My True Love Sent To Me

by Lyndsie Fenele

Twelve days can be a lifetime, yet Epiphany must always come.

Title: My True Love Sent to Me
Author: Lyndsie Fenele
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.
Rating: R-ish, but only a paragraph or two.
Summary: Twelve days can be a lifetime, yet Epiphany must always come.

Notes: I sat down the day after Thanksgiving to write a fluffy, fun Christmas piece. I didn't have any real direction in mind, and somehow I ended up with this. It's not fluff at all.

Although it varies by denomination, in the strictest sense, the twelve days of Christmastide begin on Christmas Day and then continue on. The morning of the thirteenth day signals Epiphany.

I.
An ethereal glow was slowly replacing blackness. The dim yellowish light sank into her vision as suffusing warmth penetrated her bones. Her mind accepted these things without analyzing them, and as her sleep-laden muscles struggled to catch up to her brain's commands and awareness began to return, she realized she must have been sleeping very deeply.

The strong scents of evergreen and cinnamon assailed her as she sat up, making her nose tingle. The glow was coming from a glass lamp on the nearby bureau, and from the angle of the bed, it reflected off the mirror behind to create an aurora of light.

Despite the contrary evidence of her not yet quite wakened limbs, she thought she must still be dreaming. The soft quilt under her fingers, the scratchy garment she was wearing, the cold, jet-colored rectangle of the window contrasted by the warmth of the wood furniture glinting in the lamplight--it was all tinged by poignant unreality. She laid her head back on the plump pillow behind her, looking at the cracking ceiling.

She felt content, and right. It was a very nice place to wake up. But where was she, and how had she got here? Slowly, the warmth left her as her mind turned back to her most recent memories. Fear. Running. The cold, and the deep snow. Getting slower and slower, and finally stopping. When a person got numb enough, snow began to feel warm. It was soft and comfortable, like the softest featherbed. The last thing she remembered was tucking in to sleep, burrowing down into the warm cover of new-fallen snow before drifting off.

Suddenly seized by blind panic, she forced her aching body to rise, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. It felt as though her brain was issuing the commands to move, but her body was taking a few seconds longer to respond than it should. As she stood, the tingle of gooseflesh on her legs made her aware that she was clothed in nothing more than an overlarge shirt. Her mind was racing. She had been running so hard and long that toward the end, she was sure she'd begun to see things. Pinpricks of light she had been sure were from windows of woodland cottages had been nothing more than the rays of the setting sun glinting off of iced-over ponds. Her survival instincts were being subverted by panic, exhaustion, and the poison in her blood. Trembling, she reached out and grasped the bed coverings. They felt so real, but how could she be sure they weren't really a soft layer of snow? How did she know that her mind wasn't still playing tricks on her, that she wasn't seeing only that what she wanted to see? The place was too perfect. A small corner of her mind was so black with fear it was screaming that maybe she had died, and she was here awaiting passage to the world beyond. She wasn't sure she was ready yet to pay for her sins.

Whimpering, she limped over to the door. Her shaking hand rested on the knob for a moment, unsure. She didn't know if she was ready yet to see what was on the other side.

Inhaling sharply, she opened the door.

It took a moment for her to interpret what she was seeing. Hesitantly, she stepped forward into the small room. She forgot about all her fears as she looked at the small tree in the corner. The evergreen smell increased as she neared it. It was crooked and spindly, but it was decorated with pinecones and colored string, and one sparkling crystal star. Her hand reached for it impulsively. It had been so long since she'd seen a Christmas tree. There hadn't been time for celebration for as long as she cared to remember. The low fire in the grate was the only light, but that didn't stop the little star from shining and sparkling, mirroring the tears in her eyes.

The smallest noise sounded behind her and all the months and years of fear and adrenaline came surging back. She spun around wildly, her eyes madly searching for any kind of weapon as a figure rose in front of her. The orange light of the fire glinted off of bright hair, and she saw steely eyes.

"No, no," she gasped out. There was nothing to fight with except her fists and teeth. A part of her wanted to stop fighting, believed she'd be better off dead. As soon as that thought entered her head, it flashed away. She would fight until her last breath.

The figure lunged forward. As it stepped forward, into the full glare of the firelight, she nearly shrieked. "No! No, you're dead!" She screamed, and scratched, and struggled as he grabbed her. But she was too weak.

"Shh," he said. "You shouldn't be out of bed, you're still sick. You've a fever, and you need to rest."

"No..." she muttered weakly, as Draco Malfoy carried her back to the bedroom.

II.
She awoke later, the world strangely muffled. She was very thirsty. Before she could think to move, a cool cup was placed against her lips, and she drank greedily.

III.
She'd been awake for a short time when he entered the room. There was a steaming bowl in his hand, and the smell of soup wafted toward her. He set the bowl down on the bedside table so he could draw a chair up to her bed and sit.

"Can you feed yourself?" he asked. When she didn't respond, he held the bowl out to her. She reached for it, hands shaking slightly. He held it steady while she picked up the spoon. Satisfied that she could hold it without spilling, he pulled his hand away, their fingers brushing.

The broth was warm, with a hint of spice that she couldn't identify. It slid down her throat as she spooned it in quickly.

"How long did I sleep?" she asked, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. He seemed to be merely watching her.

"Two days," he responded.

She went back to the broth, finishing it off. He took the bowl from her and handed her a thick earthenware mug, filled with tea. She sipped it, tasting the milk he'd added with relish. Fresh dairy was scarce.

"Where are we?" she asked. Turning toward him, she looked him fully in the face for the first time. His light hair was brushing his shoulders loosely, and he wore a rough-knit woolen jumper.

In response to her question, he merely shrugged.

After he left with the dishes, she stared out the window for a while. The view of the textured woods outside the window left her feeling peaceful. Leaning back, she drifted off into sleep again.

As she drifted in and out of sleep the rest of that day, she was sure she felt his presence, even though she didn't remember seeing him.

IV.
Sometime during her sleep he had left a robe and slippers on the chair next to her bed. She put them on and exited to the room with the Christmas tree. She could see now that the cottage was very small. Besides the Christmas tree and the hearth, there was a small stove, a tiny table with two rough-hewn chairs, and a rocking chair in the room. She could see Draco's form stretched out in front of the fire, covered in a wool blanket. His chest was rising and falling rhythmically.

There was another door directly across from the bedroom. Curious, she opened it slowly, and was glad to see what was inside. There was a narrow, waist high metal tub against the wall, and a toilet and small sink. Eagerly, she closed the door behind her and relieved herself. Pulling the long chain that hung from a tank attached to the ceiling, she watched the water swirl away. She washed her hands with a block of brown soap before exiting.

She nearly collided with Draco, who was holding a battered tea kettle. Silently, he stepped back to let her pass. Sitting down at the table, she heard the sound of water running as he filled the kettle.

He sat across from her while the water heated on the wood-burning stove. She watched the snow whirling and blowing outside the window. It was almost mesmeric.

"How long have you been here?"

"He stirred, looking at her staidly. "A long while," was his response.

She frowned. "You live alone?"

He nodded. She looked back towards the tree, watching the star throw prismatic colors on the ceiling and walls.

"All this time?" He nodded again. "Oh," she responded softly. "Well, there is peace here."

The kettle whistled, and he poured them tea. He pulled a ceramic container of milk from an icebox next to the tree.

"How do you get provisions?" she asked, curious about the milk.

He set down his tea cup, standing and moving to the icebox. "It's a receptacle for deliveries." He fished out a cylinder of biscuits and brought it back to the table.

"Deliveries? Who delivers?"

He shrugged again. They finished their tea in silence.

Some time later, she asked him, "How do you pass the time?" They had been sitting, staring at the fire for some time.

"I read."

Ginny smiled. "You must have read a lot of books by now."

The right corner of his mouth turned up slightly, though she could have imagined it. "I read them again."

She retired after supper, and slept soundly.

V.
The next day was spent in reading and silence, until the sun began to fall. The trunk in the bedroom was full of books. He was heading that way to put his book away when she called his name. He stopped, turning to her impassively.

"There's only one bed here." Getting no response from him, she continued. "I don't mean to keep you from your bed. Please, I'll sleep by the fire tonight. I feel much better now."

He turned away abruptly, but returned shortly after and lay down by the fire, covering himself with the same blanket again.

VI.
"How did you heal me?" she asked suddenly. It was midafternoon, and they were reading again. He looked up, eyes widened. Her voice faltered slightly. "There was poison in my blood, and I was so cold. I haven't seen anything here that could have saved me."

He pressed his lips together in a thin line. "Magic," was his terse response.

Her eyebrows rose. "You have your wand? I'd assumed you refrained from using magic to avoid detection."

Closing his book, he shook his head. "It's more work without magic," he spoke haltingly, forming the words with so much labor she thought he must be unused to speaking. "When I was first here, and had nothing to do, and thought I would lose my mind, I started doing things without magic so it would take longer, give me more to do."

She considered this. It made sense, though it didn't fit with what she knew of him. "I haven't seen your wand since I've been here."

He smiled, rising. Moving to the cupboard above the receptacle, he looked around for a moment before he pulled it out. He handed it to her silently, and she felt her throat choke up. It had been a long time since she'd held a wand, and that he'd handed his over so casually shocked her. She fingered it lovingly, feeling the dull hum of magic tingling along her senses.

She looked up, and they way he was staring at her made her breath catch.

"Have you been very lonely?" she asked, and wondered at the question.

He just gave one of his meaningless shrugs again before picking up his book.

That night she slept restlessly, but didn't remember her dreams.

VII.
She'd awoken that morning feeling a chill that was physical. It must have shown, because Draco made her sit in the rocking chair by the fire and drink plain broth again. She was inwardly amused that he didn't even have to speak anything; his stern silence was enough to gain her compliance.

The rest of the day was again spent reading, and Ginny began to chafe at the silence. She wasn't able to focus on the book.

VIII.
The fire was burning merrily in the grate, and Ginny was feeling listless. She'd had another rough night's sleep. Her thoughts were wandering to her friends and family, and what they must be doing. She missed them.

"Where do you get the wood?" she asked suddenly. Draco looked up.

"Outside."

"You chop it yourself?"

"Yes, but not now. Now I just retrieve it from the shed."

"There's a shed?" she asked, not knowing why. She was desperate for conversation, it seemed.

He nodded. "It's where I keep the goat."

Her mouth gaped. "You have a goat? Is that where you get the milk?"

"Yes," he said mildly. "When I get the wood, I milk."

Something inside her twisted. She was silent until she went to sleep that night.

IX.
Draco had painstakingly heated up the water for a bath for her. She was relaxing, thinking she hadn't felt something so heavenly in ages. The water was warm, soothing her aching muscles, but she couldn't quite shake the unease that had gripped her.

Another day of reading by the fire did not help ease her anxiety.

X.
Childlike laughter floated to her, but she wasn't in a building, or outside. She was in a gray space, filled with smoke. She turned, heart reaching out as well as hands, yearning.

"Mummy." She turned behind her, and saw a pond surrounded by a verdant meadow. A little boy, not more than four years old, was playing by the shore. She sprinted forward, but fell to her knees a few feet away.

"Gideon," she breathed, holding out her arms. The boy giggled and ran to her. She embraced him tightly, rocking him back and forth. "Oh, Gideon, I've missed you."

"Mummy, you silly."

Ginny awoke with a start. The room was dark. The childlike laughter was fading from her mind, and she was all alone. She hadn't dreamed of Gideon in a long while. He would be almost four years old now, if he'd survived. She always dreamed him as he would be now, aging in her dreams as he never would in life. Curling into a ball, she sobbed herself to sleep.

XI.
She hadn't gotten out of bed the day before except to use the toilet. Draco had brought her some food, but hadn't stayed.

This day they'd fallen back into their old routine, only it no longer felt right to Ginny. The blanket of contentment that had stolen over her felt like a trap, and she was restless. She'd spent the last few years of her life in fight-or-flight mode, and to sit sedately hours on end was making her anxious.

"I'm going to go outside," she spoke into the silence.

Draco looked up from stoking the fire in surprise. "It's very cold," he returned. "You are not yet well."

"I don't care," she snapped. "I can't sit here anymore. I need to do something." She moved to the door.

He blocked her. "You can't." His voice was firm, and it rankled her.

"Draco, I'm going outside, and you can either—"

He interrupted her. "The poison," he spoke desperately. "It's a nasty thing. It was designed purposefully, I think, to be more potent in the cold. Heat deactivates many venoms, but this is even more than that. It might never leave your body."

"I know that," she hissed. "They made it to kill us, because we're on the run, hiding, and we're living in the worst possible conditions, with no heat, and no food..." She lifted her fists, and started beating him on the chest. "Let me out! Let me out!"

"No, Ginny," he spoke softly, wrapping his arms around her as she railed against him. She was sobbing now, but he held her tight against him.

Ginny awoke at dusk, tucked into the bed. Draco looked up when she entered the room, and sat across from him at the table.

"Once I'm healed, I'm going to leave, Draco." The look in his eyes was surprise. She gathered breath. "I have to go back to the fight."

"Why?" he burst out, emotion on his voice and face for the first time. "You said that you have no life, that you're always running. You're safe here."

The look she shot him was hard. "I cannot sit in comfort while those I love are murdered."

He flinched. Then he stood, tugging on his hair. "When I left things were hopeless enough. How many are there left now? How long will it take for you all to be exterminated? Why not stay here with me, and live? Isn't that the greatest rebellion?"

She stood as well, facing him with closed fists. "You can't stop me. I won't stay here with you."

"Why not?" he whispered, moving toward her and taking her hands in his, forcing her palms flat again. "It's not much, but it's nice in its own way."

Her breathing was ragged and harsh in the cloak of silence that was the cottage. "I cannot trade comfort for liberty, Draco, even when given the choice. I have to go back, and get whatever revenge I can, for Gideon."

"Gideon?" he repeated, stiffening slightly. Looking at his face, she cracked.

"Yes, Gideon," she repeated harshly, her voice rising in volume with each new syllable. "Who was always smiling and happy, even when the world turned bleak and we were run into the wild. You were dead, Draco, and I missed you so much that I thought I should just turn myself in and get it over with. Then Gideon was born and I learned to be happy again, because I had part of you with me." She sobbed, seeing the look of wild hope in his eyes. "But my baby died, he died and it was my fault. There wasn't enough food, and I stopped producing milk, and we had nothing. He died slowly, and I watched and I could do nothing." She tried to pull her hands from his. "And you were here all the time, alive and reading, with you goat, and your milk, and Gideon was dying! Your son was dying!" She sobbed and collapsed, and didn't fight when he caught her.

XII.
She awoke in the pre-dawn, ensconced in the bed with Draco's arm around her. She studied his features in the dim light. Lightly running her fingertip over his features, she tried to examine her feelings. The betrayal she'd felt the night before was gone. After she had cried herself dry, they had sat by the fire as a blizzard raged outside. He'd told her the story behind his stay at the cottage; how he'd despaired as their numbers were slowly picked off, how he blamed himself. His presence was a major irritation to the Death Eaters; he knew they hunted for him all the more ferociously, and it put the others in even more danger. A plan was hatched to move him to a safehouse for a time, and fool the Death Eaters into thinking he was dead in the hopes of abating their ferocity. Only, something must have gone wrong, because no one ever came for him. He'd assumed the worst, and lived in the despair that the rebellion had been extinguished.

Until he'd found her in the snow while looking for a Christmas tree.

She didn't notice at first that his eyelids had fluttered open, but when he pulled her tight against him, she nuzzled her face into the warmth of his neck. His hand moved to rest at her waist, and she moved hers to the waistband of his pants. Tentatively, she skated her fingertips along the sensitive flesh of his abdomen, sliding smoothly underneath his shirt. His release of breath was a silent moan and she felt the pulse of his throat racing where her face was pressed against it.

"Ginny..." he whispered, bringing his hand up to tangle in her hair. He moved closer, their hips bumping. She was so warm now. He moved his face closer, their lips a hair's breadth from touching, but at the last second both pulled back. Then, with only half a thought, they crashed together.

She'd thought she was dead. Ever since Gideon's death, she'd been alive without living. She'd been cold, and now everywhere Draco's skin touched hers so was so very warm.

"Draco," she gasped out. She couldn't think, only feel, and she thought she would come out of her skin. There was no finesse, just raw need swirling around them like the snow outside. She moaned as he slid inside her. For the first time in years she felt that everything was right. She closed her eyes against the blinding white sparks in her vision as she shuddered against him.

XIII.
She watched, wrapped in his robe, as he added fuel to the fire.

"Christmastide is over," he spoke.

"Happy Christmas," she responded, and felt it for the first time in years. She looked to the crooked little tree with a smile. "I remember when I gave you that pendant. I never told you, but it belonged to my grandmother."

He looked back to her, smiling. She smiled back.

"I'm going to prepare us a bath," he said, and headed into the small room. A chill of foreboding swept through her as she watched his bare back retreating.

Where were all his scars? His skin was smooth and pale. Where did all the food come? She doubted anyone in the shattered resistance could be sending it to him. The sound of splashing water was the background to the sudden realization that she'd never actually seen him go outside. He said he had, but she had not witnessed it. Granted, she'd been asleep most of the time, but she'd not seen him even go out to fetch wood, which had to be consumed at a great pace considering how warm the cottage always was. In fact, she'd watched him throw the last log on the fire last night. Yet this morning there was a full load ready for the flames.

And why wouldn't he let her leave?

Softly, she moved to the cupboard and slowly pulled out his wand, muttering a spell quietly. As the drift of sparks cascaded over her, her blood ran cold.

There was no poison in her body. Before she'd lost her wand, she'd cast the spell dozens of times on the victims of this particular affliction.

Draco had lied.

"Now I've just got to heat some water on the stove." She heard his voice as he reentered the room. "Gin?" he asked, seeing her holding his wand.

"You lied," she said coldly. "None of this is real, is it? It's all some trick. You're not Draco, this isn't real." Blindly, she snatched for the star-shaped pendant on the little tree. WWhat did they give you, Draco, that was worth more than me? More than Gideon?"

"Gin—" he began.

"I don't want to hear your lies!" she cried, running to the door. She braced herself for the chill blast that would come when she opened it, but when nothing happened she opened her eyes.

There was nothing but a blank whiteness as far as the eye could see, but it was brighter and more even than snow could ever be. Her hand slipped from the doorknob and the wand dropped from her fingers.

"What..."

She felt him move up behind her. "It's always been there," he spoke softly, "but I never went outside." There was a note of longing in his voice. "Even though it called to me."

She felt the pull; she needed to walk out the door. With effort, she turned to him. The light from the doorway illuminated his features, making him look younger. He was beautiful.

"Why not?" she asked.

He shrugged again. "I think I was waiting for you."

They both turned their heads to the doorway as a childlike squeal of joy resounded in the stillness of the light. Ginny grasped Draco's hand tightly.

"Gideon," she breathed.

"It's time to stop fighting, Ginny. Let's go home," Draco spoke as he led her through the doorway.

She smiled, and followed.