at all." He can see hope, or a similar such emotion, in her face and he narrows the gap between them; he reaches out to brush a hand along a cheekbone. He is surprised that she lets him. "Please," he says, because she's given him no choice. "This is the only proof I have," and she is wary. It is as plain as the freckles on her face, but she comes to him and catches his face in her left hand and her grip is firm, yet fragile, with her thin fingers and sweat-damp palm, with the tremor of her pulse against his throat. In her right hand, she holds her wand against his chest, close as a promise.

It's not an affectionate gesture, though if he closes his eyes, he could probably believe otherwise. However, his gaze doesn't leave her face. "It's not proof, Draco, and you're too good an Occlumens to give me anything I can believe."

"Not much of a Legilimens then?"

"I've nothing on You-Know-Who," she says archly and he's not sure if it's meant to hurt or if it's meant as a compliment. As much as he'd like to assume the latter—or at least pretend that he does—his body reacts as if allergic: his skin prickles, his throat goes numb, and sweat forms above his lip. He is sick and tired of these barbed remarks and on his birthday, of all days, he'd hoped to avoid them. He doesn't like to think of the war any more than she does and he doesn't like the fact that even his best is evidence of the worst in him.

"It's different," he starts, but she shakes her head. Ginny knows Draco doesn't want her in his head; she can probably guess he has secrets from her; and like the Dark Lord, she wants absolute honesty. Apparently, though, she's not prepared to take it by force because she remains unmoved when he says, "I wouldn't try so hard to hide from you." Of course, he wouldn't have to and his tone is resigned when he concedes the point at last. "It's not enough."

"No," she answers simply, but the kiss she drags him into is as complicated as ever they were. It's bitter at first—she's on the verge of stepping back at every moment, even as she leans unsteadily into his touch—and he's tempted to pull back, to let her fall, but he wraps strong fingers around her wrists. He lets his mouth part under the insistent press of her tongue; he tastes toothpaste layered over coffee and her—the burn like Firewhiskey in his throat—and there's a noise he doesn't want to think he's made because it sounds like coming apart. He can't afford to: he's sober enough to know it, but too drunk to stand without the support of something more solid than he feels. He steps clumsily backwards, but he doesn't break the kiss. He's not forgotten that she'll leave him once he does and he's determined that she'll remember their goodbye as bittersweet rather than just bitter. His thighs hit the table and he needs its firm presence as her legs wrap tight around his hips, a promise that she won't keep even as she makes it with the press of her body into his and the heat of her kiss. He shouldn't slide across the table; he knows better than to do it, knows she'll hate him if he slips even one piece of clothing off her—if he even lets on how much he longs to have her—though of course, he's gone too far already.

His kisses say what he won't: right here and right now and please, please. The full glass—his tribute to the dead—has fallen on its side and the tumbler will soon join the alcohol on the floor, shattered like all his too-high hopes. With Ginny in his arms, he doesn't want to think about it and he can't. His veins feel like they might burn apart, might burst with the rush of blood inside them, with his little gasps for air or maybe hers. They drown out all other sound—the low roll of the cup and the drip-drip of the whiskey—and it's only the faint smell of smoke that makes him pull back because he knows it's not her. However, he can only seem to focus on her, not on the possibility that the Firewhiskey might damage his parents' floors and leave hints for the house elves. "Ginny," He can barely hear his own voice over the beat of their hearts, but he feels it hitch. "Ginevra," he tries again, with little success and he knows before he gets much further that he won't tell her what he should—won't tell her to go—because he's greedy and his tongue remembers too well how sweet she is beneath the ache of coffee and the sting of spearmint. "What more do you want?"

"Everything," she admits, as if he's dragged it from her, "but this will do for now."