Draco could almost feel his blood freeze. His lips began to move of their own volition, words coming out that he wasn't thinking. Events flashed through his mind, one right after the other.

"When?" his voice said.

"When will you join us?" Lucius asked, tracing his own mark languorously.

"Later," he said, sounding bored. "If I feel like it." Which he wouldn't, hell if he'd be Voldie's errand boy.

"A week ago," Howard said. "It must have been right after you quarreled in the restaurant. Your mother says he was upset."

Narcissa stood nervously, wringing her hands. "He rushed off somewhere last night and hasn't been home since. I'm dreadfully worried."

"How?"

How many times had his father taken off? Too many. Twenty? Thirty? He'd run the helm then, and the family industries and properties were doing just fine. He could handle it, that was for sure.

At least he was a competent heir.

"We're not sure, sir," said the butler.

Should I tell them tonight or tomorrow? he thought. Taking the reigns at the party would be nice. Significant. Just turning six-and-twenty, and then becoming the head of the family.

He would take his father's place on several different boards. He'd have to meet with his estate managers. Generally they did a good job, but he had to watch them. Unwatched help grew lazy and lax. They wouldn't steal if he kept a steady eye on them.

And then there were his business managers. The first Malfoy who had gone into trade was almost disowned, but the money he had made earned him a place back in the fold; soon the family had an empire, a monopoly on dark arts objects and magical creatures.

As a Malfoy, the money and influence available was astonishing. But as the head of the Malfoy family, those things increased to a staggering high.

Six-and-twenty was a good age to inherit.

His father's voice ghosted in his mind. "You know you have to be married to inherit."

"Oh, fuck."

Funny how when Draco had been next to her she’d been burning up and flushed, things that couldn’t have been good for her fair complexion. But now that he’d left, and she was in this tiny dress, she was freezing.

Well, that and the icy gaze of every ambitious mama and daughter in the room.

None of them actually spoke to her. They all hissed under their breath and threw nasty looks at her. She could imagine the words. Slut, whore. Probably they recognized her from those ill-begotten articles; probably they knew she was a Weasley. Weasleys were notoriously poor, which was not something she minded so much, except these odious females were whispering the phrase "gold digger."

Pansy Parkinson stomped across the room and plopped herself in a chair facing Ginny. "I don't know what you think you're doing." Pansy's voice was low and angry. There was also something wrong with her eyes, but Ginny couldn't place it.

"Currently," Ginny said, fighting a shiver, "I am waiting my date to conclude his business with his butler." She said my date just to piss Pansy off.

It worked. Pansy's eyes were practically boiling. "He's just using you, you know. To upset his father. He doesn't really want you."

"Maybe. Or maybe he doesn't give a shit about his father anymore."

"Maybe not." A snarl from Pansy's well-bred lips. "But Parkinsons and Malfoys have been allies for centuries. And your families have hated each other for nearly as long."

"It's a date," said Ginny warily. "We can date at our own discretion. It's not like he's asked me to marry him."

A smug grin flickered on her face. Her eyes were normal, now- like empty expanses of tundra. "And he won't, either."

I want to punch her face in. She seriously considered it for a second, then remembered she could hurt her hand- which would make writing unpleasant for a few days.

I could use my left fist. She rejected that idea as well. She couldn't hit as hard with her left hand, and really, a poorly thrown punch was not much fun at all.

Ginny settled for giving Pansy an enigmatic, we'll just see about that smile and sipping her wine. Pansy stomped off, not quite so smug anymore.

Draco returned. His face was pale, his arms were pumping fiercely at his sides. His gait was fast and desperate, and he split through the crowd in no time.

"We need to get out of here," he said to her, low in her ear. "Now. I need to talk to you about something."

"Okay," she replied, because she really couldn't wait to leave.

"Yes," was his tight-lipped reply.

Finally he paused at the end of a hallway- a seemingly dead end- and placed his palm against the wall. "Ah, there," he said, poking a crack, and the wall opened up. He looked expectantly at her.

"Um," she said, almost intelligently.

He gave a mock bow. "After you."

The opening in the wall slammed shut the moment the two of them were in there. It was impossible to ascertain the details of the room; it was dark as pitch. It smelled faintly like rotten eggs.

"Lumos," he said irritably with a flick of his wand.

Seeing her surroundings did nothing to ease her rolling stomach. "Mind telling me what this is all about?"

"My father's been killed."

Ginny watched his face for clues but found none. "I'm sorry?" she ventured.

He dismissed her condolences with his hand. "As you might know, I am the heir to the fortunes, estates, and affairs of the Malfoy family."

"So you're filthy rich. Or filthier. How is this of major importance?"

He started speaking, then stopped to take a deep breath, then started and stopped again. "I have to be married within the week, or I lose it all."

Her jaw dropped. "What kind of retarded condition is that?"

"A condition that's been in place for the last few hundred years in my family," he said grimly. "It's so that the Malfoy heirs will comply to their arranged marriages."

"Let me guess," she said. "Pansy."

He nodded.

"That's really awful," Ginny said with some degree of sincerity. "She's such a nasty little-"

Then it dawned on her- the remarkable similarity of this conversation to a previous one. To avoid Pansy's company, he'd taken her as a date. Now, to avoid marriage-

"You're out of your mind. You are out of your goddamned mind."

"Ginny," he said slowly, seductively, "would you marry me?"

Her first thought was that she couldn't wait to rub it in Pansy's face, but reality kicked in quickly.

"No, no, a thousand times no!" she yelled, arms waving wildly. "Are you insane? You have got to be insane! For one, your entire family hates me- not to mention my family hates you- not just little pissed-offness from a snub last week, centuries of hate, nearly fermented hate!"

"What has that got to do with us?" he asked, moving towards her.

She jabbed a finger in his chest. "Everything! I'd be miserable, surrounded by people who want me dead! Dating here and there, okay, my family can handle that because it's not serious- and we aren't serious, we're just messing-"

"I'm serious," he interrupted.

"You are not," she flared, glaring. "There is something seriously deficient with your brain, which is why you asked me in the first place. Marriage is a forever thing, a love thing, a children thing. It is not a random-ask-some-girl thing.

"And another thing," she said, with this kind of damn, I'm on a roll, feeling, "what the hell were you thinking? Proposing to me in a dungeon? It's not like you don't have the money for a high-class proposal. Fireworks, flowers, prostrate-on-the-ground, dammit. If you're so obsessed about secrecy you could have found some secluded area of the garden. This is about as romantic as a pile of dung."

She could have continued ranting for a good ten minutes, but he shoved her against the wall, pinned her shoulders with his hands, and brought his mouth down on hers. Oh, no you don't, she thought, and bit down on the invading tongue. He didn't recoil, just pressed on. She could taste his blood in her mouth, salty, overpowering. He wedged a thigh between hers and pressed his lower body firmly against her, and all she could think of was I'm done for.

Her hands clutched tightly in his hair. Ten, fifteen minutes he spent just kissing her senseless. She felt abandoned when he separated his mouth from hers briefly and leaned by her ear.

"Malfoys don't believe in love," he said softly, stroking one long finger down the curves of her side.

He leaned closer, and intensified his caress. "Malfoys don't believe in romance."

As he ran that hand up and down, each spot that he traveled over ached when he moved on. His mouth was touching her lobe, and finally, only as audible as a breath, he said, "But we do believe in passion."

"We've got passion in spades, Draco." She shifted her hips, but he readjusted them so that they were even closer than before. "Passion but good. But marriage is a commitment, a sacrament. There needs to be something serious as a base."

"Passion is all there is."

"No, it's not." She pushed herself away. "I'm going home. Lead me out."

He sighed, and began the trek out of the house.

Ginny dreamed of Lucius Malfoy. She dreamed of his sharp features, blond hair, his smirk. She dreamed of his power, power that was visible in his eyes. She dreamed of his carcass, covered in maggots.

Ginny dreamed of her first year at Hogwarts. She dreamed of Tom Riddle and how the diary had consumed her. She dreamed of the Chamber of Secrets.

Ginny, oddly enough, did not dream of Harry.

Ginny did dream of Draco. She dreamed of his kiss, of his eyes. She dreamed of him married to Pansy; Pansy's arms around his neck, her tongue in his ear, her body in his bed; she dreamed of Pansy bearing his children and running his house.

Ginny awoke, and vomited.

"I think we should bury him on Wednesday," she said after her sobs had subsided. "He always loved Wednesdays."

Draco privately thought that his mother was a wacko, that surely Lucius hadn't liked Wednesdays- who likes Wednesdays, anyways? No one in their right mind, that was for sure. But he didn't mention anything, just had Howard set up the funeral for Wednesday at half past ten.

Hesitant, Narcissa said, "Should I arrange the wedding for Saturday?"

"No," he said firmly. "I'll handle that."

His mother took that to mean he would marry Pansy sometime earlier; he let her believe that. It saved on explanation time.

Harry stirred his tea and flipped the paper over. The Cannons had lost again; this was not much a surprise, but he imagined Ron was still crushed. Ron had inordinate hope in that team.

It was quarter after nine; Harry put the kettle on for fresh tea. When the water was ready, he picked out a box of orange pekoe from the cupboard and let the leaves steep. He poured a mug full of the pekoe, added three spoonfuls of sugar, and set it on the edge of the counter.

At nine-thirty, Ginny walked sleepily into the kitchen, wearing a light blue nightgown and her hair up in a messy bun. She looked dazed, tired. She went to the counter, picked up the mug, and savored her first sip.

He could almost see the details clicking in her brain- ready-made tea, lights on, person sitting at the island in the kitchen.

She dropped her mug.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she demanded, gathering the pieces and mumbling a mending spell.

"I left my jacket." It was true- he'd found it sitting in a precarious position in front of her fire.

"What if I'd had company? Couldn't you knock instead of barging into my flat like you own it?"

"You didn't have company," he said reasonably. "I checked with your landlady."

"Still, there's something called common courtesy." She folded her arms. "I'd rather not have a rehash of last week."

Cut to the chase. "I heard you attended Malfoy's party last night. As his date."

"What, do you have spies?" She set the reconstructed mug on the counter, lest she drop it again. "Why are you obsessed with my social life? Surely there are other girls who will sleep with you, Harry."

"I'm worried about you. Worried that you don't know what you're getting into. You can't know what Malfoy's up to."

"I know precisely what he's up to. He wants me to marry him so that he can inherit his precious millions, then give him an heir, and probably he would ignore me for the rest of my life. But, you know, it doesn't sound like such a bad deal- at least he knocks before entering." She patted his cheek. "Close your mouth, you'll catch flies. Oh, and get out of my apartment."

"Ginny," he said with a sigh.

"I'm serious," she said. "Get out."

"You could thank me for making you tea," he said, gathering up his jacket.

"I could, but I don't think I will, being as you broke into my kitchen to do so."

Harry sighed and left.

Draco thought the entire idea of courtship was ridiculous. But Ginny wanted it as a measure of his sincerity. Romance, in his mind, was rather counterproductive to that goal. If anything, it was about bullshitting the girl with the right words, the right gifts.

But they had passion. The first few months would be ardent companionship; she'd produce an heir; and then they would practice a courteous separation for the remainder of their lives. It sounded perfect to him.

So he went and bought her an arrangement of lilies and some damned purple things on Tuesday morning.

It was quarter to ten when he reached her flat with the bouquet. He had planned on a quick exchange of the flowers, a snog, and a reminder that he would rather like to marry her before Sunday, then depart for a meeting at the Ministry.

When he saw Potter coming out of the building, he realized things would not go as he had anticipated.

"What are you doing here?" Potter spat.

"None of your business. What, are you stalking her?"

"You stay away from her," said the dark haired man fiercely. "She's too good for you. You've got plenty of blond, busty Slytherin alumni to screw around with- leave Ginny alone."

"Ginny can make her own decisions." Draco brushed past him, headed up to Ginny's flat. He knocked clearly, three times.

"Swear to god, Harry, if you do not leave, I am going to scream," came her muffled voice.

"It's me."

The door swung open; her brown eyes looked relieved. "Hi."

He handed her the lilies and purple things, and her face lit up.

"Thank you, that's very thoughtful." She waved vaguely. "You can come in."

He followed her into her kitchen, where she put water in a vase and organized her flowers within.

They stared at each other for a minute or so, and then she cleared her throat. "So, about the... marriage thing."

"Yes?" he said, hoping he didn't sound too hopeful.

She closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, then let out a string of very fast words. "I'll do it I suppose, but really I think it should be small, I don't want a big production. Just enough for it to be done."

"My father's being buried tomorrow," he said. "How about Thursday?"

"Alright," she said, then blinked. "Thursday it is then."

He kissed her then; this was apparently a "romantic" thing to do. Not that he minded- an excuse to get his tongue in her mouth was a good thing.

She stepped back, gripped the counter, and announced:

"I think I'm going to need a drink."