Dearest Ginny,

I can’t believe that this is really happening. I’m really here in this tent, far from everyone and chasing down Horcruxes. Then again, you don’t know about those yet.

Ron’s already done a runner, and Hermione can’t stop crying. She thinks I don’t notice, but I don’t see how I could possibly not notice. She curls up in the blanket that he used and inhales it now and then, though it can’t smell very good—none of us do. I suppose it’s because it’s his smell.

That’s probably why it’s so hard to watch, because she still has that small bit of the person she loves the most. I don’t have that comfort. Oh, I can watch you on the Marauder’s Map and I do—a lot—but it’s just not enough to see your name. I want to see your face, your smile, those freckles on your arms, the way you bite your bottom lip when you’re thinking . . . I want to see you.

There are times when I go outside for my watch and I look up at the stars, just hoping that you’re looking at them, too. Once, I could swear to Merlin that I could feel you when I was. I know that it’s probably ridiculous, but I—I just can’t explain it. I could just sense you for a minute, as if for one moment, all of this space didn’t separate us.

I don’t even know where you are. If I were to be honest, I’m not entirely sure where I am, but every night I’m out, I try and try to get that back, that little bit of time when you and I could just be, without Horcruxes, without Death Eaters, without this war . . . without him. Sometimes I even wonder if we’ll ever get that time.

I probably shouldn’t even be writing this, since we don’t have much parchment and Hermione will most likely kill me when she finds out that I’ve used so much of it on a letter that I’ll never be able to send, but at the moment, I don’t care. You’re not at school, and I can’t look for you on the Map. I miss you so much and just had to at least see your name if I can’t touch you. When this is all over and I’m lucky enough not to get killed doing this . . . this whatever that Dumbledore has me doing, I’m going to make up for every minute of this time, agonizing that you’re not here. Not that I want you here, per se, but I just want—oh, bollocks, I don’t even know what I want anymore.

I miss you so very much. I know I said that already, but considering just how much I miss you, it bears repeating. Though I know you’ll never read this, I’m going to come out and finally say it. I love you, Ginevra Molly Weasley. I’ve been ridiculously in love with you for over a year, but I’ve never been man enough to admit it. Well, now things have changed. I’ve changed, and while I’m not sure that it’s for the better, I do know that what seemed like such a challenge for me last May just rolls off of my tongue now. I don’t know if absence really makes the heart grow fonder, but from where I’m standing, it does.

I suppose that’s all for now. I probably can’t write anything else, what with being short on supplies and all, so I’m going to leave this with a hope that some day, you’ll actually find it.

All my love,

Harry.


Draco stared at the letter in his hand. While it was the sappiest sodding letter that he had ever read in his life, something inside of him made him feel bad for reading it. Potter had penned this letter to the Weasley girl while he was out trying to kill the Dark Lord, but he had never got the chance to deliver it.

When Greyback and his Snatchers had apprehended Potter’s group, all of their possessions had been dumped at Malfoy Manor, which is where Draco was now. Nobody had been back into the house but Aurors since the end of the Battle. But now that Potter had done his best to let Draco, as well as his mother, walk free, they were finally able to return to their family home, free of guilt, free of the public eye, and free of the Dark Lord—thank Merlin.

Since all of the house elves had been taken away from the Malfoys by the Ministry, not to mention every last Knut they had, Draco and his mother had been reduced to cleaning up the rubbish that inhabited their home on their own. This is how Draco had come by Potter’s belongings and, coincidentally, the letter.

But what do I do with it? Draco wondered to himself. He couldn’t burn it, since he did essentially owe Potter his life. Though burning it and severing ties with the girl couldn’t be a bad thing, Draco doubted that Potter would see it that way. He could forget that he ever saw it and move on.

Or he could deliver it. Draco had no idea what made that thought pop into his head. There was nothing that he cared about less than Potter being in love with Ginny Weasley. Well, maybe the Weasley girl's git of a brother and Granger . . .

Some niggling, annoying voice in the back of his head kept telling Draco to do the right thing. What really pissed him off is that he knew what that was.

Resigned to appease his ill-tempered conscience, Draco strode out of the door and down past the gate. Squeezing his eyes shut and concentrating on a dangerously vague recollection, he Apparated into a field of grass.

In the distance, Draco could see a ramshackle house that looked ready to fall in on itself at any moment. He harrumphed. It had to be the Weasley house; only a nest of blood-traitors would inhabit such a place.

Draco was nervous, and that feeling only grew as he approached the abode. With each step, the realization that each and every person in that house would sooner curse him than say hello mounted. When he was a stone’s throw from the front porch, he knew that it was the point of no return. He had to do what he came there to do now.

After several tries at knocking on the door, his courage failing him every time, Draco finally got the nerve to rap his knuckles on the door. Almost immediately, it swung open to reveal a now very irritated-looking redhead—and not the one he came to see.

“What do you want, Malfoy?” spat George Weasley.

Stuttering, Draco replied, “I, um . . . I have something for your sister.” Seeing George’s face darken, Draco quickly amended, “I didn’t mean that. I mean, I have a letter for her.”

George’s face was unreadable. He simply stared there at Draco, which made the younger man vastly uncomfortable. Second after excruciating second passed before Draco could no longer stand the silence.

“I’m sorry about your brother,” Draco said, surprised that he actually meant it. Everyone had lost someone in the War, and he could not even imagine what this man had lost.

Something sparked in George’s eye, but he did nothing but cock his head toward the interior of the house, indicating that Draco was to come in. Though he would rather be trampled by that oaf Hagrid’s mad hippogriff, he did not dare refuse for fear of being hexed or worse.

“Sit down,” ordered George as he ran up the stairs. Draco complied, sitting himself on the very edge of the old, worn settee. He had no idea how clean these Weasleys were at home, so he minimized his exposure, lest he catch something.

About a minute later, he heard a sound of feet coming down the stairs, albeit much less thundering than those of George. He turned to see who was coming, and he was nearly relieved to see Ginny Weasley, not her surly elder brother.

“George said you have a letter for me.”

Draco breathed deeply to expel the tension that had built up during his short but nerve-racking wait. “Yes.”

She held out her hand. “Hand it over and you can be on your way.”

The abrupt dismissal set off something in Draco’s brain, which would have been enjoyable at any other point, but at this one, it was plain foolish. “Where are your manners, Weasley? What, you can’t say ‘please’?”

He could see her cheeks quickly becoming a shade of red that matched her hair and drowned out her freckles. She was dangerous. Oh, yes—she was dangerous.

“Give. It. To. Me. NOW!” Ginny ground out through clenched teeth.

Knowing that it was foolish to anger this girl in a house full of hostile Weasleys, Draco handed over Potter’s letter without another word. Then he . . . had no idea what he was supposed to do. Was he supposed to wait for her to read it? Should he tell her who it was from?

His next course of action was clear once she started reading the letter, unmindful of his presence. Draco watched her eyes follow each line of the missive, tears building as she went along. The tiny droplets started to fall, he estimated, right about where Potter had professed his love for her.

Though staring at her while she was reading probably wasn’t the greatest idea, he did. It was fascinating, watching how a few words could mean so much to someone. Draco couldn’t help but hope that someone, someday, would write something like that to him and actually mean it, not just because he had money and power.

Once she had finished reading, Ginny raised her head. “Where did you get this?”

He’d planned the explanation for this all out in his head, but now that he was confronted by it, Draco found himself momentarily tongue-tied. When he recovered the words, he said the line that he had rehearsed in his mind the whole time he had been walking up to the house. “It was at Malfoy Manor with Potter’s belongings during his, er, visit.”

His duty done, Draco turned and walked toward the front door. Before he could pass through it, however, Ginny’s voice stopped him.

“Malfoy!” When she had his attention, she continued in a softer tone. “Draco . . . thank you.”

It was a curious sensation, being on the receiving end of gratitude. Draco had never really experienced it before, as he had never really given anything that could be accepted in such a way—ever. Not really sure what he was supposed to say, he simply inclined his head in a gentle nod and strode out the door.

Just as Draco returned to the spot where he had Apparated, he said out loud, “Now we’re even, Potter,” before disappearing from The Burrow, probably never to return.