She left him, he thought, over and over, but his mind was somehow numb and he couldn't quite believe it. How could she leave him? He'd wooed her and won. She'd married him, therefore she was his- QED. Q E fucking D, he thought savagely, but now matter how he thought it, she had still left him.

And probably she'd gone back to Potter- probably in his arms now, with Potter nibbling on her ears and Potter's hands tracing her backside and Potter hearing those sweet moans...

"Draco, I'm sorry."

His head snapped up.

She was there, standing in the doorway. Her eyes were large... dark. Sincere? He didn't know.

"I should have trusted you." She spoke the words brokenly as she slid across the floor. She stopped in front of the desk and leaned over.

"You should have," he agreed, even though somewhere in his mind a voice was screaming Malfoys don't believe in trust but he didn't care, he was yanking her across the table and smothering her with kisses.

"I've got knees, you know."

As she said that, he noticed she was bent in a rather uncomfortable fashion, so he rearranged her into a sitting position on his tabletop. Then he continued his business- peeling off her robes and her shirt and trying not to slow her down as she did the same to him. "You're mine," he growled, pushing her back onto the desk.

"I believe everyone belongs to themself," she said breathlessly. "That way-"

He put his hand over her mouth. "Sex now. Feminist bullshit later." He gave her a long look. "If ever."

"Deal," she murmured, and she surrendered to him- she was here, she was his, and everything was alright.

It was four o'clock in the morning.

If by some spell she could make it four a.m. forever, her problems would be solved.

He didn't love her.

Didn't love her, couldn't love her. Malfoys didn't believe in love, he'd said time and again, although sometimes it was unclear whether it was for his or her benefit. In the wee hours of the morning, in that hazy not-quite-sleep, she could pretend their passion was love. Passion they had, and it would have to be enough.

It had been three weeks since their brief fight. She'd apologized, he'd accepted, they'd had sex on the desk, under the desk, near the desk... And then things established themselves into a pattern. Ginny wrote during the day, Draco served at the Ministry and attended councils and whatever the hell else he did. At night, they were together- sometimes fierce and nearly violent, sometimes slow and lingering. Always gentle embracing afterwards, with sweet whisperings of "You're mine."

For someone who didn't believe in love, he was awfully possessive.

His arms closed around her tighter, and his warmth felt so good... but she lightly pushed him away. She slipped out of bed and went to sit on the window seat.

Clouds obscured the stars tonight; the sky was pitch dark and oppressive. He didn't love her, couldn't love her, would never love her.

"Ginny, I love you," Harry said, looking helpless. Not helpless, not helpless-- he killed a man...

"Wouldn't Azkaban have been enough?" The words came out of her mouth, barely above a whisper.

"They wouldn't have convicted him. You know that."

"If you got enough evidence--"

He groaned, pushed a chair. "Why are you defending Lucius Malfoy, of all people? He tried to kill you. Or have you forgotten?"

"I know he tried to kill me. But does that make it right for him to die?"

"Gin..."

"I've got to go, Harry... I've just.."

Ginny pulled her knees to her chest and felt her cheeks grow wet. She didn't consciously recognize the source as anthropogenic, even when licking the saline off her lips.

She was pregnant.

What was she supposed to do?

"Come back to bed, Virginia."

She blinked several times and saw Draco's form, sitting upright and folding his arms.

"Gin, this is bed," he said, patting a spot next to him. "Bed, this is Ginny. Now that you two know each other, why don't you come over here?"

When she still didn't respond, he rose and picked her up. He carried her back to the bed and tucked himself in beside her.

She didn't even protest at being treated like a sack of feed.

"Feminist bullshit would be okay now," he said softly.

The tears burned her cheeks- she'd tried to stop but now they were falling faster than she could catch.

She felt his thumb brush below each of her eyes and his lips press against her forehead. "Malfoys don't cry," he said, almost tenderly. Then he slid his arms around her and drew her closer.

And she fell asleep.

In fact, throughout the entire dream, he wasn't really sure who he had married, only that he went to her bed three times a week without much enthusiasm. They slept in separate bedrooms, and his life was business and it was successful, and everything was running according to the age-old Malfoy plan.

He had doubled the family fortune. He had everyone- magic and Muggle alike- in Britain afraid of him, and even most of Ireland and France. In a short period of time, he would have a nice empire, which could expand to include all of Europe. Success, success, success, he repeated in his head, like a giant snake hissing in delight.

He slept alone in a cold bed.

Success, success, successssssss....

He had everything he had ever wanted. Except it wasn't enough-- he wanted more, needed more. So he made more money and bullied more people, and that worked for a while. But it wore off, and so more money, more power...

And although everything should have been perfect, at the end of the dream, he sat by the toilet with a knife poised over his wrist.

Malfoy Manor was much different than Darthaegan. Larger, colder. More house elves, less squib servants. Darthaegan still felt like a home; Malfoy Manor felt like a museum.

Or a mausoleum.

"Even the ghosts hate me," she murmured.

I shouldn't feel so oppressed, she thought. Something has to change, or I'll be miserable. Rather, more miserable than I already am... Why can't we just go back to Darthaegan?

The quiet fueled the loneliness and impersonality and sterility of the place. No friendly spells, homey clutter. Just silent as a tomb.

But startling-- and very alarming-- was the breaking of that silence.

"Corpuswasi," she heard, and she thought some very unprintable words.

It was a terrifying sensation-- her body seized by some force, with this rushing sound ripping through her brain... and being hurled over the staircase. The floor approached faster and faster, the hideous carpet swirling and becoming more grotesque. She fumbled for her wand, but she couldn't quite get it out of her pocket and thank god-- and she had it! She had it! Flick and swish, flick and swish except when she flicked, it fell from her grasp, and surely she would break her neck now--

I won't complain anymore, she vowed desperately to God, shutting her eyes tight.

"Wingardium leviosa." It was so calm, disinterested. Ginny's eyes flew open. She hovered maybe six feet above the floor, and in front of her stood...

Her mother-in-law?

"You saved me," Ginny said, astounded.

"Don't take it personally," Narcissa said, placing her wand in her dress. "Blood stains terribly, is all."

Ginny threw a panicked glance to the top of the staircase. "Did you... see anyone?"

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"Someone pushed me over the railing."

"Oh," said Narcissa. "I thought you were just clumsy. Or suicidal. Or both."

Frost grew on her reply. "Thankfully neither."

"Finite incantatum."

Ginny plopped inelegantly on the floor, and her breath rushed out of her.

"Clumsy," the Lady Malfoy repeated disdainfully. "And certainly not worthy of this family."

That was pebble that sunk the boat.

"Maybe this family," Ginny snapped, "isn't worthy of me."

And so she left.

Percy set his report down on his lap and pushed up his glasses. "Did the bell ring?"

"No. But it should soon."

"Ah," said Percy. "Perhaps I ought to put another pot of tea on."

"Already did."

Percy gave him an admiring glance. Tim was rather efficient.

The doorbell rang.

"Come in," Percy said. "The door's unlocked."

Ginny entered, crying, carrying a yellow umbrella, and looking a mess. Her makeup had redistributed itself in a rather unflattering fashion. She was perfectly dry otherwise. This was testament either to a fantastically effective umbrella or that it wasn't raining at all, and she was just distraught (and getting kind of weird). And truly, either scenario would be something he should like to know. So he cleared his throat and asked:

"Is it raining?"

"No, but it might!" A fresh flood of tears burst out.

She was just getting weird.

Of course, she had been married to Malfoy for three or four weeks, so maybe it was getting to her.

"Oh, muffin," said Tim, rising from his chair and wrapping an arm around her shoulder, "let me get you some tea, and you can tell me all about it."

All about what?

"I don't know what to do," she wailed.

"Tea makes everything better," he assured her, and led her into the kitchen.

Percy looked down at the statistics of the report, then up at the kitchen and his sobbing sister, back down at the numbers... and sighed. There was no way he would get anything done tonight. He joined Tim and Ginny in the kitchen in the midst of a conversation.

"--like I'm submerged in this pool of hatred and apathy, and it's eating away at my skin. The only time I feel okay is when we're together or when I'm not there. And I just-- just..." A sudden surge of tears drowned out the rest. She took Tim's proffered handkerchief and blew her nose vigorously. "I'm sorry, I never cry this much. I don't know what's wrong with me."

"I do," Tim said. "Hormones."

She inhaled sharply, then nodded. "Yeah. Well, I'm pregnant. That's part of the problem."

"Close your mouth, Percy," Tim said. "It's unsightly."

Percy flushed. "You're pregnant?"

"I haven't told him," she said. "I don't know why..."

"She's pregnant," Percy said to Tim.

"Yes, Percy, I heard her," he replied patiently, then turned back to Ginny. "If you're really not happy, tell him you're going back to Darthaegan. Say the hostile environment isn't good for the baby or something."

"Stress isn't healthy," Percy offered.

"So says the workaholic. But it's a legitimate excuse."

"I think... I think that might be the best way to go," she said. "Thank you. Thank you so much."

She embraced them both before leaving.

Not "I'm home." "I'm back."

"Where've you been?" He measured out the words. She'd left, and none of his staff had been capable of giving him an explanation.

She'd left him before. He didn't want her to leave for good.

He kept on getting this vibe from her, this vibe that she had a strong urge to bolt. And it got stronger every time he sensed it. And he was... worried?

"Percy's. If you'll excuse me, I've got to use the bathroom," she said.

He nodded, and she disappeared behind the bathroom door. He couldn't look at that door... could only see that apparition of himself sitting with the blade on the floor. He shifted his gaze.

The umbrella, the one that started everything, lay by the door. Next to it was some sort of book. A photo album, it appeared.

He picked it up and began to leaf through the pages. Pictures of Weasleys, Weasleys, more Weasleys. They looked so happy in that idiotic way. There were so many people in all of the pictures- how on earth did she have enough air growing up?

Maybe you had too much air.

He paused, fingering a picture of her and Potter. Both smiling. Him wearing a truly hideous sweater with an "H" on it.

God, how he hated him.

They were touching. In fact, in every photograph, she was being hugged or held or sidled up to someone, and not just her-- everyone was like that. Like part of their familial bonds were physical.

He looked at the room. Stark, empty, cold.

I'm drowning her with all this space. She's going to leave, going to leave me...

All he could see was her, crying and folded up at four in the morning.

She wandered out of the bathroom and folded her hands. "I, uh, have something to say."

"Draco, I'm leaving."

"Draco, I'm still in love with Harry."

"Draco, I'm dying."

"Can I say something first?" he asked.

Her eyebrows shot up. "Alright."

Don't leave, don't leave... "I think... I think we should move someplace nearer to London. Something smaller. Still use the Manor for holidays and parties and such, but use the new place as the primary residence."

She hugged him so fiercely, so unexpectedly, that he wasn't sure what to do. "Yes, yes, thank you so much." She peppered kisses on his cheeks and chin and neck. When her ardor seemed to have cooled (though her arms remained twined around his neck), she said, "Oh, I almost forgot to tell you the news."

He didn't want to hear it-- she couldn't-- he wouldn't listen, that was it---

"Draco, I'm pregnant."

His head snapped up. "What?"

"Pregnant," she repeated, smiling absurdly. "That heir thing."

She wouldn't leave now, she couldn't. She was his. Forever.

Do Malfoys believe in forever?

He wasn't sure.