Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. Obviously.

OoOoOoOoO

Five years ago…

The woman who answered the door was Narcissa Malfoy, but it also wasn't. She looked horrible. Her face was pale, almost sheet white. Her hair was thin and flat. Her lips were nearly colorless.

But her eyes were clear.

Draco stared at her.

She licked her lips. "Would you like to come in?"

Her voice was trembling, weak. She stepped back to pull the door open a little bit further. She was wearing a pale pink dress. It looked soft. It was long sleeved and dropped past her knees. It wasn't revealing or seductive or downright indecent. It appeared to be two decades old. An old gown of hers, perhaps?

There were spots of color on the dress. A splatter of white, green, and yellow. Paint?

Draco was going to say no. He didn't know who this woman was, and he didn't really care to know, but the paint was a funny detail.

He strode silently into the house and then followed the lights further in. It was clear she had just moved in. There were boxes and trunks stacked along the walls. The walls were bare. The lights led to the kitchen even though it was past the dinner hour. Narcissa hadn't been eating though. There were no dishes, no food. There was an armchair however, and an artist's easel, and a half-finished landscape.

Draco walked closer because he recognized the garden that was being painted. It was the side garden at the manor, the one with the fountain surrounded by daffodils, blue bells, and peonies. And it appeared his mother was capturing every single flower, and even though he didn't care to remember every flower, he had a feeling that this painting was accurate down to the very last petal.

Something clicked into place for him. He wouldn't have had such a good memory if he didn't get it from both parents. He looked up at Narcissa, She was leaning against the doorway, looking somehow paler than before.

"You're ill," Draco said.

"You can hardly be surprised, all factors taken into consideration," said Narcissa.

She moved towards the chair, and Draco stepped away, even though it looked like she might faint mid-way there. He wasn't going to catch her. She made it to the chair though, and sat down heavily.

"I wasn't expecting this," Draco said.

"What made you come then? I know you didn't come to see me."

"I wanted to leave something here," said Draco. "Without your knowledge, of course. I need to leave for a while and have something that needs to remain hidden."

Narcissa smiled. "And this would be the last place anyone would look."

"Precisely," said Draco.

Narcissa glanced down and swallowed. "I know I don't have the right to ask, but I find I can't help it." She looked up. Her brows were furrowed. "Are you in trouble, Draco?"

For a moment, she sounded worried. For a moment, Draco understood what it was to be cared for by a mother. He immediately brushed the feeling away. "No more than usual."

"Draco," said Narcissa. She paused a moment before continuing. "I know you must be in dire trouble to come to me. Yet I find I am pleased at the news if it means I might be able to talk to you. Perhaps have a conversation? A chance to… well, not atone any of my wrongs, but at least -,"

"I don't want anything from you," Draco said, cutting her off. "In fact, I'm probably going to obliviate you in a few minutes because I don't trust you with my secrets. It was really just morbid curiosity that brought me here."

He could tell his words hurt her. She actually flinched and glanced away. Her hand went to her throat. "Of course. I can't say I deserve any less." She looked back at him and gave him a watery sort of smile.

"Merde," Draco swore, because she looked like a weak, fragile sort of thing. "Why, in the name of Merlin, would you marry Lucius of all people if you're going to cry at the drop of a hat?"

Narcissa laughed a little, a helpless, sad sort of sound and she dashed her tears away with her hand. "I told him no at least a dozen times."

And that didn't fit with the narrative Draco had in his head at all. He paused and looked at her, really looked at her. There was nothing provocative or cold or ruthless about her now. He looked at the painting and the photographic quality of the detail. He pressed his eyes shut for a moment, thinking, and then opened them and looked up at his mother.

"It would be safer if the item I leave behind isn't just buried in the garden somewhere. It would be safer if there was a secret-keeper."

Narcissa nodded immediately. "Yes. I'll do it."

She said it quickly, far too quickly. It made Draco uncomfortable.

"I'll pay you, of course," said Draco. "Some upfront and more upon my return."

She shook her head. "Not money. I don't need money. I need something worth more."

Draco paused. Suspicion rose up. "What?"

"A bit of your time," said Narcissa.

Draco glanced at his watch. "I have to leave soon."

"When you come back then," said Narcissa. "Just a half hour. Or even less, twenty minutes. Just… I want to have a conversation with you. There are things I'd like to be able to tell you."

"I can safely promise you at least twenty minutes upon my return," said Draco. "In fact, you'll probably have more because I won't know a thing about you."

She paused for a moment. "What, exactly, are you leaving with me?"

Draco looked at her. "My memories."

oOoOoOoOo

Sensation.

Too much sensation.

Sights and sounds. Smells and tastes. Touches of pleasure and of pain.

Every memory in his head that he had pulled out five years ago was trying to cram itself back into place and his brain was overwhelmed. He couldn't make sense of it all. Each memory was perfectly preserved – he was a genius after all – and he was drowning in it. His brain desperately tried to tie the sensations into coherent clips of memory and then desperately trying to categorize all of it. Childhood memories and school memories. Family and acquaintances. Experiential knowledge and knowledge he had gleaned from books. Languages and music and art and potions and –

And magic.

He'd forgotten. How could he have – ?

But there were other things he had forgotten.

Lucius.

(Arms holding him tight, lip sneered in disgust, an approving drop of a hand on his shoulder, a vice-like grip on his arm, fear and love and longing - )

Lukas.

(Laughter and fun and adventure and safety and then tearing, ripping, screaming hole in heart - )

Narcissa.

(Cold and vacant and bliss, bliss, bliss followed by shrieking pain - )

The Dark Lord.

(Pain and fear. A knife. The cruciatus curse. The thick black oil of him pressed against his mind, trying to break in - )

His body rocked on the ground in remembered pain and panic. His head throbbed. His stomach lurched and bile rose up in his mouth. He felt his body heave and retch up breakfast, but the vomit was a faint taste in his mouth, faint against the memory of all other meals he had eaten.

Hogwarts' feasts. Fancy dinner parties. The uncomfortable meals of his childhood – the stifling tension of Lucius and Narcissa, the way food would lodge in his throat as he tried to swallow, the way his stomach would twist when he finally did. The humble, simple, friendly meals of Mrs. Weasley.

Weasleys.

Ginny.

(Glints of red and gold, dripping trepidation, bounding joy, laughter and kisses - )

Bill.

(A hand extended to him, pain in his knee, a smile, the scent of chalk and old parchments, a daring rescue in the middle of the night, a plea to save an unborn child, arms grabbing him in and holding him tight, steady companionship and belonging, and - )

Draco sucked in a breath. "Stop."

The memories stopped their bombardment.

He took in another breath and then carefully pushed the memories back, trying to get room to breathe. It felt jumbled in his head, like his memories were piled in heaps on the floor of his mind. That was fine. As long as they didn't all rush at him again he could pick through them later. Just not now, not when…

Not when he was at Narcissa's house.

Fear.

He jolted upright, his body tensing in panic and his hand immediately grabbing his wand.

But there was no one with him, just an empty room and puddle of vomit next to him. It was a simple matter of vanishing away the pool of sick. Another charm scrubbed through his mouth, removing the aftertaste.

It was old hat, those charms, and yet there was a voice in the back of his head that was excitedly chattering about magic and knowing magic and being able to do magic. He ruthlessly tamped the voice down. He got himself up and to his feet. His head spun. Pain in the base of his skull. Expected but still unpleasant. He'd need a pain reliever.

He glanced around the study and noticed the box on the ground. The memory box. The receptacle for his old memories, but also for the five years he had been missing. He remembered those years now. He remembered the cities he had traveled to. The fear he'd felt. The confusion. The time he had wasted learning computers and decryption algorithms only to realize the code and electronics were incompatible. The loneliness. The despair. The –

He slammed the door shut on those memories too. Now was not the time.

He picked the box up, immediately cataloguing the difference. When he had left the box with Narcissa, it'd been a plain, wooden box – old and ancient and of dark carved wood, slightly tarnished and battered. Now it had been painted. Delicately and beautifully painted.

Narcissa had talent.

He remembered her conversation with him. He remembered her explanation.

Anger flared up, cold and icy. His fingers clenched around his wand, but he forced them to relax. It wouldn't do to project anger. He strode out of the room and down the hall, not caring at the paintings he passed or the glimpses of Narcissa that were displayed. He didn't care to see them.

She was in the studio, sitting on her armchair. An easel was in front of her, but she wasn't painting. She was curled up in the seat, her hands wrapped around her tea mug, as if she was waiting for him. Her expression lifted when she saw him, hopeful and yearning, as if she hadn't expected he'd say goodbye to her on the way out.

Draco stopped in the doorway and looked down on her. "You need things to be beautiful?" he asked, voice clipped. "That's the excuse you give? That your pampered and aristocratic life was not beautiful enough?"

Her expression shuttered a little. "No, not an excuse. I'm weak, Draco. I told you that."

"Weak enough to arrange secret dalliances against the most powerful wizard in England?" Draco asked. "Weak enough to plan elaborate holidays and dinner parties and shopping sprees that pan all of Europe? Weak enough to brew your own potions when necessary? Does that sound weak to you, Mother?"

"Please, Draco, I-,"

"Moments of weakness I would understand," Draco cut in, voice dropping all of the cold fury he felt inside of him. "Moments of weakness I could even learn to forgive. I've know what it's like to crave a drug after all, thanks to you. But you're not weak; you're selfish. When things don't go your way, when they're not 'beautiful' enough for you, then you blame everyone else and play the role of victim."

She shook her head, tears dripping down her face. "No, no that's not true. I was sick. But I'm better now. Can't you see that?"

"Better?" Draco repeated, and then he laughed, a little cruelly. "You're not better, Narcissa. You're just living in a fantasy. Of course it's easy to be nice and good and better when you're living in a fairy-tale, but I have no doubt that with a single speck of conflict, and you'll be back to your narcissistic and self-absorbed ways. No, you're not better. And you wont be. Not until you admit that you're just as much a villain as the rest of this family."

She folded in on herself, her thin shoulders heaving, and wept. She wasn't even trying to deny his statements, wasn't trying to argue. She was just giving in. The victim yet again.

"Stay here," Draco told her, feeling a bit of exhaustion creep into his voice. "Merlin knows it's the only place you'll be able to operate in."

He turned to leave. She called out after him. "Will you come back? Will you visit?"

Draco wanted to say no. He wanted to crush her under his foot the way one crushed fallen petals on the pavement in spring. He sucked in a breath. His head was spinning. His throat felt tight. His stomach felt queasy.

"Good-bye, Mother," he said, unable to answer her.

He strode out of the house and past the overflowing luscious garden and into the yard. He Apparated away, back to the Malfoy Manor, back home and –

The scent hit him first. Gardenia, honeysuckle, dragon-bloom, and fire-orchid. A mix of sweet, citrus, and musk that was immediately familiar and comforting to him.

Home.

He was home.

The next breath he took in was deep and long. His legs felt strangely weak as he took his first steps towards the manor. It was exactly as he had left it – the same pale gay stone, the sprawling wings of the manor, the sculpted trim around the windows, the intricate stonework.

Although the vegetable garden peeking out the back corner was new. Not that he hadn't seen it before. It just meant more to him now. His mind filtered through the implications of that garden. Economics. Safety. Supply and demand. Food rationing.

But then his mind flipped to different memories, vivid and intense, almost as if he was experiencing the moments all over again. Walking with Lucius. Riding thestrals. Dinner parties. Holidays. Mornings spent in the center of the hedge maze, sprawled on the stone bench in the center, a stack of books on the ground. Hot summer nights walking through the fountain, trousers rolled up and feet bare. Long days, alone except for the house-elves, feeling like he would suffocate from the boredom.

The memories crashed over him like an ocean wave. Draco paused, held his breath, and pushed them back again. The memories receded, unhappily. His head felt thick.

Draco ignored the ache. He was Draco Malfoy. He was home.

He had work to do.

He had more than work to do. He had a savior to save, a good deal of translating to do, a bit of travel, and most likely, a lot of fighting. Perhaps even a murder.

He hoped not though.

He ran lightly up the front steps, mind spinning – but in a good way. He was already plotting, already organizing. Logistics were considered, re-arranged, and discarded. He reached the front steps and the doors automatically opened for him, sensing his presence, sensing the signum on his back, and for a moment, he stopped. The planning paused as he took in the flush of warmth that traveled across his back and shoulders.

He was home.

"Draco!"

Draco glanced up. Harry Potter was on the upper floor, leaning over the balcony. He looked a little frazzled.

"Where the hell were you?" Potter asked. "You can't just leave like that! You had the whole house in uproar."

Draco ignored the rant. He pointed at the boy-hero. "We need to talk. Not now. But soon."

He didn't wait for a response, just kept walking, past the portraits and the tapestries, underneath the chandeliers and painted ceilings, over the marble floors. Every detail was exactly as he remembered.

He turned down the main hall towards the kitchens. The Order seemed to prefer the collection of rooms by the kitchens, the semi-formal dining room, the casual living room, and the den. He could hear voices as he approached, partially raised and tensed voices.

He rounded the doorway. His eyes immediately picked out Bill. The red-head was scrubbing a hand over his face. There was a map on the table in front of him. Sirius Black was beside him, arguing a little. Mr. Weasley was in the corner, looking frustrated. Blaise's head was in the fireplace. A Floo call.

Draco cleared his throat. All eyes snapped his way, even Blaise's head.

"Bloody hell!" Blaise swore, and then his face withdrew.

"Draco!" Bill exclaimed, relief evident on his face. His voice sounded harried though. "Where were you? We were looking all over for you!"

"So I see," said Draco. He tipped his head towards the door. "A word, Bill?"

He stepped back out in the hall and then headed towards the kitchen, intent on a cup of tea.

He had a mug out and the kettle on the stove by the time Bill came in after him. "What were you doing, Draco?" Bill asked. "You scared about five years off of us. What if something happened to you?"

Draco felt his lips twist up at the obvious concern. "I'm fine, Bill."

Bill stopped short. Draco catalogued the differences in his appearance in the few seconds Bill stared at him. There were faint crinkles in the corner of his eyes. His brow boasted shallow frown lines. There was a faint scar on the side of his face that hadn't been there before. It looked slightly ragged – not a spell then. But other than that, it was Bill. Long red hair. Freckles. Eyes bright.

"Draco?" Bill asked, incredulous.

Draco raised an eyebrow. "Surprise."

His voice wasn't as droll as he wanted it to be. It was impossible to keep all of the warmness from the greeting.

Bill gaped, then laughed, and then grabbed him into a hug. Draco didn't fight the embrace, even stepped into it and clapped Bill on the back because –

Because it had been five years. It didn't feel like five years. And he didn't fully remember those five years – or rather, those memories hadn't fully been integrated into his brain just yet, they were slowly trickling in – but he still felt distant. Removed. Left behind in a sort of way.

Bill's grip around him let him feel connected; let him feel like he belonged. But then years of etiquette classes came rushing back to him, and he stiffened. Bill immediately stepped back. He kept one hand on his shoulder though, like he was afraid Draco was going to run.

"Merlin, you're here," he said, a wide, dumbfounded grin on his face. "Look at you!"

Draco rolled his eyes and then ducked out of his grasp to prod the kettle into boiling with his wand. He poured a cup of tea and then poured another for Bill. He sat at the side table, letting the tea steep.

"I've been five years without a proper cup of tea," Draco said, mostly to avoid talking about anything else. "Five years without knowing what a proper cup of tea was. That's the most tragic thing about the thing I think."

Bill took the chair across from him. He leaned forward. "How did you find your memories? Where were they?"

Draco should have remembered how good Bill was at asking all the difficult questions. He fiddled with the steeper and then glanced up at Bill. "Pretend you don't have any memories. Pretend you've been alone and confused for months, and then you finally meet people who know you. They say that they're your friends, but they also tell you that you can't meet your own family, that it's not safe to meet your family. Where are you going to go?"

Bill's face became stricken. "Narcissa."

"Everyone knew that I would not leave my memories with her," said Draco. "But it is the one place that a memory-less boy is guaranteed to go. It's ingenious, really, if I do say so myself."

"You left them there, or you left them with her?" Bill asked.

Draco sucked in a breath. The visit with Narcissa, and the emotions that were dragged up, were still too raw. "Shit, Bill. I forgot what a pain in the arse you were."

Bill didn't say anything, just waited as Draco pulled the steeper out of his tea, added a small amount of cream to his mug, and took a sip.

"I left them with her, in fact," he said. "It wasn't the plan originally, but she's sober."

"Sober?"

"I was more surprised than you," said Draco. "And she agreed to be a secret-keeper."

"Why?"

"Because she wanted the chance to give me her sob story," said Draco. "She wanted to excuse her behavior by playing the victim and making me feel sorry for her." He put his mug down on the table and reached up to pinch at the bridge of his nose. His head was beginning to ache again. No, not again. It had never stopped aching. It was just becoming more painful.

Memory spells. They weren't recommended for long-term use. They weren't recommended for wiping an entire seventeen years.

Draco could picture the medical reviews in his head now. 'Long term use of memory spells can result in unwanted chronic side effects including continued amnesia, lack of memory re-integration, loss of sense of self, personality change, mood lability, flashbacks, disturbed sleep, and migraines. Short term side effects, following sudden re-integration of memories, include severe headache, vertigo, confusion, paranoia, nausea, vomiting, fever, cold sweats, night-terrors – '

Draco cut the list off. It wasn't helping.

"Did it work?" Bill asked.

It took Draco a minute to realize what he was asking. He shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe until I actually got my memories back, but then I remembered everything and -,"

He remembered the potions slipping down his throat. Remembered the colors and visions that danced in front of his eyes. He remembered the pain and the intense, yearning ache that seemed to crack through his bones as his body plummeted into withdrawal. He remembered screaming. He remembered crying, no tears, and shivering in Lucius' arms.

It was all so real and overwhelming that he gasped in a breath and half-crumpled over the table, his mug rocking and splashing tea over the side.

"Draco!"

That was Bill's voice, concern spiking through it, and Draco had heard that tone of voice before. He remembered it on the Quidditch field, his knee crumpled under him; in a cabin, hiding from the Death Eaters; in his apartment, high on Angel Flight.

A hand on his forehead snapped him back from the memories. He jerked back, eyes wild and breath heavy.

"Draco, are you okay?" Bill demanded.

He wanted to answer, he truly did, but the words were stuck in his throat. Was he okay? He remembered his knee being snapped. He remembered fighting for Bill through a horde of Death Eaters. He remembered being high.

"Je vais bien," Draco said, trying to wave his concern away. He was belatedly aware that his words didn't come out the way he wanted. And then the French words he had spoken suddenly got translated into English, and Latin, and Italian, and Gaelic, and then it kept going, the thoughts in his head getting filtered through a dozen different dialects, and it wasn't just hearing the words, he could see them written as well, and he was conjugating verbs and switching the order of adjectives and –

And he needed dark. He needed dark and quiet and alone so that he could finally get his thoughts straight. He needed safety.

He pushed himself up and started walking, keeping one hand trailing on the wall, half-guiding him. His footsteps took him towards the dungeons. He could hear Bill tagging along behind him, could hear him ask if he was okay, but he wasn't entirely present. He was living out his childhood again – left to his own devices in the manor, taking refuge in the dungeons and experimenting with rather dangerous potions ingredients. He remembered creating strange concoctions that fizzled and boiled and flamed up. He remembered hiding all evidence of his work when he was finished, so no one else would know. He remembered times when he couldn't go down there – Lucius had locked the doors, meaning there was an unwilling guest imprisoned inside. He remembered waking up, his head throbbing, confined with a group of children from school.

He pushed open the door to the dungeons just when that particularly memory played through – a prisoner in his own home, getting marched up to meet Voldemort in the blue conference room, a knife through his arm.

His knees buckled at the remembered pain. Bill grabbed his arm and slowed his descent to the ground.

"Draco, what's wrong?" Bill demanded.

Another voice sounded from the stairs below, a low, sonorous sort of voice. "Feeling a little dramatic, are we, Mr. Malfoy?"

Memories slammed into him. A tall man. Pale skin, dark hair, black eyes, a rather overlooked, unappreciated sort of drama about him. Moments of companionship, and guarded words of advice. The comforting notion that he could be a source of help if needed. A sharp mind for facts, but limited social graces.

"Professor Snape," he managed.

Something thumped, like it had been dropped onto a wooden table. Footsteps sounded towards him, running lightly up the stairs. A figure knelt in front of him.

Draco remembered Potion's class, all six and a half years of it. He remembered sneering insults at Potter, the scent of smoke and soot, the feel of heat and steam.

"I don't know what's wrong with him," Bill said somewhere above him.

Draco tried to bring himself back to the present, tried to focus on the sallow face in front of him.

"Ah," said Snape. "I don't suppose you had the foresight to ease your memories back into that head of yours, instead of just dumping the whole lot back in at once?"

"Only one memory box," Draco said, struggling through the muddled mess of his brain. "I couldn't… couldn't find any others. Couldn't waste anymore time."

He remembered the decision, remembered holding the box in his hands, remembered weighing the risk. He remembered pulling the memories out – the pain – the disorientation – the fear.

Draco's hands went to his head. The world spun.

"His memories are doing this?" he heard Bill ask.

"All of his memories were returned at once," said Snape, pitching his voice low. "For anyone that would be overwhelming. For someone like Draco, with perfect recall, I imagine it's closer to reliving full moments of his life."

Draco leaned forward to put his head between his knees because his stomach was rolling again. Snape pulled him up though and directed him down the stairs. Draco remembered walking down these stairs – hundreds and hundreds of times before. Sometimes he ran down, eager to start his work. Sometimes he walked slower, loneliness adding weight to his feet. Sometimes he trailed a hand on the railing, a book held in front of him, his eyes skimming over the pages.

Draco was deposited in a chair – well-stuffed and soft. Something was draped over him – a blanket, knitted. His fingers knotted in the blanket because this was new. There were no memories tied to the blanket.

He blinked down at it – a rich, green yarn. Even stitches. Handmade. Mrs. Weasley most likely. He glanced around the dungeon, and that was different too. The armchair, a side table and lamp, Snape's own potions' set up.

"Back with us?" Bill asked.

Draco looked over. Bill looked different too, and Draco latched onto those differences. The faint lines on his face. The pinch around his eyes.

"I'm fine," said Draco.

Bill laughed a little. "You aren't, but it's good to hear you say that."

Draco reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose, his head still aching. "Apparently my brain needs to re-organize itself."

"But you remember," said Bill. "You remember why you left?"

The Merlin Code.

Images rose up – the runes he'd been studying for five years. The jolted, uneven, sometimes repeated and triplicated progress he had made over the past five years. All that information slammed into him, an entire new language – but more than that – a new form of magic. He remembered Bill writing the water rune on the table. He remembered the water that flowed up.

He remembered what he had to do with the code.

Draco suddenly realized that he wasn't breathing because Bill was shouting at him, hands on his face, and his lungs were burning. The breath came automatically, but the runes didn't stop flashing over his vision, not until something pungent suddenly filled his lungs, and he choked on the next breath.

"Well, Mr. Malfoy?"

Draco blinked up at Snape and the vial he held in his hand. He didn't need to see the vial to know what it was, he could tell just based on the smell. "Aconite."

"Precisely." The Potion's Master moved back towards his cauldrons. "Perhaps you can tell me what I'm brewing."

"Wolfsbane," said Draco immediately.

"Maybe we could brew him a calming potion?" Bill asked.

Snape shook his head. "Hardly necessary. He just needs to learn to ground himself. Ingredient's list, Draco."

"Aconite," Draco said again, memories coming back, but calmly, orderly. He knew this information. "Diluted dragon's blood. Wormwood infusion. Bezoar water. Dittany. Sprig of holly. Dusting of silver."

"Instructions," said Snape.

Draco took in a breath. He knew this too. He could picture the instructions on the page and he could remember brewing the potion, dozens of times. "Start with a half cauldron of water – copper preferable." The instructions came easily to his mind and fell easily off his lips, the information being logged and placed into the proper filing cabinet in his mind. When he finished talking, he could feel the pressure ease.

"Quite correct," said Snape dryly. "10 points to Slytherin."

Draco sat back in the armchair. It was quite comfortable. Actually, from the rather homey additions to the dungeons, it looked as if Snape used it as a hiding place. Snape added something to one of the three cauldrons currently over the flames and then turned to Draco. "I am pleased to have you with us again."

Draco felt his lips tip up slightly. "It's good to recognize you, Professor."

"Not a Professor anymore," said Snape. "And I believe you are of the age where you can call me Severus."

Draco paused for a moment, letting that sink in. He was five years older than he remembered being. He was twenty-two.

There was a moment of incredulity. He'd imagined being in his twenties – a good job, doing what, he didn't know. He planned on travelling overseas. He'd thought he might sponsor a Quidditch team.

Instead, the very last thing he remembered of his real life was being seventeen.

Seventeen. And now he was in his twenties. He'd missed moments in his life, important moments. Turning eighteen and sneaking into the Muggle world to visit a few nightclubs with friends. Turning twenty and having a large party.

Graduating school.

"I haven't even taken my NEWTs," he realized, slightly horrified.

To his right, Bill laughed. "Of course that's what you've taken away from all of this."

Draco sat back in the chair. "A lack of education is hardly something to laugh at," he said, slightly cross. He sat up again, a thought crossing his mind. "Where's Ginny?"

OoOoOoOoO

"Miss Weasley?" the secretary asked. "You've a visitor in the conference room."

Ginny frowned. She had no interviews to conduct, and no meetings scheduled. "Who is it?"

"It's a personal visitor," said the secretary. She shot Ginny a wink and left.

Ginny's frowned deepened, but she pushed back from the desk and walked down to the conference room. She paused in the doorway. Draco was inside, standing in profile to her, looking out the window.

He was wearing dress robes over a silver-gray suit. That made Ginny pause at first because he'd been favoring more casual wear – not having the aristocratic sensibilities that he been instilled in him from birth. But he was standing differently too. His spine was straight, shoulders squared, when he'd been slouching ever-so-slightly before. His head was tilted at just the right angle to assume a somewhat snobbish air.

"Draco?" Ginny asked.

She watched his fingers clench as he turned, like he was bracing himself. His eyes swept over her, head to toe and then back to her face. His lips twitched up.

"Ginny," he said back, voice carefully measured and controlled.

She knew that voice. Her hand went to her throat. "You're back," she said, somewhat stupidly.

"Yes," said Draco. He took a step towards her. "I missed you."

Ginny felt something irrationally angry rise in her chest. "You didn't even remember me."

She, on the other hand, remembered Draco for five years. Worried about him, cried over him, hoped for him.

He frowned, as if that hadn't quite occurred to him. "I suppose that's correct." His hand went to his collar where he still wore the necklace with the ring on it. "It might be more accurate to say I missed the idea of you."

"It's not quite the same," said Ginny.

Draco visibly stopped himself from taking another step forward. His face was pinched – a tell of frustration, but also maybe of pain because he looked a little peaked, and he was holding himself just a tad too stiffly.

"Maybe not," he allowed. His brows furrowed. "Does it need to be the same? Missing each other?"

"I suppose not," said Ginny. "I don't even know why I said it. It's not as if I would want you to be as miserable as I was. It's just," she took in a breath. There were tears behind her eyes, but she didn't want to cry.

Draco frowned. "I didn't want you to be miserable. I told you that you didn't have to wait."

"Of course I waited for you," Ginny said, her words half-choked. "I'm always going to wait for you, Draco."

And then she walked forward, not the eager, joyful leap she had the first time she saw him. That moment of bliss had passed. Now there was a heavy, heart-wrenching relief. She reached up and wrapped her arms around his neck. He pulled her in tight and rested his forehead on hers.

"You seemed happier the first time you saw me," he said.

"I'm still happy."

"You're crying," he countered.

"Happy tears," she said. "And a few sad tears, but only because I missed you that much."

He pulled back a few inches. "No more sad tears."

"Only if you promise not to leave again," Ginny bargained.

His lips quirked up. "Promise."

He leaned down and she stretched up to seal the deal with a kiss.

OoOoOoOoO

Leave a review! There was minimal editing on this chapter. All mistakes are due to my sleep-deprived mind. Also, I have opinions about Narcissa. What are yours?