damage to the museum, you smug git, Malfoy.”
Draco looked at Seamus. Then he smiled politely. “That was the Malfoy wing of the museum,” he said. “I'm hardly going to have to pay off my own Foundation, am I?”
Seamus turned an unbecoming shade of scarlet, and was silent.
Dumbledore cleared his throat. “Thank you, Mister Finnigan,” he said. “I believe that will be all I need from you.”
Seamus got to his feet, still puce, and stalked out of the office. Draco could feel Seamus resisting the urge to slam the door as he went out, and smiled to himself. When he turned back to Dumbledore, however, his smile melted like snow in April. The Headmaster was looking at him with a gaze so piercing Draco felt as if Dumbledore were drilling into his head.
“Mister Malfoy,” he said. “I am quite sure you had your reasons for doing what you did. And Merlin knows they are opaque to everyone but yourself. However, there is no excuse for ruthless use of other people's sincere emotions. No matter what your intended ends might be.”
Draco swallowed hard and looked down at the ground. In his place, Harry would likely have felt terrible. Draco merely felt terribly confused. Surely, if Dumbledore knew what they had been trying to accomplish… “I understand, sir,” he said. “I'm sorry-”
“Don't apologize to me,” said Dumbledore in a clipped voice. “You will apologize to Mister Finnigan. In public. And furthermore…” The Headmaster's voice trailed off then. Draco chanced a look up and was startled at what he saw: Dumbledore was looking at him with an expression of unutterable weariness. He seemed old in that moment, almost frail, his face very lined. “Draco,” he said at last. “I understand that I have put you and Harry in a terrible position. I know that. And I am sorry for it. I wish that there were more that I could do, but I am afraid that I cannot.”
“Headmaster…” Draco said in a sudden burst. “What you told me last week — about my father and Harry's parents — do you think I should tell him?”
Dumbledore shook his head. “I am afraid that is your decision to make,” he said. “But I would say that yes, you should. It is never wise to hide things.” He sighed, and shook his head again. “That is all, I suppose,” he said. “And you will not go to Madam Pomfrey to have her attend to your wounds — I wish you to bear your bruises. And, when you have a moment, give a thought to what they mean.”
Draco nodded silently, not exactly sure what Dumbledore might mean, and the Headmaster smiled at him. It looked like a real smile, if a tired one.
“Very well,” Dumbledore said. “It is Monday afternoon, and I know you have an appointment in the armory. Go along, and give Harry my regards.”
Outside the door to Dumbledore's office, the only sound was the ticking of the brass grandfather clock in the corner of the hallway. Ginny tried to ignore the insistent noise as she waited, nervously, for the office door to open. The moment they'd all returned to school everyone had scattered — back to their respective common rooms to gossip, she didn't doubt.
Hermione had fled somewhere, Cloak in hand, Harry had gone off to wait for Draco, and Ron — well, she didn't know where Ron had gone, but he'd scarpered pretty quickly as soon as they'd arrived back at Hogwarts. Not that she minded; she'd heard Harry tell Hermione that Draco and Seamus had been taken to Dumbledore's office, and she'd headed there without a moment's thought.
A quarter hour later and she was still waiting. A vague and displaced sense of guilt assailed her. She felt as if somehow the fight were her fault.
Probably because she had been its catalyst, however unwilling. The worst part, she thought wretchedly, was that some part of her, some small part, had liked the fight…she'd never thought Seamus had it in him to get quite so passionately angry, and as for Draco — She broke off and looked up as the door to Dumbledore's office opened, wondering which of them it would be, or if it would be both of them. It was Seamus. She felt her mouth sag open a little bit — she hadn't realized quite how bad he would look. She hadn't seen most of the fight, and had somehow assumed that it was, had been, mostly staged and not sincere.
But Seamus' injuries looked quite sincerely inflicted. The skin around his left eye was bright purple, and his bottom lip was swelled up to twice its normal size. “Oh,” she gasped, involuntarily. “Seamus…”
He glanced down at himself. His white shirt and gray sweater were spattered with blood. “Yeah,” he said. “Not so pretty, huh. I should get to the infirmary.”
“You look great,” she said firmly.
Seamus snorted, then winced as if this had been painful. “I do not,” he said. “I look like I've been playing tonsil hockey with a paper shredder.”
Ginny laughed. “Well, you're still making jokes,” she said. “So I'm not so worried about you any more.”
Now he did look at her. “You were worried about me?”
“Well, yes,” she said. “I mean — look at you.”
“I thought you said I looked great.”
“I lied,” she said. “You look horrible.”
He looked as if he would have smiled, if he'd been able to. Something tugged at her. He looked so different like this. Bruised up of course, and bloody, and it gave him a slightly dangerous air that he'd certainly never had before. Even his voice sounded different…“Remind me why I hang around you again,” he said.
“Because,” Ginny said, and went up to him, and put her hands on his shoulders. “Of this,” and she kissed his chin, “and this,” and she kissed his cheekbone where the bruising wasn't too bad, “and this,” and she very gingerly kissed his mouth.
He looked at her wide-eyed, and touched her face lightly with the tips of his fingers. “I thought —” he said. “I figured you'd be angry.”
“I'm not. It was Draco's fault.”
“Yeah, but everything you said before —”
“Look, Seamus—“
“About not wanting me to protect you —”
